Editorial Editorial

This Editorial concerns some of the fundamentals of this Editorial

Evan Johnson, staff

One reason I don’t like writing editorials is that there is always two sides to every argument. For example, while I agree, to some extent, with my previous sentence, it also seems to me now, with the benefit of hindsight some eight or nine seconds later, that I was perhaps a little bit hasty in my initial assessment. After all, both sides of an argument can’t be right. Or perhaps, on second thought, they can. In any case, I can’t really be sure. Or can I?

On the other hand, no, I can’t. In fact, that last paragraph, not to mention the first sentence of this paragraph, was probably altogether too emphatic in its conclusion, as, perhaps, was the majority of this very sentence. But I can’t dismiss declarative sentences entirely, can I? After all, who would want to read an article composed entirely of interrogative sentences? People want answers, don’t they? Don’t they want answers to questions they have? Isn’t that why they read editorials? And if so, or not, then why, or why not?

I’ll tell you why or why not: because declarative statements send a message. They say: “I am a sentence or statement that is declaring something,” or perhaps “I declare myself a declarative statement or sentence,” and readers have to respect that. You might even say that declarative sentences are “making a statement,” as that is literally what they are doing, which is precisely why you would be permitted to say it. Good declarative statements make good editorials, because the job of a good editorial is, I think, to make a pretty clear position on something in particular, and sort of make it make sense and stick with it and stuff.

Interrogative sentences, on the other hand, ask “What is the answer to the question I am asking?” These sentences require much effort on the part of the reader, who is required not only to read the question in the sentence in question, but also to ponder the answer to the question posed by the sentence that asks the question. That’s difficult work. The final sentence of the first paragraph of this very editorial was a interrogative sentence, and it probably gave you pause. You probably thought, “here is a man who is writing an article that is asking a question.”

Sometimes, a sneaky writer will use an interrogative sentence that doesn’t actually require a response. These are called rhetorical questions, and are much to be feared. I used some in my second paragraph, and you didn’t even notice, did you? That’s how sneaky they are. They’re in your brain, as we speak, working their rhetorical magic, and there’s nothing you can do. Not very pleasant, is it? (Answer: No, it isn’t.) Rhetorical questions are always condescending because they ask “isn’t the answer to the question I am asking so obvious that even someone like you would know the answer?” Often, you will begin to answer a rhetorical question before realising that implicit in the asking of the question was the fact that the question was not to be answered. Then you feel ashamed. I don’t usually approve of rhetorical questions, though I only used them to prove a point, so it was okay.

Other times, an editorial will use statistics to emphasize a point and make the whole editorial affair seem generally respectable. Approximately 10 out of every 20 editorials that use statistics will use simple, clear numbers, lucid reasoning and approachable statistical terminology. 204.6 per 10,000 of the remaining 15 per cent of the 55 most characteristic editorials in January of 2002 will obfuscate matters through misleading cumulative distribution techniques and variegated exponential smoothing procedures.

At the end of most editorials comes a climactic summarizing conclusion that indicates that the editorial is coming to an end. Though most people don’t actually read that far so it doesn’t really ma