Beyond School

Like all parts of speech, verbs are strongest when
they are precise and concrete. For verbs, “concrete” is the quality
of expressing real movement in the real world–or in fiction, the
world we accept as real. In other words, strong verbs tell us
exactly what is done and that is a real action.

Verbs have a natural hierarchy, from strongest to weakest:

• Doing (strongest)
• Saying
• Thinking or feeling
• Being done to
• Being (weakest)

This example should illustrate the hierarchy of verbs
in reverse order (from weakest to strongest):

• Jim was sick.
• Jim was being made sick by the clam dip.
• Jim felt sick.
• “I feel sick,” Jim said.
• Jim vomited on the Persian rug.

The strongest verbs express actions in the realworld. The weaker verbs express less real-world action. At the bottom are the being verbs which express either no action or very little.

As an exercise, revise a couple of pages (about 500 words) of your writing so that verbs which are not already doing or saying verbs are raised at least one level in the hierarchy wherever this is possible.

From this excellent writing site:

At their best, adverbs spice up a verb or adjective. At their worst, they express a meaning already contained in it:

• “The blast completely destroyed the church office.”
• “The cheerleader gyrated wildly before the screaming fans.”
• “The accident totally severed the boy’s arm.”
• “The spy peered furtively through the bushes.”

Consider the effect of deleting the adverbs:

• The blast destroyed the church office.
• The cheerleader gyrated before the screaming fans.
• The accident severed the boy’s arm.
• The spy peered through the bushes.

In each case, the deletion shortens the sentence, sharpens the point, and creates elbow room for the verb.

A half-century after his death, Meyer Berger remains one of great stylists in the history of The New York Times. One of his last columns describes the care received in a Catholic hospital by an old blind violinist:

The staff talked with Sister Mary Fintan, who (in) charge of the hospital. With her consent, they brought the old violin to Room 203. It had not been played for years, but Laurence Stroetz groped for it. His long white fingers stroked it. He tuned it, with some effort, and tightened the old bow. He lifted it to his chin and the lion’s mane came down.

The vigor of verbs and the absence of adverbs mark Berger’s prose. As the old man plays “Ave Maria�”

Black-clad and white-clad nuns moved lips in silent prayer. They choked up. The long years on the Bowery had not stolen Laurence Stroetz’s touch. Blindness made his fingers stumble down to the violin bridge, but they recovered. The music died and the audience pattered applause. The old violinist bowed and his sunken cheeks creased in a smile.

How much better that “the audience pattered applause” than that they “applauded politely.”

Excess adverbiage reflects the style of an immature writer, but the masters can stumble as well. John Updike wrote a one-paragraph essay about the beauty of the beer can before the invention of the pop-top. He dreamed of how suds once “foamed eagerly in the exultation of release.” As I’ve read that sentence over the years, I’ve grown more impatient with “eagerly.” It clots the space between a great verb (”foamed”) and a great noun (”exultation”), which personify the beer and tell us all we need to know about eagerness.

Adverbs have their place in effective prose. But use them sparingly.

Workshop

1. Look through the newspaper for any word that ends in �ly. If it is an adverb, delete it with your pencil and read the new sentence aloud.
2. Do the same for your last three essays, stories, or papers. Circle the adverbs, delete them, and decide if the new sentence is better or worse.