Many writers, even economists and statisticians who should know better, confuse percent and percentage point and thus their readers.

 
The abuse is common with rates, such as those of GDP growth:

 
Brazil’s GDP growth increased by 2.5 percent in 2007.

 
If Brazil’s GDP growth had been 5 percent in 2006 and increased by 2.5 percent, the growth rate for 2007 would be 5.125 percent. But if growth increased by 2.5 percentage points, the growth rate for 2007 would be 7.5 percent. A big difference.

 
The differences between two percentages are thus measured in percentage points not in percent, used for ratios and shares.

 
Consider these differences in the shares of three categories of voters from Wednesday’s Washington Post:

 
An estimated 2 million Democrats voted, nearly triple the number who turned out in the past two presidential campaigns in the state. Clinton ran up big margins with her core constituencies, winning white voters with incomes under $50,000 by 32 points, voters over age 65 by 26 percent, and Catholic voters by 38 percent, more than countering Obama’s strong showing among black voters and higher-income whites in Philadelphia and its suburbs.

 
For the 32 points, the writer should have made it clear that they are percentage points (this wasn’t a basketball game that Clinton won by 32 points, with a score of 120-88).

 
And the 26 percent and 38 percent are plainly wrong. Both should have been percentage points, shortened to points if the first use had been 32 percentage points, specifying the kind of points.

 
If the margin among voters over age 65 had been 63 percent of the total to 37 percent, that would be 26 percentage points. But if Clinton had won those voters by 26 percent, her margin would have been 11.8 percentage points (0.37 x 0.32 = 0.118) and her share of the total 48.8 percent (0.37 + 0.118).

 
(Percent comes from the Latin per centum, by the hundred.)

Many writers wrongly see some pairs of words as synonyms, alternating between them randomly or using one in ways that violate convention or ignore its origins. Reminding me of this was Henry Kissinger’s use of historic in a recent opinion piece in the Washington Post:

Essentially tactical issues have overwhelmed the most important challenge a new administration will confront: how to distill a new international order from three simultaneous revolutions occurring around the globe: (a) the transformation of the traditional state system of Europe; (b) the radical Islamist challenge to historic notions of sovereignty; and (c) the drift of the center of gravity of international affairs from the Atlantic to the Pacific and Indian Oceans.

I won’t comment on the sentence’s length (67 words), on the use of two colons, or on the use of letters (a, b, c) to indicate the three (1, 2, 3) revolutions. I will stick instead to the use of historic. Kissinger may have used historic to avoid repeating traditional.

Historic’s seeming synonym is historical. The difference? Historical is history’s ordinary adjective, meaning of history. Historic means memorable or dramatic, but I don’t believe that Kissinger was thinking of memorable notions or dramatic notions.

Would anybody misread the second revolution? Yes. I would. Does distinguishing the two seeming synonyms make a difference? I believe that it does. So does Fowler in Modern English Usage: “the use of one in a sense now generally expressed by the other is a definite backsliding.”

Historic also means assured of a place in history, as with historic accord or historic building. Grammarians also use historic as a technical term, as with the tense, historic present, the use of the present tense to relate events that occurred in the past..

Here are three other seeming synonyms routinely abused:

Comprise (embrace) and constitute (make up), as in “The whole comprises the parts, and the parts constitute the whole.”

Imply (suggest to the reader or listener) and infer (conclude from the writer or speaker), in “Are you implying that we should act on this? And may we infer from what you say that we should act on this?”

Masterful (domineering) and masterly (skillful), as in The Economist’s take on Saddam Hussein’s gulf war strategy: “more masterful than masterly.” True, some dictionaries have a second definition of masterful that is the same as that for masterly, reflecting the words’ early history as synonyms and the practice of most dictionaries of recording usage rather than pronouncing on proper usage. (I still shudder at the Merriam-Webster New Collegiate Dictionary’s including prioritize as a verb.)

There are countless others. See Edit Yourself and the ClearEdits compare function.

Note

My colleague Meta pointed me to Merriam-Webster, for the definition of masterful:

Some commentators insist that use of masterful should be limited to sense 1 in order to preserve a distinction between it and masterly. The distinction is a modern one, excogitated by a 20th century pundit in disregard of the history of the word. Both words developed in a parallel manner but the earlier sense of masterly, equivalent to masterful 1, dropped out of use. Since masterly had but one sense, the pundit opined that it would be tidy if masterful were likewise limited to one sense and he forthwith condemned use of masterful 2 as an error. Sense 2 of masterful, which is slightly older than the sense of masterly intended to replace it, has continued in reputable use all along; it cannot rationally be called an error.

Samuel Johnson's dictionary gave both meanings for masterly:

1. Suitable to a master; artful; skilful.

2. Imperious; with the sway of a master.

(He did not include masterful.)

And this is what Fowler (the 20^th century pundit?) writes in Modern English Usage for masterful, masterly:

Some centuries ago both were used without distinction in either of two very different senses: (A) imperious or commanding or strong-willed, and (B) skilful or expert or practiced. The differentiation is now complete, -ful having the (A) and -ly the (B) meaning, and is nicely observed in The presentation in each case was masterly (perhaps in a few rare instances a trifle too masterful) and always the playing was crystal clear.

I agree with Fowler (and Meta) that the distinction is useful (I won’t comment on his use of A and B). If someone were to write, Diana Vishneva’s performance was masterful, how would I to know whether it was an expert performance or an imperious performance?

Masterful in the (B) meaning may survive because of the clumsiness of forming an adverb from the adjective masterly: masterlily. Masterfully clearly is less clumsy.  

Sentence fragments, shunned by rigid writers and grousing grammarians, often mimic speech and thus pick up the pace of your writing. Unexpected, they can command attention to strong points and comments. Here’s an example from a recent New York Times article on revitalizing Starbucks:

But revitalizing the Starbucks experience is not going to be enough. Not even close.

The full sentence would have been:

But revitalizing the Starbucks experience is not going to be enough. It will not even be close.

Stripping the subject and verb from the front and leaving the fragment drives the reader straight to the point.

Here’s another example from the ClearWriter archives:

The marriage of America and the rest of the world is just that. A marriage, for better or worse.

The more conventional version might have been:

The marriage of America and the rest of the world is just that, a marriage for better or worse.

A small difference, but a difference. Because the fragment is unconventional, it draws more attention to the point than the conventional version does. Just be sure that the passage merits the attention.

Only is another of those words (like that) that does many things and has many meanings, depending on what it limits, modifies, or connects and where. Sometimes it’s not clear what only modifies. And sometimes where only is placed affects the meaning, especially when it is as an adverb (only can also be an adjective or conjunction).

Only she is my wife.

She only is my wife.

She is only my wife.

She is my only wife.

She is my wife only.

Today’s post looks at only as an adverb.

In speech and informal writing only often appears earlier than the word, phrase, or clause it modifies.

Today’s post only looks at only as an adverb.

With only preceding looks, the readers’ first take is that the post only looks and does nothing else. Readers are unlikely to misunderstand this, but by putting only one position later, their first take is the correct one, that the post looks only at only as an adverb, the full and unbroken adverbial phrase.

Today’s post looks only at only as an adverb.

Fowler, in his Modern English Usage, writes that the first version is the normal way of speaking and, however illogical it may be, changing to the second version would succumb to pedants, who “If they are not quite botanizing on their mother’s grave, they are at least clapping a strait waistcoat upon their mother tongue, when wiser physicians would refuse to certify the patient.”

But especially in formal writing, I think placing only immediately before the word, phrase, or clause it modifies can improve clarity by making the writer reflect about what only is limiting.

Consider this, from a March 24 piece in The Atlantic by James Fallows, Nerds only: Firefox 3 beta is available:

I switch back to 2 only when I want to use that Chinese plug-in.

Compare that with:

I only switch back to 2 when I want to use that Chinese plug-in.

Readers will figure out what only is limiting, but they will start on the wrong scent with only switch. A look at some of Fallows’s other sentences shows the same care in placing only.

Where the placement matters most is when the part of the sentence modified is some distance from only.

Compare:

I only decided to arrange a trip to the Bahamas to do a bit of fishing when it struck me that I might not have another chance for some time.

With:

I decided to arrange a trip to the Bahamas to do a bit of fishing only when it struck me that I might not have another chance for some time.

So, when using only as an adverb, reflect on where best to place it.

For more on only, visit Dictionary.com. There you’ll see its many uses as an adverb and as an adjective (or conjunction). You’ll also see its origins, from Old English, as aenlic or anlic, or one-like to only.

You can occasionally use a dash to separate part of a sentence and draw attention to it, just as you would with a pause in speech. Because dashes are versatile, it helps to know their three functions: linking an elaboration, setting off parenthetical material, or injecting a pause. Each use adds more emphasis than the standard comma, parentheses, or word space.

Some dashes link an elaboration, replacing a comma or a colon. Here’s an example from Maureen Dowd in the New York Times:

But Saint Obama played the politics of character to an absurd extent. For 14 months, his argument for leading the world has been himself—his exquisitely globalized self.

With a comma instead of the dash, the passage would read:

But Saint Obama played the politics of character to an absurd extent. For 14 months, his argument for leading the world has been himself, his exquisitely globalized self.

The comma throws the reader too quickly into the trailing elaboration.

Elaborative dashes often attract more attention to a phrase than colons, as in this example from The Economist:

He is also interested in what some religions hold out as the ultimate reward for good behaviour—life after death.

Other dashes are parenthetical, helping readers wade through background or explanatory material in the middle of a sentence. Consider this example from The Atlantic:

The expensive cars [paparazzi] drive reflect the fact that Britney Spears—her marriages, custody battles, fights with her mom, new boyfriends, Starbucks runs, trips to the hospital—is a bigger and more lucrative story than Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton or John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

The dashes help readers process the details without losing the writer’s thrust. The dash-less alternative is a jumble that makes it tough for readers to get from the subject (Britney Spears) to the verb (is):

The expensive cars [paparazzi] drive reflect the fact that Britney Spears, including her marriages, custody battles, fights with her mom, new boyfriends, Starbucks runs, and trips to the hospital, is a bigger and more lucrative story than Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton or John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

And still other dashes inject a pause, forcing a moment of reflection on what precedes them—before flinging readers into what follows. Here’s an example from a World Bank World Development Report:

Yet billions of people still live in the darkness of poverty—unnecessarily.

Here the dash simply replaces a word space.

So when should you use a dash? Remember that dashes are pauses, so use them for emphasis—and sparingly. Also, avoid using them in a sentence that has a colon.

For the parts of sentences doing the same work—signaled by the conjunctions and, or, and but—repeating their grammatical structures adds balance and often picks up the cadence rather than smothers it.

Here’s an example from the New York Review of Books [and is implied, its omission adding to the rhythm of the sentence]:

White pine is too soft, he reasons, maple too sleek, oak too ordinary.

Repeating too before each adjective makes the list more memorable than anything varied structures or varied words would evoke.

Here’s another:

In my fantasy party we would support the interests of the poor and working classes, not the rich; the rights of animals and the environment would be fought for; and discrimination would be combated wherever we found it.

The reader will have trouble untangling the jumble. The original in The Economist had better structure and cadence:

In my fantasy party we would support the interests of the poor and working classes, not the rich; fight for the rights of animals and the environment; and combat discrimination wherever we found it.

The writer could have done even more to unify the rhythm:

In my fantasy party we would support the interests of the poor and working classes, not the rich; fight for the rights of animals and the environment, whether popular or not; and combat discrimination, wherever we found it.

In the original not the rich adds a phrase to the first element not shared by the others. Another solution would be to drop it:

In my fantasy party we would support the interests of the poor and working classes, fight for the rights of animals and the environment, and combat discrimination.

The choice is between a compact sentence and one that takes its time.

Given our preference for arranging series from short to long, we would recast the sentence this way:

In my fantasy party we would combat discrimination, support the interests of the poor and working classes, and fight for the rights of animals and the environment.

 

The fourth candidate for a stark attachment is a long prepositional construction in a long sentence.

Thomas takes a utilitarian approach to the problem by attempting to convince corporations, pension funds, and other investors that the price of continuing to ignore the impact of greenhouse-gas emissions will soon greatly exceed the cost of reducing them.

The preposition by connects the next 30 words in a blur of sentence, leaving readers to search for what’s important and what’s not.

This could have been two sentences, for two ideas of equal weight.

Thomas takes a utilitarian approach to the problem. He attempts to convince corporations, pension funds, and other investors that the price of continuing to ignore the impact of greenhouse-gas emissions will soon greatly exceed the cost of reducing them.

Recall that two sentences with the same subject are the first candidate for a stark attachment, as with this leading part:

Taking a utilitarian approach to the problem, Thomas attempts to convince corporations, pension funds, and other investors that the price of continuing to ignore the impact of greenhouse-gas emissions will soon greatly exceed the cost of reducing them.

And this inner part:

Thomas, taking a utilitarian approach to the problem, attempts to convince corporations, pension funds, and other investors that the price of continuing to ignore the impact of greenhouse-gas emissions will soon greatly exceed the cost of reducing them.

The example comes from a New Yorker piece (February 25, 2008) by Michael Specter:

Thomas takes a utilitarian approach to the problem, attempting to convince corporations, pension funds, and other investors that the price of continuing to ignore the impact of greenhouse-gas emissions will soon greatly exceed the cost of reducing them.

Specter simply removed the preposition by and starkly attached the rest. Note how the comma articulates the two parts of the sentence, something not so obvious in the first example at the top of this post.

I think, however, that he’s subordinating the more important idea, not the less. (See the two preceding examples.)

To sum stark attachments up:

Look for:

1. Two sentences or clauses with the same subject.
2. A sentence with two or more verbs tied to the subject.
3. A sentence with a who or which clause.
4. A sentence with a prepositional extravaganza.

Next, decide which part is less important.

Then, starkly attach it at the front of the sentence, in the middle, or at the back.

The last Tips talked about two elegant repetitions—repeating a word and repeating a root. This week’s adds a third, one more often associated with poems than with prose.

Alliteration, repeating a consonant sound at the beginning of two or more words in a sentence, can add poetry to the ordinary. It usually combines words with the same first letter. Like all repetition, it strengthens the link between words and the attention to those words. (Indeed, it preceded rhyming in Middle English.)

Consider this example from an old issue of The Economist:

Fatter capital ratios, fancy risk management systems, and faster diversification: all of these things are undoubtedly creating a fitter banking system.

Note that the repetition need not involve consecutive words. Here, it binds the sentence by linking the attributes of the banking system. To be parallel, fancy might have been fancier.

Another example, this one from The Economist’s “Flooding the Grand Canyon”:

Those glorious inundations moved massive quantities of sediment through the Grand Canyon, wiping the slate dirty, and making a muddy mess of silt and muck that would make modern river rafters cringe.

This use is less ordered than the first, but the alliteration still brings poetry, leaving the reader reveling in the consecutive m’s.

But use alliteration sparingly—it can be annoying if overused. The “Flooding” passage, for example, could easily have gone too far:

Those glorious inundations moved massive quantities of sediment through the Grand Canyon, wiping the slate dirty, and making a muddy mess of mire and muck that would make modern mariners misdoubt.

The alliteration now overwhelms the sentence’s point.

A third candidate for a stark attachment is a sentence with two (or more) verbs. The first two candidates, remember, were a pair of sentences with the same subject and a sentence with a who or which clause.

Consider this sentence from a piece by Jim Holt in the March 3 New Yorker, on the work of Stanislas Dehaene, a Paris-based neuroscientist exploring the brain’s wiring for math:

He pointed to the little furrow where the number sense was supposed to be situated, and observed that his had a somewhat uncommon shape.

The furrow is in a model of Dehaene’s brain. Note the two verbs, pointed and observed. Holt could have converted one of them to a stark attachment at the front of the sentence:

Pointing to the little furrow where the number sense was supposed to be situated, he observed that his had a somewhat uncommon shape.

In the middle:

He observed, pointing to the little furrow where the number sense was supposed to be situated, that his had a somewhat uncommon shape.

Or at the back:

He pointed to the little furrow where the number sense was supposed to be situated, observing that his had a somewhat uncommon shape.

Holt left the compound predicate because he used a stark attachment two sentences later:

Cradling the pastel-colored lump in his hands, a model of his mind devised by his own mental efforts, Dehaene paused for a moment.

The common form would have been:

Dehaene cradled the pastel-colored lump in his hands, a model of his mind devised by his own mental efforts, and paused for a moment.

Holt’s next sentence kept the common:

Then he smiled and said, “So, I kind of like my brain.”

This could have been:

Then, smiling, he said, “So, I kind of like my brain.”

 Or:

Then he smiled, saying, “So, I kind of like my brain.”

Four points, then, on the stark attachment. First, the part starkly attached should be the lesser of two ideas, subordinated to the greater. If the two ideas are of equal weight, use the common form. Second, the earlier the stark attachment—at the front of the sentence rather than in the middle or at the back—the more the emphasis on it. Third, watch the length, especially when separating the subject from its verb. Fourth, don’t overuse it. Holt had three sentences with two verbs in one paragraph, each a candidate for a stark attachment. He used it for just one.

Last week’s Tip talked about one type of repetition—repeating a key term. A related technique is repeating the root of a word. Consider this example from The Economist:

Far from discrediting liberalism, corruption is discredited by it.

Repeating the root signals nuanced meaning and links two ideas more strongly than would occur otherwise. Here, juxtaposing the same root in active and passive constructions heightens the author’s proposed reversal of causality.

Or take these examples from the ClearWriter archives:

Values will not bring quality-of-life results unless we cherish principles.

Without repetition, the passage is bland. Try making a tighter link:

Values will not bring quality-of-life results unless we value principles.

Using value in both noun and verb forms brings a layer of meaning that was absent before. The result is a more interesting sentence.

But as always, use this technique with care: because the reader must slow down to register and consider the link, be sure that you’re not just being cute. And the repetition should add meaning. Take this example, abstracted from my editing work:

During the discussions, participants will discuss A, B, and C.

We don’t need to be told that people will discuss things at discussions. This isn’t rhetorical repetition. It’s just bad writing. Here, I might cut During the discussions or change discuss to something more communicative—say, develop policy recommendations for A, B, and C.