Je n’ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n’ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte. – Lettres Provciales, 1657
When translated by French mathematician and philosopher, Blaise Pascal, the English language was given the sentiment:
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
One of the most difficult endeavors in writing is brevity. To condense dozens of complex thoughts is a masterful art. When these ideas are not tethered, they run rampant and flow for thousands of words, consuming unnecessary space and time, galloping back in repetitious circles around themselves, repeating for dozens of statements, filling pages that need not be filled and robbing precious minutes from the reader; flowing, unrestrained, for innumerable unending sentences.
For most writing and communication, less is more.
Long and complex sentences are like an overgrown garden. Some careful maintenance can bring out the beauty. Consideration of each word can illuminate thoughts to the reader. Words can paint pictures when their presence is not overbearing. To cultivate this art, one must be mindful of one’s language. Masters of brevity select the most appropriate words and arrange them in precisely the manner needed to convey their thoughts. There is no clutter. There is no waste. Each word contributes to the sentence as a whole. No vestigial verbiage is employed.
When in a hurry, as we so often are, we neglect the power of our words. We fumble, uttering improper things, and blur the message we wish to share. The receivers of our words are left to untangle the muddled cluster we amalgamated. Unbridled language creates extraneous words; increasing the length our message, distorting its content, and diluting its impact. A careless use of language is disrespectful to whom we communicate. We are generating unneeded problems for others to solve. It is common courtesy to unscramble one’s own mess before passing it over to a peer.
A wordsmith takes the time to reflect on his thoughts before pressing pen to paper or lip to tongue. Like a sage carpenter, he measures twice, cuts once. He outlines his ideas, fleshing out their ancillary details, and snips away the excess. The product is lean and clean. It is accessible and beautiful. It is not sparse nor lacking, but compact and fulfilling, economical and precise. The craft of brief language is a skill worthy of one’s pride.
It is an art we can all learn to practice.
been extremely gifted in this regard, as she could write in shorthand faster than people could talk. She told me stories of how her teachers in high school would speak as quickly as possible, switching the tone and pitch of their voices in attempts to throw her off. But my grandma would recite back to them exactly what was said. It was a phenomenal skill. She told me about Thanksgiving Dinners when she was kid. She would sit back with her steno pad and record her parents and relative speaking around the table. When they were done talking, she would recite the entire conversation back to them. I was engrossed. I had her write my name in shorthand. A six-character name—Justin—was reduced to two quick flicks of the wrist, resulting in something that looked like an italicized ‘h’. It was genius.