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Uses technical articles of interest to

facturers of furniture, their superintendents__and

foremen, preferably within 2,000 words. Buys

photographis. Does not use fiction. Pays after

publication.

ADDITIONS AND CHANGES.

All-Sports Magazine (M), 14 East Jackson boule-
vard, Chicago, Ill. Joe Godfrey, Jr., editor; James
V. Malone, automobile editor.

Vol. I., No. 1 May, 1924. Uses general ar

ticles, short stories, poetry, humorous verse, and

jokes, but no novelettes, serials, plays, or juve-

nile matter. Buys matter for departments de-

voted to motoring, trapshooting, hunting, where

to go, and fishing. Sets length limit at 10,000

words, and buys photographs in large quantities.

Fiction should relate to sporting topics, and be

suited for the American gentleman, with lots of

action and vigor. Pays from one cent to five

cents a word.

Arrival (M), 402 Los Angeles Railway Building,

Eleventh st. and Broadway, Los Angeles, Calif.

A monthly magazine edited and published by

members of the California Authors' Club from

Work is selected by the

all parts of the world.

members, each striving to publish his best work.

The work wanted is general and is approved for

publication by the secretary of the club.

Boston Grocer and Provision Dealer (M), Lock

Box 2464, Boston.

R. D. Cassmore,

$1.00; 15c.

editor.

A trade magazine for grocers and meat dealers,

using articles giving actual plans or methods

used by such dealers in reducing expenses or in-

creasing trade. Sets no length limit on manu

scripts, and buys photographs. Time of payment

depends on matter used.

Commonweal (W), Calvert Publishing Corpora-

tion, 25 Vanderbilt ave., New York. $10; 20c.

Michael Williams, editor.

Vol. I., No. 1 November 12, 1924. Uses

general articles, short stories, poetry, and hu-

morous verse, but no novelettes, serials, jokes,

plays, or juvenile matter. Sets length limit at

2,500 words, except for articles published in two

or more parts. Buys brief editorials, and, very

occasionally, photographs. Prefers fiction to be

brief, without the usual magazine "plots." Pays

within a week of acceptance.

National Humane Review (M), 80 Howard st., Al-

bany, N. Y. $1.00; 10c. Leopold L. Wilder,

editor.

Uses articles of humane character, particu

larly dealing with the prevention of cruelty

to children or animals, and the reformation of

True Adventure (M), Fiction House, Inc., 461

Eighth ave., New York. $2.00; 20c. J. B. Kelly,

editor.

Uses stories, of from 3,000 to 6,000 words;

feature stories, of from 8,000 to 12,000 words; and
book-length stories, all based on facts, ringing
absolutely true, with the characters, scenes, and
incidents taken from actual life and woven into
gripping, suspenseful stories. Locations should
preferably be out-of-doors, and themes should
be powerful, colorful, and exciting.

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Sentences Rhetoric The Sketch.

-

In our first talk we found that words are
the material with which the writer works, that
they have definite meanings and distinctive
tone colors, and that when they are combined
in sentences they give us rhythm.

We will now pass to a brief consideration
of the various sentence forms. Here is some-
thing tangible. We can go through our work
and notice the proportion of simple or com-
plex or compound sentences. We can go to
any author and discover whether he is addicted
to the balanced sentence, the periodic sentence,
or the loose sentence, how he uses sentences and

Copyright

why, whether he has a weakness for paren-

theses, and so on.

We shall find that while every author has a

natural predilection for a certain type of sen.
tence, each author will vary his sentence form
instinctively or consciously to produce the
effect he wishes at any given place in his work.
Henry James, for example, being extremely
analytical, abounds in parentheses because he
wishes to make the finest distinction between
shades of meaning, but every once in a while
he will paint a little vignette of a place or
person in the simplest, clearest way, and many
persons who are not thorough-going admirers
of James wade through his long analyses
simply to be rewarded by these little pictures.
Generally speaking, as one approaches an
emotional crisis, the sentences become shorter
and more tense. In introspective and retro-
spective parts, the sentences are apt to be long
and loosely flowing, as in a reverie. No one
would describe a storm at sea and the first day
of Spring in the country with the same kind
of sentences.

-

If we wish to be forceful we are apt to in-
vert our sentences that is, have words and
clauses out of their natural order and omit
words we should customarily employ. "Up
guards, and at them!" is more forceful than
"Guards, let us get up and go at them!" In
all strong feeling we tend to go back to the
primitive forms, the way we talked as children
or when language first developed. These early
forms were single words and not sentences.
A young child will say "Moo" where an older
child would say: "Look at the cow, mother."
On the other hand, if we wish to describe
anything of great beauty, the sentences might
be long, smoothly flowing, and the more highly
civilized mood we wished to reproduce, the
greater the number of modifying phrases and

1925, by Richard Bowland Kimball.

clauses. If we dip into Walter Pater we shall see how careful he is to reproduce a perfect picture in words of the picture in his mind. He is deliberate and conscientious. We can almost fancy him going to imaginary pigeonholes of phrases and clauses and carefully picking out the right ones. It is said that Pater wrote English as if it were a dead language and irreverent persons have remarked that his work sounds like it.

Carlyle is impatient and headlong. He goes at a sentence the way a dog digs up a buried bone, careless of whom he spatters, and as the bone is at the end of the digging, so Carlyle's meaning is often not reached until the end of the sentence true climatic and periodic sentences, almost of German construction, with the meanings snapped out at us at the end.

To be successful we must have infinite variety. It is an ascertained psychological fact that nothing will hold our attention long unless it changes. The reason we can sit watching an open fire indefinitely, or the sea, is because there is constant motion. Monotony is the cardinal sin to be avoided in writing and with our various sentence forms this is very easily done.

We have long sentences, short sentences, the declarative sentence, the interrogative sentence, and the exclamation. We have simple sentences, complex and compound. We have the balanced sentence, which produces an impression of grace and clarity, the sentence abounding in antitheses, for which Victor Hugo is famous, giving us the strength of contrast. We have the sentence that rises to a climax, the sentence that holds its meaning to the end, and the loose sentence, in which the author adds something as an after-thought.

In these talks I shall not deal with figures of speech directly. You can find a description of them in any rhetoric. The simile and the metaphor are the most common and the most useful. The other figures often sound old-fashioned to our ears, and when used at all are used unconsciously.

It would be interesting if a Carlyle or a De Quincey, coming back, should submit to a modern professor of English some of his prose that had served as examples in old-fashioned text-books on literature. I am sure the mod

ern professor would blue-pencil the work as over-expressive and flowery.

We have become restrained in our rhetoric and even in our prose rhythms. More than ever our literary art is an art that conceals art. The whole tendency of modern writing is toward simplification, conciseness, and the vividness of the most direct appeal. In fact many of the most advanced writers disregard even the traditional sentence forms and tend toward broken rhythms and even the use of single words in the primitive method of children to which I have referred above. This is the rhetorical spirit of the times, and I want you to realize that you will have all the liberty in the world after you have tried your wings a little.

In our last talk we learned that in actual writing we must get started promptly, form habits of regularity, not take our work so seriously that it will bring a train of paralyzing fears. We wrote a description and for purposes of illustration we imagined that we all wrote a description of the same scene an Italian street fair. I now ask you to use one of your descriptions as the setting for an incident, or write a new description with an incident in it, whichever you prefer.

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Again for purposes of illustration we shall utilize our street fair. We shall suppose that at the proper place in the description a young Italian with a pretty gesture makes love to an Italian girl. We hear perhaps a phrase or two of the soft Tuscan dialect. The Italian girl smiles, accepts the present her lover offers her, and it is obvious to the onlooker that in accepting the present she has accepted him.

What have we written? We have a setting, we have characters, we have conversation, we have action, we have a successful love affair. Have we a story?

I think we shall all agree that charming as this might be, it does not constitute a story in any sense. It might be made into a sketch, for a sketch in literature is like a sketch in art. The artist goes out with a sketch-book. A landscape, a face in a crowd or a huddle of houses interests him and he jots it down the mere barest suggestion, but to him that sketch is more interesting often than the finished picture. It suggests to him the whole

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