in clear, intelligible, and unambiguous terms. Those writers who
construct difficult, obscure, involved, and equivocal sentences, most
certainly do not know aright what it is that they want to say: they
have only a dull consciousness of it, which is still in the stage of
struggle to shape itself as thought. Often, indeed, their desire is to
conceal from themselves and others that they really have nothing at
all to say. They wish to appear to know what they do not know, to
think what they do not think, to say what they do not say. If a
man has some real communication to make, which will he choose--an
indistinct or a clear way of expressing himself? Even Quintilian
remarks that things which are said by a highly educated man are often
easier to understand and much clearer; and that the less educated
a man is, the more obscurely he will write--_plerumque accidit ut
faciliora sint ad intelligendum et lucidiora multo que a doctissimo
quoque dicuntur_.... _Erit ergo etiam obscurior quo quisque deterior_.

An author should avoid enigmatical phrases; he should know whether he
wants to say a thing or does not want to say it. It is this indecision
of style that makes so many writers insipid. The only case that offers
an exception to this rule arises when it is necessary to make a remark
that is in some way improper.

As exaggeration generally produces an effect the opposite of
that aimed at; so words, it is true, serve to make thought
intelligible--but only up to a certain point. If words are heaped up
beyond it, the thought becomes more and more obscure again. To find
where the point lies is the problem of style, and the business of the
critical faculty; for a word too much always defeats its purpose. This
is what Voltaire means when he says that _the adjective is the enemy
of the substantive_. But, as we have seen, many people try to conceal