A word about punctuation. A word about punctuation? A word about punctuation! A word about punctuation…

                  I was taught punctuation as logic-chopping, the equivalent of operation signs in math. Period, colon, ellipsis and so on required one to recalibrate the meaning of the surrounding words. 

                  Punctuation is that.

                  But for me, it’s more like expressive markings in a musical score: dolce, con brio, maestoso, grazioso, cantabile, agitato, and so forth (they sound more seductive in Italian), essential not just to the sense but the sensuality of the sounds. My proof-reading sidekick AI-Alistair often advocates semi-colons in place of commas and chides when I refuse to comply. I snarl back that he’s got a tin ear, which he mostly does, though he’s convinced he doesn’t: hasn’t he obeyed the rules?

                  A logical system, language demands organization by logic. Fair enough. But language is far more than a logical system, which logic only dimly comprehends.

                  Words speak with their sounds before their sense. Witness crib conversations – or mine with dog-pal Henry. Neither baby nor Henry may exactly understand what’s being said, yet understand it more deeply, what’s truly meant beneath the babble of syllables. The trick of writing, as I see it, is, first, to sound human, not robotic, and then to sound like a particular human, so the rhythms of one’s speech reflect the peculiarity of one’s character. One can identify the ablest writers, as one can composers, from their sound before their sense. Only Shakespeare sounds like Shakespeare, Pope like Pope, Thoreau like Thoreau, and when their identity is less apparent, more generic, they are off their game.

                  Punctuation, then, becomes a rhetorical tool – like alliteration, assonance, anaphora, chiasmus, and the rest – to signal the attitude and temper of the writer. When listening to a speaker, we heed gesture, intonation, lilt, facial and bodily expression as essential to what we’re being told. So any writer worth close attention reveals themselves not just in what they say but how. Prose too correct may irk like goody-two-shoes. I’m partial to prose that winks and rolls its eyes.

                  Ingratiating writing seldom comes naturally. It takes trial and error to sound like oneself. Some poets sing like nightingales out of the gate – but poetry is not – at least, not necessarily – a logical system. Melody is a rare and wondrous gift: you’ve either got it or you don’t. Prose must combine sound and sense. Unmelodic prose annoys; senseless prose bores.

                  I don’t know how to write. That’s not faked humility but fact. Nor, if my product’s dull, do I know how to spark it up. When there’s no music in me, I take a nap or a walk, keeping my fingers crossed.

                  The scriptio continua of ancient Greek and Latin unfurled endlessly without spaces between words, much less marks for pauses and intonation. How did writers manage in a world without ellipses, dashes, italics! Thinkifthiswaswhatyouwerereading. Bless the medieval monks, intent on teaching absent readers how to chant the scriptures. Bless the printing press, which herded markings into a shared system.

                  I love punctuation as anglers their hooks or sculptors their chisels. Those dots, dashes, and curls aren’t inert factotums but my boon companions. The vigor in a comma, semi-colon, quote mark sometimes startles. I hate seeing my dear tools misused or abused, so I’m often a grouch.