Aristotle domesticated rhetoric by enclosing it in a reassuring system of rules and procedures. And like ethics, metaphysics, and poetics, rhetoric maintained a formulation close to Aristotle's for a good long time (1964:17).
The topoi. Aristotle's system of invention,
outlined in Book II of the Rhetoric, focuses on deductive reasoning involving
three types of proof: appeals to the will (ethos) and emotion (pathos) -- these
are the so-called nonlogical arguments -- and a more deliberate appeal to the
intellect (logos) -- this is the conventional concern of English-language
academic writing. Proofs are advanced by the topoi, the places or sources of
argument, which are either specified by a particular academic domain or
non-specified as general topics "suitable for application to diverse inquiry"
(Barilli 1989:14). Aristotle's strategies for diverse inquiry comprise 28
general topoi, commonplace lines of argument like "opposites," "analytic
division," "definition," "synthesis," "cause and effect."
The general
topoi are strategies for advancing a thesis. Here, for example, is how Edward P.
J. Corbett elaborates one of the more elementary of the
topoi.
Definition is a way of unfolding what is wrapped up in a subject being examined. One of the rhetorical uses of this topic is to ascertain the specific issue to be discussed. Opponents in a dispute may be arguing at cross-purposes if they do not clearly establish just what the point at issue is. Therefore, after we have formulated our thesis, we may find it necessary to define the key terms in our thematic proposition so that our audience will clearly understand what we are talking about (1971:110-111).
Paradoxically, the topics of invention are both parts and the whole of this system. At no stage in the composing process can division into parts be separated from classification or classification from comparison. Probably all of the topics operate together as a single entity in the process of composing although for theoretical purposes we distinguish them. All are manifestations of the same underlying thought processes (1975:53).
While D'Angelo sheds no new light on how the
topoi function as thought processes ("Probably all of the topics operate together
as a single entity..."), he revitalizes the topoi by situating them in a
psychological framework where they are viewed as a rational mode of consciousness
operating simultaneously with intuition.
Criticisms of current
applications. C. H. Knoblauch and Lil Brannon (1984) argue against the view that
the topoi are cognitive manifestations. "We only suggest the philosophical
inadequacy of subdividing imaginative activity in the artificial ways that the
classical rhetoricians did, as though the whole were equivalent to the sum of its
topos-parts" (50). Referring to writing teachers' need for a "system" of
procedures, such as is evidenced by the commonplace topics addressed to a given
question or central thesis, Bartholomae and Petrosky (1986) argue that
failure to recognize the metaphorical nature of such descriptions has haunted research and pedagogy in language learning. Because writers, for instance, can be said to proceed systematically, teachers have offered as holy writ that writers begin with a "controlling idea" (10).
Knoblauch and Brannon are especially critical of the topoi as heuristic panaceas.
The
trouble lies mainly in what students infer about the nature and value and purpose
of writing when teachers isolate heuristic "strategies" outside the context of
writers' primary concerns -- which are to make significant meanings and
communicate them to others... It is conceptually wrong, we suggest, to regard
inventiveness as a collection of skills and strategies, and pedagogically
inappropriate to make them a focus of attention (1984:37).
Knoblauch and
Brannon contend that invention skills and strategies separated from "primary
concerns" should not become centers of interest in the writing classroom. They
assert, in addition, that writers "in action look to their purposes, not to their
tools," and so focusing on strategies is not useful "particularly when writers
already 'know' them in the sense of knowing their use" (ibid.).
This
seems a sweeping judgment, as constraining in its advocacy of invention as a tool
for a predetermined purpose as it is incisive in its criticism of the view of
invention as merely a set of strategies. In response to Knoblauch and Brannon, I
would suggest that college writers, both native speakers and EFL students,
frequently discover their purposes in the process of writing, that is, in the
process of inventing. And if students know the use of some invention strategies,
it does not necessarily follow that writers know strategies pertinent to tasks at
hand, or that EFL writers, for example, are well practiced in applying what they
know. Surely there are occasions when college writers can profit from
experimenting with comparisons or extended definitions (to name just two
strategies), if only to discover how far their imaginations might take them, and
to what ends. I find, for instance, that some of my students here in Japan come
up with new angles or recover old ideas about a topic when they temporarily
suspend their "primary concerns" about significant meaning and audience, and
undertake such experiments. Peter Elbow, another practitioner who stresses
experimentation, claims that ignoring audience can sometimes lead to better
writing (1987:53).
Reassessing the topoi. I concur with the major point
of Knoblauch's and Brannon's critique. Isolating heuristic devices like the
topoi from the making of real meaning is a formula for stunted growth. The
fault, though, derives not so much from the topoi's inadequacy even when devoid
of a writer's purpose, as from our pedagogical inattention to the topoi's primary
potential for making meaning. William Grimaldi laments that the topoi have been
passed down to us in truncated form. He suggests that
there has been lost along the way the far richer method of discourse on the human problems they provide. Seen as mere static, stock "commonplaces," stylized sources for discussion on all kinds of subject matter, they have lost the vital, dynamic character given to them by Aristotle, a character extremely fruitful for intelligent, mature discussion of the innumerable significant problems which face man (1958:1).
The contrast between rhetoric and dialectic is struck in the first lines of the dialogue. Gorgias, the renowned orator, is prepared to appear in a set speech. But Socrates asks, will he also be willing to engage in a dialectical conversation? Will he be prepared to let himself too be examined, or will he insist on sticking to his rehearsed "demonstrations"? (1988:31).
Plato's
dialectic is a process of examination organized in a three-part structure: (1)
definition of particular terms; (2) analysis, the division of subject matter
into particulars, and particulars into the smallest units possible; (3)
synthesis, moving upward from concrete to abstract, and combining particulars to
reach a unified conclusion (Golden 1984:30-32).
In contrast with
Aristotle's invention scheme which presupposes the topoi be applied to a given
premise or thesis question, Plato's invention-as-discovery is flexible, though
implicitly inductive. It is flexible in that participants can move "up" or
"down" the ladder bridging the abstract and concrete. It is also implicitly
inductive in that the subject of conversation is divided into its discrete
components and reconstituted -- making room for the possibility of novel premises
and limitless variation. For instance, to converse on "love," one might divide
the term into its various types ranging from mere affection to unbridled passion.
One could attempt to divide the types further, determining the constituents,
say, of "mild" versus "warm" affection. (See Plato's Phaedurs for a classic
application of dialectic on love.)
If some of these strategies seem
familiar, this is because many of Aristotle's topoi derive from Plato's
dialectical invention. In reconstructing Plato's conception of dialogue we
recover the practical and original methodology and context for confronting the
implicit controversies posed by the topoi.
Plato's influence on the aims of discourse. It seems
instructive to consider the transformative potential of Platonic dialogue on the
practical aims of discourse, since learning regimens using dialogic
communication, like those outlined above, foster discovery. One who
participates in dialogic activity is placed at the center of one's limited
understanding, and this is epistemologically appealing because the aims of
discourse then become a function of meeting the challenge of alternative voices,
and accounting for one's understanding in the face of choice. For example, the
language learner will need to supply an answer to a peer who questions, "What
happened next?"
Practice in new discourse forms. Finally, when college
writers communicate with one another about each other's writing, they are
practicing new dimensions of English-language invention. This sort of practice
makes sense in light of the central role some topoi, for example, play in
influencing the structure of academic discourse and formal writing in English.
Moreover, the notion of vibrant conversation is an analog for the
communicative style and tone of well-formed prose in English, psycholinguistic
and rhetorical characteristics that stand in sharp contrast with Japanese prose.
Fister-Stoga (1993) identifies English-language rhetorical style as "variable"
and "lively" and its tone as "animated" and "controversial"; Japanese prose
style, on the other hand, is more "ambiguous" and its tone more "unexcited." It
follows, then, by engaging in conversation and dialogic debate, Japanese learners
could benefit from experiencing the essential (and for them, the additive)
psycholinguistic element of controversy that engineers academic argument in
English-language prose. Fister-Stoga adds that the audience for Japanese prose
is typically "subordinate," receptive and passive; whereas the audience for
English-language prose is "cooperative," that is, it participates in the
controversy. Here, too, Japanese writers might profit from rehearsing this
participatory role of their audience by helping to bring the debate to life, if
you will, talking over components of a formal argument with other
students.
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