Against Caveats

When I was writing my essay on the need for Latin translations of literary classics, I originally inserted caveats into it at many points. For those who haven’t read it, the premise is that the ordinary pace of language change will soon render literary classics of the modern era not easily understood. This is already happening for some from the early modern period–I for one will admit that Shakespeare’s meaning is often obscure to me. For this reason, the thesis went on, marginal notes will soon become insufficient, and reference translations of the enduring works will be necessary to safeguard the meaning for the reader who wishes to read broadly in the French, German, English, and Russian classics. Latin seemed to me a suitable language for these reference translations. Naturally, one could disagree with this proposal. Certainly not everybody would value such an undertaking, and for different reasons. One may despise translations in the first place, and so not wish to set up a barrier between the reader and the original text. One may value study of the historical stages of a language, and so not wish to overshadow the previous stages in language evolution. One may actually agree with the need for a reference translation, but find another language superior for the task, such as modern English or ancient Greek. These caveats and more I deliberately left out.

In no way do I mean that… It goes without saying that… While I appreciate this point, I nevertheless think… Why do writers give caveats like these in the first place? Caveats demonstrate that the author is aware of the cultural and moral context in which he is situating his claims. They relate these claims to other points of view. This serves to generalize his writing beyond what he is immediately saying. In the first place, this is so that readers will interpret him in the best possible light. For another thing, giving caveats is meant to preempt discussion points that would challenge the author’s claims. Finally, by contextualizing his claim in the cultural or moral milieu, the caveat broadens the author’s scope and guards against the charge of naivety.

Nevertheless, the author should weigh carefully whether the benefits of liberally sprinkling caveats throughout his writing are not outweighed by the drawbacks.

To the extent that a caveat is motivated by the desire for the readership to interpret the author in the best possible light, one should consider whether he is warranted in assuming the reader will assume bad intent in the first place. Writers more controversial than I may sow animosity through their choice of subject as a matter of course, and in apologizing for their viewpoint may occasionally need to strike a concessive or conciliatory note. For those less possessed of a controversial bent, however, I would think the assumption that the readership generally harbors good will towards the author to be more accurate than the contrary.

To the extent that a caveat is motivated by the desire to anticipate a challenge to his claims, one should first weigh whether the challenge is grave enough to warrant mention. A mere quibble does not bear mentioning if disarming it demands little toil. In clearing his essay of such caveats, the author purifies his train of thought and expresses trust in his readership to raise and rebuff such challenges on their own. The reader whom the writer trusts to do so will understand the writer’s argument better for going through this interpretive process, and in so doing will feel some ownership of the writing, at least as it relates to ideas he worked out on his own.

To the extent that the writer situates his claims in a broader social milieu to avoid charges of naivety, the writer should first decide whether that milieu provides the right backdrop for his claims. For example, an essay on medieval literature could spare the backdrop of modernity if the juxtaposition of classical antiquity or the Islamic Golden Age would throw the claims into no starker relief. Likewise, the Christian writer may issue a caveat to guard against the charge of ignorance of materialism, but did he first ask himself whether a Hindu or Islamic caveat were not more appropriate–Jewish, Jainist, or Zoroastrian, too, for that matter. Any choice he makes here relativizes his thought against another point of view, but does relativism advance his argument at all?

Judiciously chosen, the rare caveat sharpens the claims of an essay. Often, however, a strong essay finds itself cluttered with tangents and side points that serve not to furnish the argument with interesting pieces of context and make it more roomy, but rather to hem it in and stymie its advance. Proceed with your train of thought with no thought of tedious hedging or contextualization. Trust that your reader will assume good intent, can work through the questions your essay raises, and will understand the social and moral milieu without need of prodding. This is a mark of good judgment and restraint in prose.