(1997). Rhetorical situations and their constituents. Rhetoric Review: Vol. 15, No. 2, pp. 264-279.

There has been little room for the British Romantics in the study of rhetoric because it is generally agreed that they did not concern themselves with it, but their influence upon academic culture and upon the relationship between literature and rhetoric is a central concern for contemporary studies of rhetoric, composition, and literature.2 Rhetoricians and critics divide Romantic British discourse into the rhetoricians and the poets. Rhetoricians study Hugh Blair, George Campbell, and Richard Whately while theorists study philosophers, critics, and poets such as William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and William Wordsworth. Some substantial efforts have been made to include the literary Romantics in our discussion of rhetoric. Don Bialostosky's recent work, Wordsworth, Dialogics, and the Practice of Criticism, for example, gives us a reading of Wordsworth from a dialogical perspective, and in the past rhetoricians of such stature as Kenneth Burke (see Blankenship), I. A. Richards, and Ann E. Berthoff have included Coleridge and Wordsworth in their theories of rhetoric and composition. Still, in the main, rhetoricians regard the British Romantics with distrust.3 the surface the distrust is well earned. The term rhetoric had pejorative associations for the Romantics. Although their philosophical views about rhetoric may be traced to Plato, their belief that rhetoric was a secondary and fraudulent art was the product of a longstanding academic and ecclesiastical debate over the virtues of Ramist rhetoric, where logic afforded the composer the means of thinking and rhetoric afforded the composer a way of presenting those thoughts.4 In this view rhetoric was mechanical, and once the organic experience of creation was over, what was left to the rhetorician was merely gesture or mere rhetoric. The British Romantics' distrust for mere rhetoric led them to write about discourse rather than rhetoric. Coleridge, for example, uses the term method, a term usually associated with Descartes in philosophy and with Ramus in rhetoric, when he writes about rhetorical acts. However, throughout his works, he not only demonstrates a substantial understanding of the history of rhetoric but also includes well-known principles of rhetoric in his method. In his Essays on the Principles of Method, he argues that method is a habit of considering the relationships among things, specifically either their relations to each other, or to the observer, or to the state of apprehension of the hearers (451). Thus, although Coleridge argues against the sophists in On the

In past fifteen years, scholars in both composition and literature have called for a more integrated approach to reading and writing.1 essays in collection Composition and Literature: Bridging Gap edited by Winifred Horner, for example, stressed common interests of scholarship in these two domains. Similarly, Modern Language Association recommended in a 1982 report that MLA publications make deliberate efforts to stimulate thought and research about interrelations of literature, composition, and rhetorical theory (952). More recently, Peter Elbow has called for end of the war between reading and arguing that the primacy of reading in reading/writing dichotomy is an act of locating authority away from student and keeping it entirely in teacher or institution or great figure (17). Richard Lloyd-Jones and Andrea Lunsford have also emphasized importance of an integrated approach to reading and writing in curriculum, one that allows teachers to foster student learning in reading, writing, interpreting, speaking, and listening (316). Like Elbow, Lloyd-Jones and Lunsford insist that integration of reading and writing not only enables students to become more active learners but also is critical for educating students for participation in democracy (85). But while an integrated approach to reading and writing is certainly a worthy goal, scholars in literary and composition studies differ on fundamental issues that may preclude (or at least complicate) our attempts to develop pedagogies that allow students to connect their own texts with other texts they encounter both inside and outside classroom. One such issue involves very nature of texts themselves-what texts are, how they are produced, and how we should read them. assumptions, for example, about what it means to interpret a text diverge radically depending on whether text is a student text or a literary text. As David Bartholomae observes: The teacher who is unable to make sense out of a seemingly bizarre piece of student writing is often same teacher who can give an elaborate explanation of 'meaning' of a story by Donald Barthelme or a poem by e.e. cummings (255). Instructors who interpret elements such as narrative leaps, obscure references, and twisted syntax as errors in student texts read same elements in a literary work as

American intellectuals and educators are dismayed by crisis in public discourse. With Jurgen Habermas and others, they worry over of public sphere and a degeneration in rational-critical debate. Cultural critics often contrast contemporary public discourse with what seems to be America's golden age of public discussion: nineteenth-century America, before culture industry or late capitalism, before professionalism, before TV, before mass media or multimedia.1 The usual suspect is modern communications technologies, specifically TV. According to Neil Postman, we should deeply lament the decline of Age of Typography and ascendancy of Age of Television (8). Televisual media, he argues, has eroded public's span and shriveled its capacity for rational thought. Looking to Lincoln-Douglas debates, he maintains that Americans' verbal facility and attention span would obviously have been extraordinary by current standards (45). The citizenry has declined, he argues, because citizens watch TV and no longer read: almost every scholar . . . has concluded that process [of reading] encourages rationality, while televisual logic short-circuits rational thought in favor of slogans, images, mere stories-in short, entertainment.2 The late Christopher Lasch, in The Revolt of Elites, blames not only television for making argument a lost art but also undemocratic leanings of intellectuals and academics. How far we have fallen, he argues, from Golden Years of nineteenth century, when serious public argument was practiced by both citizenry and media. In those days newspapers (Lasch singles out Horace Greeley's New York Tribune) were journals of opinion in which reader expected to find a definite point of view, together with unrelenting criticism of opposing points of view (163). The beginning of decline (the nadir of which he hopes we are presently experiencing) began in progressive era, when intellectual leaders preached 'scientific management' of public affairs.... They forged links between government and university so as to assure a steady supply of experts and expert knowledge. But they had little use for public debate (167). Academics and

Most interpretations of rhetoric use a version of what is called This standard interpretation, also called Platonic Idealism, imposes a systematic order upon philosophy out of a distinctly unsystematic group of texts. Platonism has become an interpretative construct, or a terministic screen that dominates our understanding of thinking on rhetoric. In order to get a more accurate understanding of the two dialogues that are canonical in rhetorical studies, I will reread rhetoric by exploring the ways in which presents a disclosive view of truth. The disclosive view of exists in a creative tension with the correspondence of that is articulated in Socrates' hypothesis of Ideas. I will argue that rhetoric is an inquiry into the disclosive nature of discourse. Many scholars have argued for the necessary distinction between and Platonism. Platonism is a systematic philosophy that has been constructed by others, out of texts but by himself. In the words of Jirgen Mittelstrass: Plato is no 'Platonist' (134). Emerson also argues that thinking is not a system. [And his] dearest defenders and disciples are at fault for creating the system of Platonism (491). Eric A. Havelock argues that the phrase Plato's Theory of Forms is a scholarly construct that suggests a doctrinal position in which wished to vest his philosophical prestige. But the actual tone of his writing does support (254).2 The correspondence of truth, as the discussion of Heidegger will indicate, is derived from Platonism and relies upon what Hans-Georg Gadamer calls the two-world theory. For Gadamer, the two-world theory does accurately describe thought: Plato was a Platonist who taught two worlds (1988, 260). Platonism teaches that reality is bifurcated: There is one world of phenomena, while separate and apart from this there is another more real world of forms or ideas, a world of absolute and static being. Along with Gadamer, I will argue we must reject this argument.3 Martin Heidegger's Plato's Doctrine of Truth argues that the correspondence of originates in Platonism. Although Heidegger's thesis is that the correspondence of presupposes the disclosive nature of truth, he does develop the ways in which notion of is disclosive. His critique of doctrine of truth is based upon a critique of the correspondence theory, which the character Socrates proposes as a

No one in the history of philosophy and the history of rhetoric, not even the sophists, has been more abused than Socrates.1 The sophists were merely scorned and maligned.2 was quite eliminated, his voice appropriated by another.3 As consequence, has traditionally been read as mere point of origination of Platonic/Aristotelian philosophy and rhetoric, and both he and the so-called method have been sharply dismissed from contemporary and composition studies. Vitanza, for example, characterizes Socratic dialogue as search for generic concepts-concepts that can be transferred to and acquired by another human being-and describes Socratic pedagogy as a series of questions [from teacher] that force an interlocutor [a student] to always give the desired answers, thereby leading the interlocutor to arrive at the predetermined conclusion to the inquiry (162, 166). Sosnoski, deploring the teacher/student relationship implied by such pedagogy, says simply Socrates Begone! from the and composition classroom (198). Nonetheless, has enjoyed revival in contemporary scholarship, most strikingly in the works of Jacques Derrida and Mikhail Bakhtin but also in the works of numerous contemporary historians and philosophers.4 This revival has potential interest for and composition studies, for it reveals different from the one handed down through the Western tradition: who speaks and listens to many voices, not just one; who is more concerned with living than he is with knowing; whose rhetoric is means of testing people and ideas rather than means of imposing his ideas upon others.5 Derrida's dramatic portrait of writing is at once characterization of the traditional way of reading and an invitation to imagine different Socrates. Bakhtin's is more detailed sketch of what such different might be. This different is figure with many voices, central figure in Bakhtin's dialogism, which has brought these many voices to contemporary and composition studies.6 This is also the less familiar figure who lives in Bakhtin's carnivalesque world of everyday experience. Finally, he is figure with links to the rhetorical tradition, the figure who appears in the early Platonic dialogues, whose is means of testing people and ideas, not means of persuading others to accept his ideas, thus imposing his ideas upon them. This has potential interest as an

Composition's recent turn toward cultural studies a research methodology and a pedagogy grows out of an interest in imagining the democratic potentials of rhetoric.1 James Berlin had been one of the compositionists at the forefront of theorizing composition's uses of cultural studies. In Poststructuralism, Cultural Studies, and the Composition Classroom, for example, Berlin laid out the project of a cultural studies pedagogy, stating that must come to see that the languages they are expected to speak, write, and embrace ways of thinking and acting are never disinterested, always bringing with them strictures on the existent, the good, the possible, and regimes of power (24). Yet the roadblocks to such a project in composition in particular and cultural studies in general are that recognitions of the of language can also narrow the possibilities for transformative critical engagements. In the extreme, recognizing the structural interestedness of language, its claims on who we are and what we can do, generates only resignation and indifference. As Lester Faigley writes, the profound cynicism of many students concerning public responsibilities suggests to some the possibility that as society is increasingly saturated with ever expanding quantities of information, objects, and services, the space for the autonomous subject with a capacity for critical thought collapses (213). problem confronting compositionists working with cultural studies today is thus one of actualizing democratic opportunities anticipated in the critical study of cultural sign systems. What opportunities does cultural studies provide compositionists for critically reimagining their pedagogical and research responses to the interestedness of language practices? Our response is to say that cultural studies can offer critical redirections of the ideological motivations for contemporary rhetorics when it conceptualizes those rhetorics in terms of their civic settings. Berlin had already noted the significance of place to rhetoric in an earlier article on the historiography of rhetoric, where he remarked: The ability to read, write, and speak in accordance with the code sanctioned by a culture's ruling class is the main work of education, and this is true whether we are discussing ancient Athens or modern Detroit (52). What is most interesting for our purposes about Berlin's quotation is that he suggests

Eugene Garver. Aristotle's Rhetoric: An Art of Character. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994. xii + 325 pages. Helen Fox. Listening to the World: Cultural Issues in Academic Writing. Urbana, IL: NCTE, 1994. xxi +161 pages. W. Ross Winterowd. A Teacher's Introduction to Composition in the Rhetorical Tradition. Urbana: NCTE, 1994. 130 pages. Marcello Pera. Discourses of Science. Translated by Clarissa Botsford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994. 250 pages. Pera, Marcello, and William R. Shea, eds. Persuading Science: The Art of Scientific Rhetoric. Canton, MA: Science History, 1991. Perelman, Chaïm, and L. Olbrechts‐Tyteca. The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation. Trans. John Wilkinson and Purcell Weaver. Notre Dame: U of Notre Dame P, 1969. Planck, Max. Scientific Autobiography and Other Papers. Trans. F. Gaynor. London: Williams and Norgate, 1950. Simons, Herbert, ed. The Rhetorical Turn: Invention and Persuasion in the Conduct of Inquiry. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1990. Haig Bosmajian, Metaphor and Reason in Judicial Opinions. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1992. Fredric G. Gale, Political Literacy: Rhetoric, Ideology, and the Possibility of Justice. Interruptions: Border Testimony(ies) and Critical Discoursed). Albany: State U of New York P, 1994. Austin Sarat and Thomas R. Kearns, eds. The Rhetoric of Law. Amherst Series in Law, Jurisprudence, and Social Thought 4. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 1994.

Richard A. Lanham. The Electronic Word: Democracy, Technology, and the Arts. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993. xv + 285 pp. $22.50 (cloth). Also available as a Chicago Expanded Book. 2 high‐density Macintosh disks. $29.95. Edward Schiappa, ed. Landmark Essays on Classical Greek Rhetoric. Landmark Essays Volume Three. Davis, CA: Hermagoras Press, 1994. xiv + 256 pages. $15.95 paper. Michael G. Moran, ed. Eighteenth‐Century British and American Rhetorics and Rhetoricians: Critical Studies and Sources. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1994. 318 pages. Barry Brummett, ed. Landmark Essays on Kenneth Burke. Davis: Hermagoras Press, 1993. xix + 290 pages. $15.95. Geoffrey A. Cross. Collaboration and Conflict: A Contextual Exploration of Group Writing and Positive Emphasis. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press, 1994. 182 pages. $18.50 paper. Alice Glarden Brand and Richard L. Graves, eds. Presence of Mind: Writing and the Domain Beyond the Cognitive. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann Boynton/Cook Publishers, 1994.

Within his substantial body of nonfiction, there is, I think, no single metaphor that better describes John McPhee's relationship with his readers and his subjects than does the title of his third collection of essays. 1 Giving Good Weight, the lead essay in the collection of the same name, is an account of greenmarkets in New York in the 1970s. As one of McPhee's subjects tells us, the markets were planned mainly as 'a natural answer to a twofold problem': loss of farmland in the metropolitan area and a lack of 'fresh, decent food' in the city, but it was hoped that, with the right attitude and a little luck, they would also start conversations, help resuscitate neighborhoods, brighten the aesthetic of the troubled town (34). It is characteristic of McPhee and crucial to our reading of the essay that the perspective we are given on the interaction between buyers and sellers is both McPhee's own and, to a large extent, that of his principal subjects. Characteristic, because McPhee consistently takes the side of those about whom he writes in his nonfiction; and in this case, he has done so quite literally: as the essay opens, the author is standing on the greenmarketers' side of the table, selling vegetables, discovering first-hand how it feels to face the urban hordes, who slit the tomatoes with [their] fingernails, excavate the cheese with their thumbs, pulp the nectarines and rape the sweet corn (3). Crucial, because in taking the greenmarketers' perspective, McPhee establishes an identification that has important consequences for our reading of the entire essay. They are good people, these greenmarketers honest, hardworking, and committed to what they do-and McPhee's ethos benefits from his respectful and respected association with them. The governing metaphor captures the essence of the piece and of McPhee's ethos in almost all of his nonfiction. Giving good weight: apart from its prominent post as title of the title essay, it is a phrase used only three times, yet it reverberates throughout one's reading; or more accurately, it galvanizes all the unspoken responses one has to the varied themes that play across the essay. To good weight means, literally, to be generous when selling produce, to give three-and-a-quarter pounds of tomatoes for the price of three. But it also means, not only metaphorically but actually, the fostering of human fellowship and trust-the forging of an almost palpable bond through an act of commercial generosity. When customers find out that a young teacher selling

The latest rehabilitation of the sophists, begun by Hegel and carried out with increasing dedication during this century (see Crowley, Enos, Guthrie, Hunt, Jarratt, Kerferd, Poulakos, De Romilly, Schiappa, Untersteiner), has improved our understanding of rhetorical theory and history. Despite, and in some ways because of, the nebulous quality of what they have left us, the sophists have become important primarily because they predate Plato and Aristotle and thus would seem to offer at least a fragmentary glimpse of rhetoric prior to its hypostatization in the classical period. The traditional thinking is that Platonic and Aristotelian rhetorical theory disciplined the sophists' extravagant practices, substantiated their unsubstantiated claims, and transformed their dithyrambic, mythic, magical, poetic discourse into a logical, rational theory of argumentation. In other words, Plato and Aristotle transformed mythos into logos; thus they were the fathers of rhetoric insofar as rhetoric was a respectable techno for the production of reasonable discourse. The philosophers rejected sophistic rhetoric on the grounds that it had no philosophical foundations from which its principles could be logically derived and safely taught. Thus they set about constructing a sound, philosophically based rhetoric by linking it carefully to, while dividing it just as carefully from, absolute knowledge (episteme). In both the Platonic and the Aristotelian rhetorical schemes, episteme provides the limits of rhetoric. In the Platonic case, absolute knowledge is a prerequisite for the application of rhetorical lore-one must employ dialectic in the service of absolute truth before one may use rhetoric to disseminate the truth (Phaedrus 265-66). In the Aristotelian case, rhetorical lore must be based on the first principles of persuasion, but must be employed when knowable matters are discussed-the closer one gets to fundamental principles, the further one gets from enthymemes, and thus the further one gets from rhetoric in the direction of scientific knowledge (Freese 1359b). If knowledge provides the limits for rhetorical theory and practice, then, in Platonic and Aristotelian terms, without both knowledge and a theory of knowledge, systematic rhetoric is impossible. This is why they dismissed sophistic rhetoric on the grounds that it ha(d) no rational account to give of the nature of the various things which it offer(ed) (Gorgias 465) and that it presented not an but the results of an art (Forster 183b). Because

Miriam Brody. Manly Writing: Gender, Rhetoric, and the Rise of Composition. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1993. 247 pages. Carol J. Singley and S. Elizabeth Sweeney, eds. Anxious Power: Reading, Writing, and Ambivalence in Narratives by Women. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993. xxvi + 400 pages. Gregory Clark and S. Michael Halloran, eds. Oratorical Culture in Nineteenth‐Century America: Transformations in the Theory and Practice of Rhetoric. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1993.281 pages. Donovan J. Ochs. Consolatory Rhetoric: Grief, Symbol, and Ritual in the Greco‐Roman Era. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1993. xiv + 130 pages. $29.95 cloth. Walter L. Reed. Dialogues of the Word: The Bible as Literature According to Bakhtin. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. xvi + 223 pages. Barbara Warnick. The Sixth Canon: Belletristic Rhetorical Theory and Its French Antecedents. Columbia: University of South Carolina, 1993. 176 pages. John Frederick Reynolds, ed. Rhetorical Memory and Delivery: Classical Concepts for Contemporary Composition and Communication. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1993. xii + 170. $19.95 paper. Edward M. White. Teaching and Assessing Writing. 2nd ed. San Francisco: Jossey‐Bass Publishers, 1994. xxii + 331 pages. $34.95. Sharon Crowley. Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students. New York: Macmillan College Publishing Company, 1994. 365 pages. Victor Villanueva, Jr. Bootstraps: From an American Academic of Color. Urbana, IL: NCTE, 1993. xviii + 150 pages.

teach composition using an enthymematic approach. Or I might say, teach composition from the or the enthymeme. Unfortunately, the word enthymeme is more likely to alienate composition teachers than to attract their interest and attention, despite growing body of scholarship that positions the enthymeme at the very heart of the composing process. According to the viewpoint that emerges from this scholarship, enthymematic reasoning is fundamental to cognition and discourse, and hence to writing. If so, then talking about the enthymeme ought to be an essential and powerful way of talking about the composing process, and of it (Grimaldi, Gage, Green, Walker, Porter, Hood, Emmel, among others). Part of the difficulty of explaining what is meant by teaching enthymematically resides in the word enthymeme itself, which, unlike more familiar composition terminology (thesis, evidence, conclusion), lacks common and shared meaning, even recognition, for both students and teachers alike. As one of my students complained, couldn't even find it in the dictionary! Other students have been perturbed when their other teachers do not recognize the word. As means of understanding and discussing composition, the term enthymeme is still in the process of gaining definition and application-that is, of becoming grounded in composition theory, apart from the realms of formal logic and classical rhetorical theory. The age-old tendency to reduce the enthymeme to a truncated syllogism, or to mere figure of speech with little rhetorical potential beyond the moment of utterance, robs it of the fullness from which its pedagogical potential derives (see, for example, Conley's and Poster's surveys of ancient and modem interpretations of the enthymeme). Yet the enthymeme is not just logical paradigm (statement 1 is true because statement 2 is true) but also conceptualization of rich set of relationships with the potential of being expressed in multitude of ways, of which the enthymematic and syllogistic paradigms are only the most schematic and thesis-like. A successful essay is no less enthymematic for not being

These notes are my recollections of a trip to see Kenneth Burke on February 19, 1993, in Andover, New Jersey, where Burke has lived for more than 70 years. The visitors were Jack Selzer, who is studying Burke's early work; Charles Mann, a longtime friend of Burke and curator of the Rare Books Room at Penn State's Pattee Library, where a substantial collection of Burke papers is housed; and Rosa Eberly, a graduate student in rhetoric at Penn State. The visitees: Burke and his friend and housekeeper, Ginnie.

Being bodies that learn language / thereby becoming wordlings-thus begins Kenneth Burke's revised definition of human beings.' Here I will suggest teachers of writing and literacy can use Burke to revise our discussion of words and thereby better empower the wordlings we teach. Traditionally, what have we taught our students about words? Probably the first place to look for the answer to this question is the site where our assertions about diction have most power: in the margins of their papers. What my students report about their revision processes matches what composition researchers report. Their primary concern (re: diction) is changing words to avoid such comments as WW, Abst, Amb, especially WW. That is the most potent lesson they have learned from their previous teachers about diction. I. A. Richards was right when he asserted that the best and most effective way to teach writing is to help students understand how words work in (8). The New Rhetoric reframes what we know about words work. It directs attention to the crucial importance of word-ing in both the psychological process of invention and the social process of discourse community.2 It can help us teach writing humanely, critically, and effectively both in the humanities and across the curriculum/'in the disciplines. Most composition textbooks use Burke, if at all, only by mentioning his Pentad. But this presentation of the Pentad is a red herring, an obeisance that allows us to deflect the rest of Burke, to put him under erasure.3 More important than any particular like the Pentad is what Burke can help us understand about language in general, rhetorical processes in particular. We should take into our classrooms Burke's insights into words work, into abstractions move minds, into contexts (especially of that rhetorically most important context called, perhaps misleadingly, audience [cf. Park]), into contradiction and into process-in short, into writing as a psycholinguistic, sociocultural process. In writing classes our discussion of words is all too often based in reductively narrow, dichotomized conceptions of style and diction. We will do well to let Burke remind us words are more important than that, to remind us wording can constitute knowledge and power. We should demonstrate to our students-while

My other self-as he might be called in a brief, ambiguous novelwas in this instance a bush pilot several hundred feet above Third Matagamon Lake, face to face with a strong winter wind. The plane was a Super Cub, scarcely large enough for the two of us. We sat in tandem and talked through an intercom. There is a lot of identification, even transformation, in the work I do-moving along from place to place, person to person, as a reporter, a writer, repeatedly trying to sense another existence and in some ways to share it. Never had that been more true than now, in part because he was sitting there with my life in his hands while placing (in another way) his life in mine. (249)

The uses of postmodern theory in rhetoric and composition studies have been the object of considerable abuse of late. Figures of some repute in the field-the likes of Maxine Hairston and Peter Elbow-as well as anonymous voices from the Burkean Parlor section of Rhetoric Review-most recently, TS, graduate student, and KF, voice speaking for a general English teacher audience (192)-have joined the chorus of protest. The charges have included willful obscurity, selfindulgence, elitism, pomposity, intellectual impoverishment, and host of related offenses. Although my name usually appears among the accused, I am sympathetic with those undergoing the difficulties of the first encounter with this discussion. (I exclude Professor Hairston in her irresponsible charge that its recent contributors in College English are low-risk Marxists who write very badly [695] and who should be banned from NCTE publications.) I experienced the same frustration when I first encountered the different but closely related language of rhetoric and composition studies some fifteen years ago. I wondered, for example, if I would ever grasp the complexities of Aristotle or Quintilian or Kenneth Burke or I. A. Richards, not to mention the new language of the writing process. A bit later I was introduced to French poststructuralism, and once again I found myself wandering in strange seas, and this time alone. In reading rhetoric, after all, I had the benefit of numerous commentators to help me along-the work of Kinneavy and Lauer and Corbett and Emig, for example. In reading Foucault and Derrida in the late seventies, on the other hand, I was largely on my own since the commentaries were as difficult as the originals, and those few that were readable were often (as even I could see) wrong. Nonetheless, with the help of informal reading groups made up of colleagues and students, I persisted in my efforts to come to terms with this difficult body of thought. I was then, as now, convinced that both rhetorical studies and postmodern speculation offered strikingly convergent and remarkably compelling visions for conducting my life as teacher and citizen. It is clear to me that rhetoric and composition studies has arrived as serious field of study because it has taken into account the best that has been thought and said about its concerns from the past and the present, and I have found that postmodern work in historical and contemporary rhetorical theory has done much to further this effort.

George A. Kennedy, trans. Aristotle: On Rhetoric (subtitled A Theory of Civic Discourse). Oxford University Press, 1991. 335 + xiii pages. The Importance of George A. Kennedy's Aristotle: On Rhetoric Kennedy's Aristotle: On Rhetoric as a Pedagogical Tool Kennedy's Rhetoric as a Contribution to Rhetorical Theory Kennedy's Aristotle: on Rhetoric as a Work of Translation∗ James J. Murphy, ed. A Short History of Writing Instruction: From Ancient Greece to Twentieth‐Century America. Davis, CA: Hermagoras Press, 1990. 241 + v pages. Teaching the History of Writing Instruction Thomas Miller. The Selected Writings of John Witherspoon. Southern Illinois University Press, 1990. 318 + viii pages. Patricia Harkin and John Schilb, eds. Contending with Words: Composition and Rhetoric in the Postmodern Age. New York: Modern Language Association, 1991. iv + 242 pages. Sandra Stotsky, ed. Connecting Civic Education and Language Education: The Contemporary Challenge. New York: Teachers College Press of Columbia University, 1991. Janis Forman, ed. New Visions of Collaborative Writing. Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook Publishers, 1992. 200 pages. $23.50.

complex of social formations. In the field of composition and rhetoric, such systems have been described as communities. The term is useful in the theory and analysis of writing because it embraces the rhetorical concern with social interchange (discourse) and with situation or context (community). But the term can lead the analyst astray by prompting an uncritical acceptance of as a natural element or transcendental category. Because community, like discourse itself, is socially constructed-by the analyst as well as by the people who claim membership-the act of identifying communities is never innocent, never free of ideological influences. As both Lester Faigley and Joseph Harris have noted, the word community is almost always used positively, and herein lies its danger to rhetorical analysis. If the community is always good, who but the perverse could question or rebel against practices that sustain the community? However, to accept this irresistible goodness as somehow prior to discourse (above question) would amount to abandoning a key premise of rhetorical criticism-the idea of the rhetorical situation (Bitzer), which demands that the analyst acknowledge the possibility of transformation among the elements and aims of discourse, including location. In addition to changing language and changing minds, the enterprise of rhetoric suggests that speakers and writers have the power to transform the site of discourse, the community itself. In this essay I argue that as a defense against an uncritical adoption of the community concept rhetorical theory needs to keep alive competing concepts of discourse communities, so that alternatives exist in the description and analysis of discourse practices. Recent definitions of discourse communities have established a rather too-narrow foundation upon a communitarian ethic. At the present time, when liberalism's stock is down, communitarianism appears to be a strong alternative for understanding the relation of people to government and culture (Lasch). In liberalism, social organization depends upon two strong formations-the individual, who may enjoy a wide range of rights and freedoms at the possible cost of

I suspect that many people who buy sentimental greeting card verse have the same preconceived ideas about such verse that I had before I began a serious study of it a few years ago. To my mind, greeting card verse was a trite and trivial form of poetry, filled with flowery language, poetic diction, and figures of speech, appealing to emotions in excess of the occasion-artificial, affected, and insincere. To my surprise, however, I discovered that greeting card verse, although often written in meter and rhyme, is not poetry, nor is it intended to be, but a rhetorical composition, a message transmitted from one person to another. Although its rhymes and meters are frequently trite (this may account for its wholesale condemnation), the sentiments it expresses, although commonplace, are seldom trivial. It uses few figures of speech, little or no poetic diction, and almost no flowery language. Nor are its emotions in excess of the occasion. The sentiments and emotions it expresses are no different than those that you and I might express at a wedding, a graduation, an anniversary, or a birthday, or at Christmas, New Year's, or Easter-good luck, congratulations, I love you, I'm thinking of you, have a joyous holiday, and so forth. Finally, greeting card verse is neither artificial, affected, nor insincere, but straightforward, genuine, and sincere. In fact, it exemplifies beautifully an important kind of ceremonial discourse, and I can think of no better way of introducing writers to the ancient art of epideictic discourse than through a careful analysis and understanding of the rhetorical strategies used by writers of greeting card verse. Paradoxically, greeting card verse is both universal and particular. The message of greeting card verse must be general enough to fit representative rhetorical situations (Quinn 22), yet particular enough to fit immediate occasions. Like proverbs, maxims, quotations, and anecdotes, when they are decontextualized and put into collections, greeting card verse is decontextualized when it is put on racks of cards in card shops, drug stores, and supermarkets. Under appropnate circumstances, however, the person who buys greeting card verse recontextualizes it, appropriates it to his or her own intention, and sends it to someone else as a personal message. As a result, there is a dialogic relationship set up between the writer's intention and the sender's intention, between the writer's words and the sender's words. But as Mikhail Bakhtin has pointed out, do not all of the

Patricia P. Matsen, Philip Rollinson, Marion Sousa, eds. Readings from Classical Rhetoric. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1990. viii + 382 pages. Roderick P. Hart. Modern Rhetorical Criticism. Glenview, IL: Scott, Foresman/Little Brown, 1990. iv + 542 pages. Susan Miller. Textual Carnivals: The Politics of Composition. Southern Illinois University Press, 1990. 267 pages. Bruce Lincoln. Discourse and the Construction of Society: Comparative Studies of Myth, Ritual, and Classification. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989. 238 pages. Gregory Clark. Dialogue, Dialectic, and Conversation: A Social Perspective on the Function of Writing. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1990. xix + 93 pages. Lawrence J. Prelli. A Rhetoric of Science: Inventing Scientific Discourse. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1989. xi + 320 pages. Kathleen E. Welch. The Contemporary Reception of Classical Rhetoric: Appropriations of Ancient Discourse. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1990. 186 pages.

(1989). Conflict in collaboration: A burkean perspective. Rhetoric Review: Vol. 8, No. 1, pp. 113-126.

This question, the engine humming at the center of Bakhtin's vision, generating alien words like heteroglossy and polyphony, is one that rhetoricians do not ask. And our work is poorer for the silence. We make inquiries, sometimes very probing ones, into ethos, and occasionally we investigate some rhetor in great detail. But we take identity for granted. It is Plato or Socrates or Burke doing the speaking. we fail to notice is that these labels do not designate autonomous, univocal entities. They designate composites-collections of voices, some in harmony, some in conflict. Mikhail Bakhtin, then, has something to tell us: listen. Listen and you will hear a verbal carnival of such depth and diversity, of such extravagance and exuberance, that your ears will never be the same again. The most immediate consequence of this newfound affluence is that the traditional triangular paradigm of rhetorical events becomes lopsided. The speaker's corner becomes very heavy. But two questions, in parallel with Bakhtin's obsessive probe, present themselves-Who is listening? and What is being said? -and they find similarly multivocal answers. This additional plurality does not so much balance the triangle as burden it. That is, as soon as we start to listen more carefully, the paradigm proves hopelessly inadequate. It simplifies interactions to the point of insignificance, it undervalues or ignores essential elements, and it effects an artificial closure on an inherently openended process. Applying it to any rhetorical event, once we are fitted with our new ears, reveals this inadequacy, but, to keep things in the family, consider how the paradigm fares in an examination of multivalence in the Phaedrus.

In his essay The Function of Rhetorical Study at the Present Time, J. Hillis Miller remarks: the recognition that all language, even language that seems purely referential or conceptual, is figurative language and an exploration of the consequences of that view for the interpretation of literature represent, it seems to me, one of the major frontiers of literary study today (13). This view of language also represents one of the major frontiers of composition study. To connect this view of language to the study of composition, I propose that a theory of can be a means of relating composition theory to literary theory. More specifically, I would like to suggest that the four metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and irony - can provide a conceptual framework for the composing process and a guide to critical reading. Tropes have developed into an explanatory power in a great many disciplines, including rhetoric, linguistics, philosophy, history, and literary theory. Rhetoricians have catalogued and defined a large number of these tropes, four of which - metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and irony - have been considered the most important. Kenneth Burke labeled these the master tropes

(1987). For a modern rhetoric: A prose‐poetic persuasion. Rhetoric Review: Vol. 6, No. 1, pp. 87-89.

In The New York Times Book Review of March 15, 1981, Richard Kostelanetz described Kenneth Burke as implacably American, citing in evidence Harold Bloom's earlier assertion that Burke was strongest living representative of the American Critical tradition, and perhaps the largest single source of that tradition since its founder, Ralph Waldo Emerson (1 1). Others too have seen Burke as vintage American: Merle Brown, for example, who wrote sixteen years ago that Burke, like John Dewey and Van Wyck Brooks, was clearly the man of the American 20s who sought to close the gap he saw widening then between the specialists and the masses (8-9);' and, more recently, Bloom's Yale colleague Angus Fletcher, who, in his English Institute essay, sees Burke as the American individualist and romantic hero:

Advanced composition is now taught in colleges throughout the country to students in a variety of majors. But, unlike freshman English where one finds similar curricula and texts, this course has not had a traditional structure. In some schools, it may even indicate technical writing or advanced grammar study. In a 1979 survey, Michael Hogan discovered that at most colleges the course extended fundamentals learned in freshman English, with work on style and organization for argument, exposition, and other essay forms. Because few specialized texts were then available, teachers relied on books intended for freshmen, such as Hall's Writing Well and The Norton Reader, and thus repeated familiar advice on the modes of exposition, paragraphing and usage, with little attention given to research on composition.1