In spoken English, we can emphasize the ideas we want to emphasize by giving them a stronger stress, leveling off our voice when enunciating minor or neutral ones, and downplaying the points that simply don’t support our contention. In writing, however, the process is rarely that simple. We can achieve emphasis only with our choice of words and how we array them into word clusters, into clauses and phrases, and ultimately into sentences and paragraphs. Mechanical devices exist that help, of course, like underlining, boldface type, italics, headlines and subheadlines, and—in today’s savvy word-processing routines—even colors, clip-arts, and emoticons. But as the aspiring writer soon discovers, much of the emphasis we seek has to be built into the very contours of the individual words as they unfold on the page.

There are three basic word-positioning principles we must know for maximum emphasis in writing English sentences: first, the initial and terminal positions of sentences are by nature more emphatic than their middles; second, when we construct a complex sentence, the main clause gets more emphasis than subordinate clauses; and third, when everything is written and done, the last words of the sentence are normally the most emphatic of all. These are structurally inherent in the English language itself, as we will see more clearly when we study them in closer detail.

The initial and terminal positions of sentences are prime. This principle is perhaps difficult to understand, particularly among those deeply hooked to the idea that the active voice, or the regular subject-verb-predicate pattern, is optimal for language, and that the passive voice should be taboo. On the contrary, the most desirable sentence construction is that which emphasizes the very words or ideas we want to emphasize, regardless of whether they are the doers of the action, the receivers of the action (as direct or indirect objects), or the action itself.

Take this basic active-voice sentence: “We wanted full representation in the board to fiscalize for minority stockholders.” Here, the subject “we” and the action “wanted full representation” in the main clause get the strongest emphasis, followed in degree by the subordinate infinitive phrase “to fiscalize for minority stockholders” at the tailend. We can’t quibble with the construction if this is precisely the desired order of emphasis. But what if “we” are just passive observers expressing a wish on behalf of the minority stockholders? Then the sentence should more properly take, say, this form: “Full representation in the board is what the minority stockholders need.” The object at the tailend of the infinitive phrase, “minority stockholders,” is now out front as the subject.

Alternatively, if we are speaking for the minority stockholders themselves, here’s a construction that better states their case: “Minority stockholders need full-time representation in the board to fiscalize for them.” The sentence can be reshuffled in several more ways to emphasize other aspects, but the point is made: we should position words in sentences for the emphasis we want, not on the basis of an arbitrary structure that does not suit our purposes and fails to carry out our intent.

The main clause gets more emphasis than subordinate clauses. When we construct complex sentences, we should avoid burying our main idea in subordinate clauses. As a corollary to the first principle, main ideas positioned at or near the front or at the tail end of the main clause get more emphasis. Consider this sentence: “They were of the opinion that in the ultimate analysis, inkjet printers are more cost-effective than either the dot-matrix or laser printer.” The most important idea here, of course, is not who gave the opinion, but the opinion itself. So we are well-advised to dig up that opinion and put it in the main clause where it can shine: “Inkjet printers, in their opinion, are in the ultimate analysis more cost-effective than either the dot-matrix or laser printer.” The front- and end-focus now is in a main clause stating the comparative merits of the three printers; credit for the opinion is relegated to the status of a simple interrupting qualifier, which semantically is really all it deserves.

The last words of the sentence are normally the most emphatic. A seemingly paradoxical aspect of written English sentences is that their last words normally get the strongest emphasis; most people would think that the first words would get this emphasis instead, but this simply does not happen in actual practice. Thus, if we want to give the strongest emphasis to what we think is our most important idea, we must literally maneuver it right to the tail end of the sentence, where it can get the strongest stress. Not only that. We must also make sure of ending our sentences with heavyweight rather than lightweight words. (March 9, 2004)

Click this link to “Which Words Pack the Most Wallop,” the second part of this essay that discusses this principle more fully. 

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, March 9, 2004 © 2004 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

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Many years ago, when I was in second year high, something happened that changed my family’s fortunes forever. We looked forward to a bountiful harvest that summer in our two-hectare citrus orchard in a farming town in Southern Luzon in the Philippines. After more than 10 years of backbreaking nurture, the orchard’s more than 200 citrus trees had finally reached full fruition. They had already fruited four times during the past two years, yielding fruits so luscious they attracted even wholesale buyers from faraway cities. This time the trees blossomed even more profusely, and my father expected a harvest at least double the previous one. A long awaited prosperity was finally in sight for the family. 

Due to unexpected rains in January of that year, however, a dense growth of weeds, cogon, and creeping vines had enveloped the orchard. My father, an elementary school head teacher, was terribly upset by this; if the undergrowths were left unchecked, the trees would choke and the harvest volume would drop. But farmhands were hard to find at the time; most were on extended summer-long rice harvesting sorties elsewhere in the province. Desperate, my father sent word through relatives and friends that he needed someone to clean up the orchard very quickly. 

The day after, a man came to our house for the job. He was in his late 50s or early 60s, practically a stranger in our parts because he lived with his in-laws in a faraway village for most the year. He wasn’t the usual weather-beaten person who worked in farms. He arrived astride a strikingly clean carabao (water buffalo), without the usual flecks of dried-up mud that drew swarms of gnats and flies in their wake. He was so neat even in ordinary clothing, sporting a bolo with a handsomely crafted handle and an intricately carved scabbard. Although a man of very few words, he was prone to hyperbole, the way some unschooled people would try to show that they are intelligent and worldly wise. In any case, he convinced my father that he could do the job on contract in four days flat. My father, deathly worried about his citrus harvest, readily accepted the man’s stiff quotation and gave him a hefty cash advance.

The man came back the following morning with two teenage farmhands in tow. I accompanied them to the orchard, which was about 150 meters away, hidden from view by a thick bamboo grove and a clump of trees. On arrival they promptly started hacking away at the undergrowth with their hoes and shovels, cutting deep into the soil, severing the surface roots of the citrus, and exposing earthworms all over the place. I remonstrated against this brutal weeding process, which would usually be done with long bolos, but the man simply laughed and said in the vernacular, “Don’t worry, son, there are more of those earthworms where they come from.” “Yes, but please cut only the grass and the vines and don’t dig deep into the ground,” I said. “Otherwise, you’ll be damaging the roots of the citrus.” “All right,” the man relented. “We’ll cut gentler and shallower, but tell your father that it will slow us down.”

The three made good progress. By the third day they had already cleared over three fourths of the orchard’s undergrowth, methodically piling up the cuttings outside the bare circular areas underneath the foliage of each citrus tree. In the summer heat the cuttings quickly dried up and turned brown and crisp, the sight of which made my father remark with elation that they would soon crumble, decay, and turn into natural fertilizer for the trees. My father was obviously delighted with his decision to hire the man, who had proved very efficient in his work.

Past three in the afternoon of the fourth day, the man and his three assistants came to our house and informed us that they had finished the job. We served them refreshments in appreciation, after which my father gladly handed the man the final payment—plus a generous tip. “Thank you,” was all he said. As he and his assistants were leaving, however, he turned around and added: “By the way, it wasn’t part of the contract, but we thought of doing something extra to spare you the trouble. We burned the cut grass and vines to make the fruit orchard really clean. We set fire to the pile from all four corners of the orchard, so I think all of that unsightly debris should be gone by now. Check it for yourself.”

Even now, many years later, I still can’t imagine by what perverse logic and reasoning anyone could do it, but along with the cut grass and vines, the man had burned practically all of our citrus trees and our future to a crisp. (May 5, 2004)

From English Plain and Simple: No-Nonsense Ways to Learn Today’s Global Language by Jose A. Carillo © 2004 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. This essay originally appeared in the author’s column, “English Plain and Simple,” in the May 5, 2004 issue of The Manila Times.

Epilogue to the devastation

The above personal cautionary tale about the perils of bad thinking struck a responsive chord among some readers of my column. Here’s a representative feedback from a Filipino reader based in the United States:

And here’s my rejoinder to that feedback:

The 200 trees in that ill-fated two-hectare orchard were of the Szinkom variety, Citrus suhuiensis, or dalanghita in Tagalog. The fruit was smaller than the Karachi Ponkan, but almost as sweet with a delightfully mild tartness; the fine, thin skin was easy to peel and turned bright yellow-green when ripe. No less than 90 percent of the trees were severely burned and died that day; the few survivors in the center of the orchard shriveled away and also died after a few months. That orchard was a total loss, but we had a separate, smaller orchard of about 35 older Szincoms; these trees helped offset the severe reduction in the family’s income, but they were wiped out a few years later by the same highly infectious viral disease that killed the Batangas citrus industry. No, my family no longer tills the land; we gave up fruit farming altogether largely as a result of that fire. (May 8, 2004)

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