ONE of the joys of reading good writing is being led effortlessly by the smooth flow of prose from one sentence to the next. No clutter impedes the reader's understanding of the writer's ideas, no strange word or turn of phrase disrupts the unraveling of thought, no doubtful or false claim is made to ruin the writer's credibility. The composition plays with not a single false note and builds up to a delicious, satisfying finish.

If all English prose were like that, what a beautiful thing every printed page would be! But rarely does prose come uncluttered at the time of delivery. It comes swathed with the messy detritus of birth — tautologies or needless repetition, illogical constructions, jargon, clichés, lumpy words and phrases, and other forms of verbal hemorrhage. All self-respecting writers should thus be their own midwives, cleaning up and buffing the infant before it is displayed for the whole world to see. When they get too lazy or too hurried to do this, what results is ungainly, unsightly, and sometimes utterly embarrassing prose.

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