Beyond Reason

How believable is the following about-face? Picture two well-lubricated dinner party guests launching into a heated political debate – one a lifelong Conservative, the other an unreconstructed socialist. As their discussion gathers momentum, it becomes increasingly apparent to the other guests that the socialist's superior grasp of logic, coupled with her ability to marshal facts, is helping her systematically dismantle her opponent’s position, and credibility.

As the socialist’s unremitting assault continues, her opponent’s resistance begins to crumble. Suddenly, in the face of his adversary’s superior fire-power, he waves the white flag. After a brief pause for thought, he plucks his Conservative Party membership card from his pocket and rips it into tiny pieces. Taking a deep breath, he announces solemnly to the gathering that from that day forth he will commit himself to the socialist cause with every fibre of his being.

Hang on a minute, in real life this kind of thing just doesn't happen, does it? Political beliefs run deep and no amount of evidence to the contrary is going to shake them. We feel their rightness in the core of our being and even when they've been given a bit of a mauling, like those of the hapless Conservative diner, our usual response is to go off and hunt for more evidence to back them up – alternatively, we might put some of the arguments that have been used against us under the microscope so that we can discover their cracks and expose their speciousness.

The limits of logic
As a rule, the more deeply a belief is embedded in our flesh, the less vulnerable it is to logical attack. Logic works best where the emotional temperature is low. It's great at helping us decide things like the cheapest, or quickest, way to get from one place to another, or something arithmetical like how much change we're due; but it's not very effective at changing core beliefs like whether or not we believe there's a god.

Last week I was reminded of logic's limitations while watching a TV documentary by Richard Dawkins, the well-known atheist and champion of Darwin's theory of evolution. At one point in the programme Dawkins locks horns with a science teacher who claims to believe in the literal truth of the biblical account of creation despite his scientific training. You can almost see the steam coming out of Dawkins' ears as the science teacher confesses that he believes the Earth to be less than ten thousand years old, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary found in the fossil record. It's obvious that no amount of evidence or logic offered by Dawkins is going to shift the feeling of certainty lodged in the teacher's bones.

But if the teacher's beliefs are lodged firmly in his bones, surely words are powerless to shift them? Well, it depends on the words. There are certain kinds of words that have the power to speak to – and through – our bodies as well as to our intellects; and good communicators have the knack of choosing those kinds of words: that is, words that can 'touch' us by stimulating our senses and stirring our emotions.

A great piece of oratory has to convince on two levels: a surface level at which logic reigns supreme; and a deeper, subliminal level at which listeners are encouraged to experience the reality of what is being said through their senses. The job of logic is to make sure that the various parts of the argument, or narrative, follow on from each other in a way that appeals to the audience's intellect; while the task of sensory words is to transport them to a place, time, or atmosphere that helps them experience the rightness of what is being said – or argued – through their bodies.

A closer look
Churchill's famous 'We shall fight on the beaches' speech is a striking example of how the surface level and the subliminal level of a great speech can work together to create a magical effect. The surface narrative pulls no punches. Churchill describes the recent defeat at Dunkirk as "a colossal military disaster." His stark honesty – surprising at any time for a politician, but especially so during a critical phase of a war – is a rhetorical device calculated to establish his credibility and trustworthiness – he comes across as a man who tells it like it is.

The theme of the speech is one of a heroic nation with its back pressed hard to the wall: more than thirty thousand men killed; an enormous, and potentially crippling loss of guns, transport and armoured vehicles, with perhaps the threat of even worse to come – a Nazi invasion of the British Isles. Having presented the prospect of such an apocalyptic vision, Churchill throws us a lifeline of inspirational stories of courage and resourcefulness that point the way towards salvation. The enemy might be better equipped and more numerous than us but, time and again, we have succeeded in turning the tables on them: "they (the Germans) paid fourfold for any losses which they have inflicted."

In another incident Churchill recalls how twelve enemy aeroplanes were hunted by two British aeroplanes – finally, "one aeroplane was driven into the water and cast away by the mere charge of a British aeroplane, which had no more ammunition." Clearly, the nation's fate is in its own hands: "if all do their duty... we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our island home."

At the subliminal level, the persuasive power of the speech stems from Churchill's marvellous way with words. From the very first paragraph to the famous final one, his careful selection of individual nouns, verbs and adjectives dramatizes the rhetorical and argumentative surface level of the speech. The process can be seen more clearly if we highlight the sensory words in the speech's long opening sentence by removing all the connective words, such as prepositions and articles.

This bit of surgery leaves us with the following sequence of words: "moment.. French... defences... Sedan... Meuse... broken... end... second... week... May... rapid... retreat... Amiens... south... saved... British... French... armies... entered... Belgium... appeal... Belgian... king..." We haven't even reached the end of the opening sentence but already the story is beginning to unfold at a breathless pace. Shorn of their connective tissue, common sense suggests that these words should struggle to create a meaningful experience, but they don't.

Latinate words
If we move a little higher to take in the whole paragraph and select only its most vivid sensory words, we end up with the following sequence: "defences ... broken... rapid... retreat... close... gap... destruction... abandonment... force... penetration... command... effort... holding... right hand... strength... grasp..." It is surprising to find so many words of Latin origin in this sequence because it appears to break two widely accepted golden rules of good writing style: go for short words rather than long ones; and go for Old English words (which tend to be shorter) rather than Latin ones (which tend to be longer).

In most everyday situations – particularly at work – this style advice makes sound practical sense if you want to avoid sounding pompous and remote, and if you want what you say to be easily understood. But in this speech Churchill is observing an even more fundamental rule: choose words that are appropriate to your material, your audience and the occasion. The Latinate words at the opening of his speech are carefully chosen to remind us of the historic and grave nature of the moment. As he utters them, it's easy to imagine him standing before us draped in a toga like a Roman Consul addressing the Senate. A speech that self-consciously writes history demands words appropriate to the setting – a selection of less formal words might have left him attempting to rally the nation in its darkest hour wearing only a dressing gown.

Old Englishness
By way of contrast, it's interesting to note that Churchill chooses Old English words in the passages of the speech that invoke Britishness or Englishness – these Old English words touch the hearts of his audience and resonate in their imaginations. He talks, for example, about the whole 'root', 'core' and 'brain' of the British army – three concrete words that link the very idea of Britishness with the earth it springs from. This odd, and unidiomatic usage sticks out like a sore thumb – but that's what makes it so unforgettable and redolent of the unique flavour of Britishness.

A root connects life to the soil and draws sustenance from it; a core is the tough central part of certain fruits, like apples or pears, that contain their seeds – the essence of life; and our brain is the seat of our consciousness, our thoughts, our memories and our emotions. These simple – but fundamental – words are common denominators that connect Churchill to his audience, and individual audience members to each other, regardless of their class, creed or gender.

Try this...
As a final demonstration of the subliminal power of Churchill's words, here's an exercise I've used many times, that never ceases to amaze me and my workshop participants. Take the famous final paragraph of the speech and remove all the connective words as described above. Then take the words you're left with and mix them up as randomly as you can. Again, common sense predicts that you should be left with a haphazard hotchpotch of words, but experience shows that you're not. If you resist making sense of the words and instead just let the words flow over you, it's not long before your imagination is thronging with images, smells and sensations. In an instant you are transported to June 1940: the smell of cordite on the battlefield; the deafening thunder of shells exploding around you; the fear of invasion; and the anxiety of danger and uncertainty. The blend of sensations triggered by the words also reveals flecks of light within the darkness – words like 'liberation', 'God', 'rescue', 'effort' and 'faith' offer grounds for hope too.

Getting the words right
Churchill’s speech is exceptional but it shows us that whether we're giving an inspirational speech or just exchanging a few simple words with someone, our choice of individual words is crucial because those words can either support, and enhance, what we say – or confuse and undermine it. Even if we can't always pinpoint and articulate our responses to individual words, we never fail to respond to the atmosphere they create, and the way they make us feel.

Persuasive speakers recognise the limitations of logic but they also appreciate the vital role it plays in encouraging people to reconsider what they think and believe. Churchill's speech succeeds in moving us precisely because it convinces our intellect as well as our heart. In the final analysis, it is Churchill's sensitivity to the feel and nuance of individual words that fuels the persuasive cogency of his speech and ensures that the logical and subliminal levels of his message work together in perfect harmony.

© 2008 Martin Shovel



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