As I sat for long hours in a cold room made colder by its utter austerity, considering what the course and substance of this essay should be, my thoughts grew ever darker and heavier, weighing my brow down until, in the manner of a Billy Budd, there came to my face “an expression which was as a crucifixion to behold.” For though I have made it my cause always to question myself – my thoughts, my deeds, and my desires – the questioning remains a painful thing; through it I am forced to feel old pains anew, or else to see the shameful doings of a dark night illumined in stark daylight. This is as true, if only to a lesser degree, of reviewing a semester’s worth of my writing as it is of reviewing a life’s worth of my graspings after happiness. Yet though this pessimism of mine is, really, largely baseless, it is especially inapplicable to my writing; I am a better writer of words than liver of life. And while I show much in my craft that is praiseworthy, in the essays of this semester my sentence-style, introductions, and conclusions are especially notable, though even they show improvement over time.

     Because, whether in my first and shortest essay or in my last and finest, my introductions have always come first, I will accordingly begin by saying something about them. In my leads – which, being the first thing a reader sees, are perhaps the most important part of my essays – I show a variety of rhetorical strategies. There is first the use of quotations, especially Thoreau’s, whose sage and well-turned words set the mood for my own writing. In Essay IV, which evaluates (and confirms) William Zinnser’s claim that many college students lead “excessively plain and practical” college careers, I begin by quoting Thoreau’s criticism of contemporary farming. Though farming has nothing to do with college, the sentiment expressed in it – that something once pursued nobly is now being pursued for ignoble reasons – fits the theme of the essay well. Moreover, the juxtaposition of the two lamenting men, Thoreau and Zinsser, who are separated by many years, suggests to the reader the timelessness of the lamentations (which strengthens my assertion). There is also the use of rhetorical questions, which arouse curiosity and interest in the reader. In Essay III, I begin by asking the reader to recall a certain time period relevant to my essay; the very questioning itself, as well as the detailed description in it – “sickly grins on bloated faces” and “disgusting, subversive lot” – draws the reader not only into thought, but into the essay itself, encouraging further reading. The only fault in the introductions (where the rhetorical devices have not failed of their purpose) is that their length, which tends to approach half a page each after Essay II, can be discouraging to distracted, inattentive, or inexperienced readers. This is a fault that I scarcely improved upon during the semester.

     Ignoring the fault of excessive length, however, I can say that the strength of my introductions is only matched or bettered by that of my conclusions; and since there is no use in speaking of beginnings without addressing ends, I will write some lines on them. Since it is so important a part of the essay for the reader, whose attention can be expected to wander, the “full-circle” – the association of the end of the essay with a rhetorical strategy in the beginning – is especially important. In most of my essays, the full-circle ties in neatly with the creative introduction. The conclusion of Essay IV in particular echoes the theme of its beginning, returning to the content of the quotation. I begin with the comparison of Zinnser to Thoreau – two thinkers and lamenters separated by a century and a half – then return to them. Not only does the repetition remind the reader of the beginning and the theme of the essay, but it allows me to philosophize, taking what is familiar and expanding on it. My conclusions seem also to have progressed, stylistically, over the course of the five essays. The first two conclusions, while still related to their respective introductions, seem somewhat sudden, as if they are appended as an afterthought; I go from full detail and many examples to… “The End.” Later conclusions – Essay III is the best example – flow and proceed in a natural way from what comes before them, immediately or distantly. Just as one body paragraph in my essays flows naturally into another, in Essay III, the last body paragraph flows into the conclusion; talk about regretting change in Garbage Pail Kids leads into the assertion, in the first sentence of the conclusion, that change is inevitable in all things. Such seamlessness between paragraphs in an essay makes reading both easier and more pleasurable.

     Yet though I have written of the structure of my essays – the roof, floor, and walls of them, so to speak, which give them shape and order, – I have not yet said anything of their substance, my sentences, which are the mortar and nails that hold them all together. There is much in my sentences that makes them good. First there is the diction. I avoid repetition, use both common and learned words, and show a good ear for which words sound good together (as in the pairings “heard nor heeded” and “Grades are esteemed, but not thoughts; many think it good to be wealthy, few consider what it is to be rich”). Then there is the sentences’ style. There is a great variety in the syntax and sentence-length – a paragraph might begin with several sentences full of subordinate clauses and inverted syntax, then be “broken” by short declarative sentences. A representative example is the introduction to Essay II. I begin with a lengthy sentence full of clauses and commas, then introduce a series of three or four curt, solid (and, strictly speaking, ungrammatical) sentences. Such juxtaposition keeps the reader engaged while lending the essay aesthetic worth. The tone of my sentences shows as much variety as the sentence-length; in my essays I move from serious and earnest (throughout the last two essays) to philosophical (the end of Essay IV) to tongue-in-cheek (Essay III) to utterly absurd (Essay I). Although the sentences are the strongest part of my essays, and though I do use many kinds of them, they are vulnerable to the very criticism that may be given to my introductions: they are generally too long. This problem needs no specific citations, pervasive as it is: there is plenty of ripe and low-hanging fruit, so to speak!

     Now, as I sit finishing this essay in a warmer room than the one in which I began it, I feel my early thoughts lightening – they grow both brighter and less heavy. This is the other and better aspect of a rigorous introspection, which I willfully ignored earlier; the light that illumines our faults is not a partial one, but full and impartial, giving as much color and shape to our virtues as to our vices. It is the eye alone, and the mind that directs it, that favors one aspect over another. And through the introspection that this essay has fostered I have come to attain, if not a sweeping or truly reformative look at myself, then a small one which may serve as a model. That is something.