EXPOSITION
79. General Principles.—There is perhaps no other form of composition which is so generally in use as exposition or explanation. If you observe your own conversation and that of the people about you, you will find that a great deal of it is explanation. Every time you say in answer to some question about a remark you have just made, "Why, I mean that—," you are explaining the first remark. In almost all the recitations you make in school you are explaining something—a principle in arithmetic, or in physics, the construction of something in manual training, the meaning of a word, etc. The object of your explanation is to make the person whom you address understand the nature of your subject. There are a number of devices for doing this, which will be treated in this chapter, but you are never to forget that your aim is simply to make some one clearly understand what was not plain to him before.
In description you were told that knowledge of your subject was the most necessary element. This is so true of exposition that only the briefest mention of that necessity is enough to show you its great importance. It might be possible to describe something and give a fair notion of it, without knowing it thoroughly yourself; but this is out of the question in explanation. If you do not entirely and completely understand what you are talking about, you certainly cannot explain it to any one else. One of the great advantages of writing explanations is that you are forced to think accurately as well as to express yourself clearly.
The next thing in explanation is a consideration of the people for whom you are writing. In the diary you write to yourself; in a letter you address one person, whom you usually know well; in narration and description, you write for persons about whom you can know very little. In exposition you come back again to a set of readers about whom you have some definite information. They may be different from each other in a great many ways, but in one respect they are alike—they do not understand the thing you are explaining, or at least they do not understand it as clearly as you do, for if they did, they would not be reading your exposition. This may appear self-evident, but it is a very important matter. You are apt to forget what should be constantly in your mind, that the entire value of your explanation lies in making something clear to a person who has not before understood it. In literary description your aim was to make your reader see the picture you saw. In exposition your aim is always and forever to make him understand, and no matter how well written, your explanation is a failure if he does not understand. You will often find it difficult to realize that some people know nothing whatever of some process or principle with which you are very familiar, and a good device is to imagine that you are addressing your explanation to a foreigner ignorant of our life, or to some one younger than you. Put yourself in the place of such a person, and see if your remarks are sufficiently clear and full to be a complete explanation.
There are two great divisions of exposition—the explanation of a material process or thing, and the explanation of an abstract idea. The first is very much easier and will be taken up first.
80. Explanation of a Material Process.—There is a strange resemblance between the explanation of a material process and telling a story. This will be made more clear by an example. A well-written cookbook, or manual of handwork, employs constantly this simplest, plainest form of exposition.
To broil a steak. Light the oven burners at least five minutes before the time for broiling. Allow twelve to fifteen minutes for a steak an inch and a half thick. When the rack and the pan are hot, place the steak on the rack and put it as near the flames as possible without having it touch. As soon as it is seared and brown on one side, turn, and sear and brown on the other. Now turn again. Remove the rack three or four slides down, but do not reduce the heat. Cook for five minutes. Turn the steak and broil for five minutes longer, and it is ready to season and serve.
You may not see any connection between these straightforward and plain instructions for broiling a steak and a story; but if you examine them, you will see that they are the story of the process, and that the explanation relates from first to last all the things that were done by some one who cooked a steak in exactly the right way. This resemblance is mentioned because it shows you that clear statement of events in their right order is as necessary in this sort of exposition as in story telling. Every one who writes good instructions for going through some process, either consciously or unconsciously imagines himself doing what he explains. In the above example, the writer has imagined herself broiling a steak, and has set down, step by step, everything she does. This is a very good plan to follow. You will find that it simplifies any difficulty in your mind, when you are a little confused as to what comes next, if you will ask yourself, "If I were actually doing this, what would be the very next thing I should do?"
Remember that your reader is ignorant of the process, and do not forget any details that must be cared for, or there will be a gap in your directions over which he cannot cross. Use the simplest, plainest terms possible, and do not fear to be too minute. You will have a tendency to forget some necessary instruction rather than to add one that is not needed.
It is often well to make a broad statement of general conditions first, before going on to detailed instructions. For instance, suppose you are writing to a boy who has always until now lived in the South, in order to tell him how to make a snow man. Before you begin to tell him about starting with a small ball and rolling it about till it grows large, you should say that he should try to make a snow man only when the snow is somewhat damp, for no matter how clear your instructions are, he can accomplish nothing by following them if the snow be dry and powdery.