If you watch figure skaters in the Winter Olympics, the only time I really do, you know the athleticism and artistry of these competitors. You see it in their faces, in their bodies, in the way they fearlessly “attack” the ice. You can only marvel at the hours of practice and the slow accumulation of technical mastery required to make it all seem so effortless. Watching figure skating on TV, I always notice the commentary. The presenters speak a language incomprehensible to me to describe what we see. A double this, a triple that, a reverse something-or-other. All I see is skaters looking elegant as they weave intricate moves into beautiful and inspiring performances.

[This video example has been added to this version of the article.]

Writing, I think, is not unlike skating (or cooking or painting or piloting an airplane). Each of these activities may be learned and taught. Writing is one skill that, with sufficient “ice time,” it is possible to do passably well. Recently, I have thought about writing’s relation to skating in another way: in the connection between figure skating and the so-called figures of speech. I believe there are useful analogies between the twists and turns that skaters perform on the ice and the moves writers perform on the page.

Every field has its share of technical terms for critical tools and concepts. While outsiders are often reduced to using “doohickey” or “thingamabob,” insiders know the differences among families of related terms. Every plumber knows her wrenches (e.g., monkey, socket, Allen). Italian cooks have intimate knowledge of pasta shapes (e.g., linguine, rigatoni). The same can be said of the many rhetorical devices of style for speaking and writing, including terms you already know such as alliteration (repeated sounds at the beginning of words (e.g., “clear and convincing evidence”). Fortunately, you don’t need to know the name of every figure to use them well.

At the same time, even modest exposure to some as yet unfamiliar terms for quite familiar features of language can help you develop a sense of what is possible in your writing. And knowing a range of rhetorical figures has a tangible benefit: you allow yourself to use more “whatchamacallits” in your writing because you realize they can be used. Literally hundreds of rhetorical figures—from antimetabole to zeugma—have been catalogued over time, beginning in ancient Greece and Rome. However, it is unlikely you will have reason to learn many of these figures by name. But it is important to realize that you already use them, or at least admire them. Antimetabole? From the Greek, meaning a change in direction, this is a reversal of word order for instructive or ironic effect, as in “We should eat to live, not live to eat.” Or, in the words of Malcolm X, “We didn’t land on Plymouth Rock… Plymouth rock landed on us.” (232). And zeugma? Also from the Greek, meaning to tie together, that’s the use of a single word to join two or more unrelated words or ideas, as in “He lost his keys and his temper” or “You are beautiful inside and out.” Typically, we only notice this figure when there is a difference in how a single word is used, as here with two senses of lost—a literal sense and a figural sense.

When I introduce such figures to my students, they wish they had learned more about them earlier. In that spirit of curiosity, then, I offer a brief tour of rhetorical figures you might wish to incorporate into your writing, give some concrete advice to help you get started, and end with some resources to help you learn more about the figures on your own.

Trying Out Tropes, Sorting Out Schemes

The so-called figures of speech occupy a place in oratory and in writing at once central and marginal. Today, virtually every handbook of writing recognizes three “virtues” of style: clarity, correctness, and appropriateness. In classical times, however, and well into the nineteenth century, a fourth virtue of “ornament” was also recognized. It is to this category of ornament that the figures, in all their variety, belong. We might think of ornament as decoration or adornment, but originally ornatus meant something closer to furnished or well-equipped. Rhetorical figures, then, may be likened to the gear one carries as if in battle, on hand for when needed. They’re a Swiss army knife for words.

In the first sense, figures are expressions at the level of word or phrase that deviate from ordinary or expected meaning. These include figures of speech such as metaphor and irony. These types of figures are also known as tropes. A trope (from the Greek, meaning “turn,” hence a turn of phrase) involves a substitution of one word or phrase for another or related word play. For instance, we may use “lion-hearted” as a metaphor for courage or “chicken” as its opposite. (In fact, “courage” comes from the French for heart.) Some other tropes you have likely encountered are personification (assigning human qualities to animals or inanimate objects, as in “Fortune smiled on us”) and hyperbole (exaggerated speech, as in “I’ve told you a million times!”).

Other rhetorical figures involve language that stands out for its shape. These are called schemes, verbal expressions that involve repetition, contrast, omission, or reversal of typical word order. Schemes (from the Greek, for “pattern”) generally occur at levels beyond the word and sometimes the sentence. They serve to structure ideas and to strengthen arguments. Indeed, if a figure of speech isn’t serving to advance an argument, it’s not really doing its job.

Consider the memorable exhortation by President Kennedy in his inaugural address: “And so my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country” (270). This famous sentence once again employs the figure of antimetabole. One of a handful of figures that invert sentence elements, this particular instance reinforces underlying calls for a new spirit of patriotism and public service. The sentence is not just a memorable turn of phrase—one way to understand figures—here the form of expression argues for a different way to think about the relationship between a government and its citizens. Try to imagine other ways to state this idea, and it becomes clear how powerful Kennedy’s phrasing is. More than standing out, figures do the heavy lifting. In contemporary language, figures are like verbal “apps” we download to our stylistic repertoire.

You might notice that I used a figure to discuss figures, specifically, the device of simile to compare one thing (figures) with another (digital tools). Simile (from the Greek for “likeness”) is perhaps the most common trope, together with its cousin metaphor (to use a metaphor of family resemblance). Note, too, that these two figures perform basic functions of thought through analogy. In other words, metaphor and simile are not just optional add-ons expressing what might otherwise be said in a literal, as opposed to a figurative, way. Rather, they are the very thoughts we express to make sense of things for ourselves and for others. Because they are so basic to thinking and communicating, figures well up to the surface naturally. They are recognizable enough and common enough to be given a name and to be used intentionally. But before they become lists of devices, they are first in our minds and in our speech.

Sometimes an idea bounces around in our brains, wanting to be a figure. Take the scheme of polyptoton (Greek for “many cases”), in which the same root word is repeated in different forms or parts of speech, such as lose (verb), lost (adjective), loser (noun) over one or more sentences. Or in a tight expression like “Fight the good fight.” Generated more or less by accident, often, these variations can be used more or less on purpose to shape material and to move minds. Figures become a strategy where used deliberately. For example, I used a metaphor “well up to the surface” to understand how a thought finds expression at the level of the sentence. In fact, as I was writing this paragraph I was hoping a metaphor might suggest itself to show how figures are both naturally discovered as well as deliberately employed. (Note the scheme of parallelism in the previous sentence?)

Indeed, metaphors and other figures are hard to avoid. They come to us as much as we to them. Yet we may find ourselves pushing them away, perhaps in the belief that they are inappropriate for a given audience, purpose, or genre. This is especially the case in academic writing, where we want to avoid sounding verbose or “flowery.” (The figures are also known as the “flowers of rhetoric.”) But even academic and professional writing uses tropes like metaphor and schemes like parallelism to communicate, argue, and persuade. It can be as simple as using multiple words with similar endings (e.g., education, compensation) while avoiding obvious rhymes (e.g., rosy, nosy). All writing has a context that brings creative pressure to bear on our choice of stylistic tools.

For example, in the previous paragraph, I used both balance and repetition to pair “more or less by accident” with “more or less on purpose.” In truth, I did so more or less by accident. Initially, the phrasing came to me. I wanted to contrast inspiration (wild yeast metaphor) and intention (kneading metaphor) by using parallel phrasing to set off contrasting ideas. (This is the scheme of antithesis.) After first writing “deliberately,” I later chose “on purpose” to highlight the parallelism.

I was also aware that this particular use of phrases of equal length was an instance of isocolon (Greek for “of same length”). These figures of parallel construction at the level of word, phrase or even clause are perhaps the most common scheme to signify relationships between two or more things. They take some effort but are not especially exotic. For another example of isocolon, refer back to the heading for this section: Trying Out Tropes, Sorting Out Schemes.) At times, balanced expressions take the form of a logical or temporal progression, as in the famous tricolon of Julius Caesar describing victory in the Gallic wars: “Veni, vidi, vinci” (“I came; I saw; I conquered.”). Or consider Abraham Lincoln’s immortal use of this same figure in the Gettysburg Address: “government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth” (Lincoln).

Too Noticeable? How Much Is Too Much?

As I have said, no use of figures, no aspect of writing, can be assessed apart from its context. To some audiences, a metaphor will seem far-fetched, the injection of irony ineffective. Does my analogy of writing to figure skating work for you? Does my characterization of figures as verbal “apps” strike you as appropriate for this essay? These are the kinds of questions you must consider whenever you use tropes or schemes to bring your material to life before an audience. The better we know our audience, purpose, and genre, the more likely we are to select effective “verbal” apps. When we are less confident, we reign in our figurative imagination, choose to play it straight.

If we are not careful, writing with force and flare comes across as mere show—in the useful figure of cliché, all hat and no cattle. Or as any cook can tell you, a little nutmeg goes a long way. To extend this culinary analogy, rhetorical figures may be likened to a spice rack, without which writing cannot be anything but bland. What is needed is the right combination of spices as a matter of both taste and tradition.

Verbal style ranges from very simple to highly ornate. Ornamental writing draws attention to itself as well as to its subject matter. In doing so, it pronounces an attitude about its subject, maybe solemn or perhaps irreverent. Our writing may risk seeming overly poetic or sounding too much like oratory.

Many students, I have noticed, are fond of the rhetorical question as a device for inciting a reader’s interest. It’s true that this move can be something of a crutch, since it’s easier to ask a series of questions than to state a claim outright. Despite that risk, I encourage my students to consider posing a question at times to focus their readers’ attention and to let readers know that the writer is thinking of them, interacting with them. Many scholars of rhetoric distinguish such interactive devices as rhetorical questions from the two categories of tropes and schemes we have already identified. These so-called figures of thought (in contrast to figures of speech) include the technique of anticipating objections (in Greek, prolepsis), such as “I know what you are going to say, but hear me out.” Most effective writing consists of well-reasoned arguments and a range of figurative devices to deliver those points efficiently and elegantly.

Likewise, I encourage my students to consider the powerful scheme of anaphora, although sparingly. Anaphora (from the Greek meaning “to carry back”) is repetition at the beginning of successive phrases clauses, or sentences. Here again is Lincoln in the Gettysburg Address: “But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground” (Lincoln 23). Here, Lincoln’s repeated use of “we cannot” in successive clauses gives solemnity to a speech honoring the dead, but it also reinforces his argument that “we,” the living, must turn from mourning to the task of seeing that the dead did not die in vain.

When I survey my students, they admit reluctance to use anaphora or other figures of repetition, worried they will be faulted for being repetitive. Given that all writing is contextual, I cannot say I blame them. But anaphora and related figures of repetition should always be in your toolkit of possible figures. Intentional repetition is different from haphazard redundancy.

Especially, I tell my students that as we write, we must also listen. Most writing that we admire brings the immediacy of sound to the page, including through rhetorical devices that appeal as much to the ear as to the eye. The deliberate use of sound-based devices like alliteration (repeated sounds at the beginning of words) and, of course, rhyme (repeated sounds at the end of words) can be the difference between a serviceable sentence and a spectacular one. Okay, I suppose rhyme is one figure we should think twice about using in academic contexts, but we should never rule it out entirely.

On the whole, I believe that we must overcome a long-standing suspicion about the use of rhetorical figures, a suspicion that we inherited from the so-called Age of Reason. In this historical period following the Renaissance—a high-water mark for ornament—figurative language fell into disrepute. Because of their recognized effects on emotions, the figures came to be regarded as too persuasive, appropriate for advertising rhetoric but not academic writing, the stuff of poetry rather than prose. This bias is a major reason why the figures, although once taught to every student, are now more likely encountered in the study of literature than in the writing classroom. In general, you have not been encouraged to incorporate such devices into your writing. Perhaps it’s time to try?

Go Figure

In a course I have taught several times entitled “Go Figure,” my students learn about style through hands-on attention to tropes and schemes. Based on my experience, I highlight four practices you can do in or out of any writing course, including first year composition. Each of these activities prepares you to write with force and flair, whether in an academic paper or in some other context.

Fieldwork

One way to learn about something is to gather specimens. Like pressed flowers, figures found in various places can be assembled into a common-place book or, as here, a “figure journal.” I recommend one or two entries a week in a semester-long course. Each entry, on its own page, is an example of a figure identified, defined, and analyzed for its effects. By collecting your examples, you discover just how many “real world” instances of tropes and schemes are to be found. In a classroom, each student might have a turn presenting a figure. This fun project cements knowledge of figures and their terms. It’s a fascinating way to see that figures identified more than two thousand years ago, in different languages, are alive and well today in English.

Analysis

To see which figures appear in various genres and contexts, you can analyze texts of interest to you. Some may be rich in tropes, others in schemes. Comparing academic and popular writing or fiction and non-fiction can give you a perspective on tone and stylistic tools. Select several passages to analyze and try to identify as many figures as you can, looking for any patterns to emerge. You might examine several texts in the same genre or different texts by the same author. Ask yourself, what accounts for the presence or absence of particular figures? How do audience and purpose influence the use of figures? Time spent in close reading of this kind can have a very positive effect on your own writing.

Imitation

Paying close attention to other writers can lead to outright imitation. If analysis is good, imitation is better. Since classical times, students have copied passages, word for word, to get inside writing they, or their teachers, admire. They then produce a close imitation. In my “Go Figure” course, we choose short passages to imitate, just a sentence or two, usually with a particularly distinctive or ornate style. Everyone first copies the passages, pen in hand, to get a feel for each sentence. We then attempt a phrase-byphrase imitation, putting new content into the existing sentence structure. Comparing our individual responses to this exercise is both enlightening and entertaining. A weekly imitation exercise like this has a cumulative effect of helping you internalize figurative devices and learn the flow of sentences.

Copia (Plenty)

In contemporary approaches to writing and writing instruction, a certain economy of expression leaves many rhetorical options off the table. Many of us have internalized values of brevity and efficiency that discourage letting our words run wild, even when drafting. We don’t tolerate more words than are strictly necessary. But writing with a feel for figures encourages strategies of copia (plenty), that is, having more things to say and more ways to say a thing. The most famous account of copious writing was composed five hundred years ago by Dutch scholar Desiderius Erasmus in his popular textbook of 1512, De Copia. Erasmus championed stylistic fluency to achieve an abundant style and recommended a valuable exercise: write a sentence in many, many ways. As an example, Erasmus offers 195 variations, all in Latin, on a base sentence, “Your letter pleased me mightily” (348) To reach that high number, Erasmus employs a wide range of synonyms—missive or epistle for letter, delighted for pleased—but also many figures of speech, chiefly tropes that substitute one word or phrase for another. These include metaphor: “Your communication poured vials of joy on my head” (349); synecdoche (substituting part for whole): “Your lines [for entire letter] conveyed to me the greatest joy” (349); and metonymy (associated thing): “To be sure your letter delighted my spirits [for me]!” (349). Another instance of metonymy refers to the hand that wrote the letter: “I was in no small measure refreshed in spirit by your grace’s hand” (349). Erasmus also uses the interesting figure of litotes, a kind of understatement by negation: “Your epistle afforded me no small delight” (349). In our course, “Go Figure,” we experimented with producing 50 to 100 variations of a base sentence, trying to use as many figures as we could. Try this, and there’s no question you will learn the ins and outs of writing by performing these sentence sit-ups.

Each of these practices of compiling, analyzing, imitating, and varying offers something of value. They can be part of any writing class in small bursts alongside formal writing. Of course, this ongoing practice leads to a final practice: using rhetorical devices yourself in actual papers. In the past, I have asked my students to incorporate and identify figures of their own, say six or more in a four to five page paper. This expectation encourages experimentation in drafting and revising, since all texts present opportunities for ornamentation as they take shape.

Another word for experimentation is play. My approach recognizes the value of play. Too often, we focus on clarity and correctness to the exclusion of other virtues. Not that we shouldn’t value being clear and error-free in our writing. It’s just that we can also write, as I say, with force and flair. Even academic writing is not a “figure-free” zone.

It is through ornament in your choice and arrangement of words that readers relate to your writing. It is through ornament that you relate to your writing. To return to the ice once more, figures are best understood as the glides, pivots, jumps, and spins by which you communicate what you really want to say to your audience. Through figures subtle and bold, you communicate attitude, passion, dedication to craft, expertise, respect for your audience and your subject.

So give it a whirl!

Works Cited

Erasmus, Desiderius. Copia: Foundations of the Abundant Style. Translated by Betty I. Knott. Collected Works of Erasmus, vol. 24, edited by Craig R Thompson, University of Toronto P, 1978, pp. 348–354.

Kennedy, John F. “Inaugural Address.” Washington, D.C. 20 Jan. 1961. The Presidents Speak: The Inaugural Addresses of the American Presidents from Washington to Kennedy, edited by Davis Newton Lott, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1961, pp. 269–271.

Lincoln, Abraham. “Address Delivered at the Dedication of the Cemetery at Gettysburg, Final Text.” 19 Nov. 1863. The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln, vol. 7, edited by Roy P. Basler, Rutgers UP, 1955, pp. 23.

“The Most Satisfying Figure Skating Moments.” YouTube, uploaded by Olympics, 23 Apr 2023, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkPi7Ik7fOM

X, Malcolm. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. 1965. Edited by Alex Haley, Ballantine Books, 2015.

*This article originally appeared in Writing Spaces Volume 3 and can be viewed here in its original format.