There is nothing new under the sun, a revered text tells us. And while the latest inventions from Silicon Valley may seem to refute that proposition, it may well be true of rhetorical devices, those verbal and mental forms with which we construct our arguments and formulate our opinions. First identified by the ancient Greeks and Romans, those devices are still in use today, both in the public arena and in our private, everyday lives. And they can have a profound effect on the ways we experience the world, whether we realize it or not.
I am thinking in particular of procatalepsis, a device much favored by politicians, public officials, columnists, and others in positions of influence. Procatalepsis is a figure of speech in which the writer raises an objection to his or her argument and subsequently refutes it. Often the objection being considered is introduced by “Granted,” “To be sure,” “It may be argued,” or some such phrase. By duly considering that objection, the writer (or speaker) appears reasonable, realistic, and open to others’ points of view. The effect, however, is to rebut or exclude the opposition, while strengthening one’s own line of argument.
As a case in point I would cite a recent column by New York Times columnist Frank Bruni. In this column, entitled “Who Needs Reporters?,”* Bruni advances the argument that in the digital era political reporters are becoming irrelevant and obsolete. Enabled by the Internet, politicians are finding “route[s] around the news media,” allowing them to deliver their messages at their own tempos and on their own terms. As his prime example, Bruni adduces Rep. Michelle Bachmann’s recent online video, in which she announced her decision not to seek reelection:
It could easily have been mistaken for a campaign ad, with lighting that flattered her, music to her liking and a script that she read in as many takes as she desired. There was no risk of stammer or flop sweat, no possibility of reporters itching to challenge her self-aggrandizing version of events. Weird, no?
“Well, no,” Bruni answers, rejecting this anticipated response. He then goes on to cite other examples of Bachmann’s strategy, notably those of Anthony Weiner and Hillary Clinton, both of which illustrate “politicians’ ability, in this newly wired world of ours, to go around us and present themselves in packages that we can’t simultaneously unwrap.”
Shortly thereafter, Bruni anticipates another objection: that “you journalists have brought this on yourselves.” And though he gives some credence to that argument, he soon returns to his main point, which is that politicians as otherwise diverse as Bachman, Weiner, and Clinton are using the Internet to “marginalize naysaying reporters” and “neutralize skeptical reporting.” For Bruni this is a disturbing development, because it deprives journalists of their right to question politicians, and it violates the public’s right to see its leaders “in environments that aren’t necessarily tailored to their advantage.”
Bruni’s points are well taken, but one might observe that in his column he is doing something akin to what Bachmann, et.al., are doing in their videos. By employing procatalepsis—four times in a single column—Bruni is himself negating naysayers, neutralizing skeptics, and controlling the discourse. What appears to be a dialogue between writer and reader is in fact a persuasive monologue. Rejoinders are considered only be rejected. The writer remains in firm control.
And what Bruni is doing in the public arena bears a close resemblance to what many of us habitually do in our private, interior monologues. Briefly entertaining ideas that challenge our assumptions and subvert our fixed ideas, we reject those troublesome intruders. Practicing procatalepsis, not as a rhetorical technique but as a habit of mind, we strengthen our convictions and bolster our established points of view. Having briefly opened our minds, we snap them shut again, excluding the possible other case.
To that natural human tendency, the regular practice of meditation can be a potent counterforce. For as Elizabeth Mattis-Namgyel, author of The Power of an Open Question, puts it, meditative space “doesn’t do—it allows.” It “allows objects to come into being, to function, to expand, to contract, to move around, and to disappear without interference.”** Those “objects” may well be our familiar notions, prejudices, and cherished self-concepts, but they may also be unwelcome and unfamiliar ideas, which challenge and alter what we have always thought. By allowing all to co-exist, if only for the space of single sitting, we open the possibility of seeing things afresh—and of discovering something truly new under the sun.
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* Frank Bruni, “Who Needs Reporters?” New York Times, June 1, 2013.
** Elizabeth Mattis-Namgyel, “The Power of an Open Question,” The Best Buddhist Writing 2011, ed. Melvin McLeod (Shambhala, 2011), 139.
Photo of Bowdler’s Passage, Shrewsbury, by ceridwen
One Time, One Meeting 
I learned a new word. And unfortunately will quickly forget it. But I am very aware of this rhetoric method and now I got a greek word for it. I must say, I prefer “prebuttal” since it is easier to remember and a little less greek-stuffy (academic). Investigating procatalepsis, I found that “catalepsis” means “to seize upon” (where we get “catalepsy”), so this word the greek means to seize upon it before (it is allowed to thrive).
Should we use prebuttal? Well, here are some observations on manipulative rhetoric in general before I explore the ethics of procatalepsis:
(a) On topics I feel casual about, I tend to avoid rhetoric, but on topics I feel are critical, I can see manipulative rhetoric entering my style.
(b) Manipulative rhetoric works — that is why it evolved.
(c) If we let only our enemy use manipulative rhetoric and we stick only to straight-forward, balance talk, we will probably be squashed. The idealist view that taking the “high road” is often best, is mistaken, unless being wiped out can be considered “best”.
(d) Practicing manipulative rhetoric has horrible side-effects (as you fantastically point out).
If all 4 of those are accurate observations, you can see the dilemma. Even given the dilemma, it is valuable to see behind rhetoric (which is what you offer us), so we can more intentionally choose which road to follow.
But to the last point. I am not sure meditation will have the results you say, unless the additional practice of intentionally meditating during a conversation occurs. Then, I think it is possible. Riding the bull in the marketplace is important — keeping it in your special meditation corner is silly.
I am sure you agree.
I have seen meditators who are as reflexive in normal life as non-meditators because we can partition our minds. We can be non-judgmental when we don’t care, but it is tough when we do. And damnit, maybe sometime being rough is the right move.
Can you hear my confusion? 🙂
Sabio –
Many thanks for your cogent comments. I hear your ambivalence–but also your clarity of mind.
Regarding “prebuttal”: if I’m not mistaken, that term usually applies specifically to politics. Procatalepsis is the more general term. However arcane, it was probably more appropriate for my purpose.
I appreciate your distinction between important and not-so-important matters, but I wonder whether you or anyone can truly avoid rhetoric. Rimbaud certainly tried, as did Samuel Beckett, but for the rest of us, rhetoric is part of our conditioning, our thinking, and our speech. Perhaps it’s a matter of degree.
To be sure, aggressive, “manipulative rhetoric” can be highly effective. But for the listener who is acutely aware of rhetorical devices, manipulative rhetoric can also raise flags, arouse suspicion, or backfire entirely. Those who employ such tactics do not always win debates.
And I wonder what kinds of “straightforward, balanced talk” you have in mind. Sincerity can make a speaker vulnerable to derision, but so can rhetorical excesses, which are easily parodied. As a case in point, I would cite Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Depending on your viewpoint, that speech can be read as a sincere, straightforward oration–or as so much rhetoric in the service of the Unionist cause.
I don’t think I was urging a non-judgmental stance in every situation. Rather, I was suggesting that meditative space allows us room in which to examine many ideas and perspectives, including those we reflexively reject.
Thank you for yet another thought-provoking essay. I, too, learned a new word. It in turn prompted me to ponder the overarching role of persuasion in rhetoric. More often than not, now that I think about it, that overshadows more objective determinations of where the truth lies. (That is, if the truth can lie. 🙂 )
But might there be another bias in the lines above that prematurely exclude ‘the possible other case’? It seems so to me, although admittedly what follows below may also seem more like gratuitously splitting hairs.
‘First identified by the ancient Greeks and Romans, those [rhetorical] devices [“verbal and mental forms with which we construct our arguments and formulate our opinions”] are still in use today ….’
Anyone who has read feature articles about the decline of Western Civilization in Harper’s or The New Yorker, let alone who has steeped in academic debate, will be familiar with almost reflexive references to Ancient Greece and Rome. These early superpowers are presented as the undisputed origin of the rational structures and sensibilities that still undergird culture in the Occident.
And that is no doubt true. But almost invariably — actually, it’s probably quite safe to drop the ‘almost’ here — this assertion has stood on axiom rather than on documented fact. One implication is that not only did intellectual rigour not exist before, say, the 6th century BCE in the West, but neither was it present in the East at any time before Western philosophy began making inroads there.
Can this be so? I’m certainly no expert in the discipline, but it appears that the rhetorical arts attained considerable heights in ancient China, Mesopotamia, Egypt, and India. More pertinent here is that, according to what Ananda and others recorded, the Buddha was an accomplished rhetorician.
Where there’s rhetoric, must there not also be rhetorical devices?
Could it just as likely have been the ancient Chinese or Indians (or some people of whom no trace remains) who ‘first identified’ and cultivated rhetorical devices?
The broader point here is this: Is it material to the discussion of procatalepsis which cultures first identified rhetorical devices? Lest we perpetuate this largely unacknowledged notion of Western exceptionalism and implicit superiority, might we be wiser simply to point out that ever since human beings developed language, they have probably favoured persuasive over expository speech?
I shall now dismount from my high horse, begging your indulgence. Unfortunately, some pet peeves insist on being fed….