On Form and Genre

In class on Thursday, I briefly introduced George Campbell’s definition of rhetoric, which we will discuss in greater detail next week:

Rhetoric is that art or talent by which discourse is adapted to its end. The four ends of discourse are to enlighten the understanding, please the imagination, move the passion, and influence the will.

~The Philosophy of Rhetoric, 1776

Campbell’s definition, like understanding the full extent of Aristotle’s ‘available means,’ points to the complexity of crafting an effective rhetorical appeal. We’ve already discussed the value of atechnic and entechnic pistis (support, or proof); the centrality of ethics in manipulating language to achieve a desired outcome; the value of rhetorical figure (tropes and schemes) in the marriage of sound and sense; the importance of audience and maintaining clarity of purpose; and the ‘situatedness,’ including awareness of expectations and conventions, of any rhetorical act. Now is the time to take that analysis one step further: now is the time to consider genre and form.

While it is not entirely correct to use the terms genre and form synonymously, form and genre are related in that both give shape to a text and are, themselves, rhetorical.

The important thing to understand about genre and form is that they are expressions of thought rather than impositions on thought; they are organized systems of conventions, and in this may be considered cultural artifacts, and each performs a unique function. They are not, as is often presumed, prescriptive, but tools at your disposal; in other words, once you understand a form, or genre, you—as author/composer—engage it. You harness its rhetorical power as an 'available means.'

Still—and this is where it gets tricky—you must consider kairos when considering form and genre: what is the most appropriate expression, relative to your purpose, for your audience at a particular moment? In this, we begin to see that form is not imposed on thought but, in Edward Hirsch’s words, a significant “technical accomplishment.” As the poet mark Strand explains, forms are not comprised of “cold and arbitrary rules, imposed to close out readers rather than include them [. . .] form is not abstract, but human.” This is an idea we will spend more time with in the coming weeks.

For now, it is useful enough to think about form and genre as we’ve seen it thus far this semester: the candidates’ uses of rhetorical tropes and schemes to affect their appeals; the evolution (devolution?) of presidential campaign ads from 1952 to those associated with the present election cycle; and Ellison’s brilliant use of symbolism and surrealism available to him through the genre of fiction to make cogent arguments about identity, race, freedom, and democracy.

Taking the time to consider genre as an important rhetorical element revisits the idea presented by Samuel Johnson, channeling the poet Horace, in his 1765 Preface to The Plays of William Shakespeare that the writer’s purpose is to “instruct and delight” to “combine education (especially moral instruction) with pleasure.”