I. Introductions: Functions
Cicero, who knew more than a thing or two about effective rhetoric, described not one kind of introduction, but five different kinds of exordia, of which the introduction is just one form. Although he was talking more about speeches in court and the Senate, his taxonomy is a far more useful way to think about introductions than “tell ‘em what you’re gonna’ tell ‘em” (aka, “summary” introduction). Cicero’s taxonomy is dependent on what the audience’s attitude is toward one’s argument: they may be sympathetic, hostile, confused, bored, or some mix of the previous.[1]
That is, one might be making an argument one’s audience is well-disposed to hear, as it confirms what they already believe. In scholarly work, readers are likely to be sympathetic toward scholarship that reinforces the importance of the field, confirms the value of dominant methods of interpretation, extends well-known arguments, shows that other fields have come to similar conclusions, argues for the value of already valued authors or texts. With a sympathetic audience, Cicero says, one begins with one’s thesis.
With a hostile audience, however, one delays one’s thesis. This may seem to contradict current practice, but it only contradicts current advice. Much current advice depends on a conflation of various functions that a sentence (or set of sentences) might perform: establishing the topic, identifying the significance of the topic, and giving a map of one’s argument. The tripartite thesis statement (A leads to B because of C, D, and E) or conventional version of the “summary” introduction do all three kinds of work, but they aren’t the only ways to do them. A summary introduction typically gives a map of the argument by listing the main claims of the argument in the order they will be made in the text. But a topic sentence is different from a claim. A topic sentence tells the reader what the paragraph (or section or paper or book) will be about; it is often a claim but not necessarily the claim the text will pursue.
For instance, an article that had in the introduction the statement that “Third world poverty is a tremendously destabilizing force in world politics, and needs to be solved” is probably not the claim the article will make—an article with that as a claim would go on to show nothing more than that third world poverty is destabilizing; it would not propose a solution. While it’s possible that an article would do no more than argue the proposition the poverty is destabilizing, it would have to be for a journal or scholarly audience that would see such a claim as extending the conversation—that would need to be some kind of new claim—and it’s hard to imagine such a discipline or journal. Instead, chances are that the article will go on to propose a solution—the thesis for the article would be something like “X approach will reduce third world poverty insofar as it ….” This statement, “Third world poverty is a tremendously destabilizing force in world politics, and needs to be solved” is a topic sentence that makes a claim about the significance of the issue; some rhetoricians (like Wayne Booth) call this kind of statement a “contract,” as it establishes expectations with the reader. To avoid confusion, I want to lay out a set of terms for the kinds of work that sentences in the introduction can do:
· topic sentences: topic sentences do exactly what is suggested by their name—they identify the topic of the paragraph, section, or text.
· claims of exigency: one of the main differences between student and scholarly writing is that student writing is not expected to make any claims of significance; scholarly writing needs to pursue issues that the audience will grant (or can be persuaded) are significant contributions to some intra- or inter-disciplinary conversation(s). The main problem with what Cicero characterizes as “trivial” topics (usually translated as “mean”) is that the significance not obvious to the audience, and itself has to be argued.
· thesis questions: a clear and specific statement (with or without a question mark) of the question the text will pursue; it is not simply the thesis statement in question form, but a succinct description of the problem, disciplinary conflict, interpretive puzzle, apparent contradiction, or need that will be explored (and not necessarily answered, depending on the discipline). Sometimes thesis questions are framed in such a way that the author’s answer is clear, but sometimes they are genuinely open.[2]
· hypo-theses: also sometimes mis-identified as thesis statements, these are vaguer and more abstract versions of one’s claims; hence, just slightly less than the thesis statement. Sometimes an actual statement of the hypothesis—the claim to be tested through the data—but more often a less controversial (because more abstract) pointer toward what one will argue.
· partition: called “partitio” is classical rhetoric, this was the part of the exordium in which the rhetor made clear the order of topics the rest of the speech would discuss. Sometimes considered part of the “metadiscourse” (Williams), “signposting,” or “scaffolding” that may operate throughout the text, it is more and less tolerated in various fields. Because some disciplines (especially in the sciences) have clear expectations regarding the order of parts, there is less need for a partition in those journals. The section of the introductory chapter in which an author summarizes each chapter is a partition, and any list of topics in the introduction tends to be read as one (so that the reader expects one will discuss them in order). Readers apparently read questions in the introduction in the same way, expecting them to be answered (hence the advice to avoid rhetorical questions in the introduction).
· thesis statements: it seems to me useful to reserve this term for the main claim(s) for which the text argues. Thesis statements, if one uses the term this way, are not usually found in the introduction, but most often in the conclusion. A fair number of texts have no clear statement of the thesis, leaving it implied. And, as George Traill has pointed out, quite a few have a false thesis, seeming to argue one thing, while actually arguing something else (uncommon, but not unheard of, in scholarly writing).
Because this way of looking at sentences involves emphasizing the work they do, it’s quite possible for a sentence to fulfill two or more functions at once—the tripartite thesis sentence, as mentioned above, acts as thesis, topic, and partition.
If one uses these terms, then what Cicero is saying about a hostile audience (or “dishonorable” topic) is that one should not begin with one’s thesis, but with a thesis question, hypo-thesis, or topic sentence. As I’ll show later, that is what scholars often do—with a controversial topic, they tend to avoid having the thesis statement in the introduction.
In scholarly writing, one is frequently in the rhetorical situation that Cicero characterizes as trivial (or “mean”). We pursue the questions we do for all sorts of reasons, sometimes simply that we love doing certain kinds of reading. But other readers usually like some reason to think carefully about a topic more compelling than that we like reading about it. There was a time when “recovery” work (that is, work that brought up a previously ignored author or artist) was considered significant in and of itself, especially if it was an author or artist of some kind of marginalized group. While that is still considered valid in some disciplines, many disciplines require some additional claim, some way that contemplating the margins changes our narrative of the center; under those circumstances, we need to make clear claims of exigency. This is the kind of work that students are trying to do with the “dawn of time” introduction—“since the dawn of time, people have been arguing about [my topic].” If people have been arguing about it forever, it must be significant. Scholars usually do the same work through a history of controversy introduction (described below, basically, an introduction that shows that there remains a controversy on a particular topic), since being able to narrate a controversy that involves many scholars implies that the issue is of considerable interest to scholars of that field. But scholars also do this kind of work through summarizing a consensus and then pointing out some reason to doubt it (the prolepsis or some say introduction).
Of course, if the problem is that the issue is likely to be seen as trivial by one’s readers, then there is no current disciplinary argument to summarize. Typically, then, scholars try to argue for the significance of their research by connecting it to some existing argument, suggesting that their work answers a “prior” (logically, not temporally) question, for instance. Under these circumstances, a “focusing incident” introduction can also be helpful (also discussed below).
A potentially confusing and complicated argument is not quite the liability for a scholarly author as it was for Cicero; yet his advice (start with a joke) is not necessarily a bad one. Scholars expect that the things they read will complicate issues—the “it isn’t as simple as it looks” may be one of the most common moves in scholarly discourse (see Fahnestock and Secor, Graff), especially in the humanities. But, it can be very difficult, especially for a new scholar, to write about a situation that is not simply complicated, but actively confused. Thus, for instance, scholars in rhetoric sometimes find ourselves describing an argument in which people are putting forward muddled arguments; conveying that the arguments are muddled without one’s self looking muddled is tricky—being clear about confusion is more than a little hard.
My point, then, is that Cicero’s way of imagining one’s introduction in terms of the attitude that one’s readers are likely to have toward the topic remains useful. There are a few minor variations that arise from specifics of the rhetorical situation for scholars, but, loosely, it is something like: if the audience is sympathetic, one can have one’s thesis in the introduction, but the exigency claims are particularly pressing. While having a controversial argument makes the exigency more obvious, there are higher risks of alienating one’s audience. The exigency claims are also important with a topic likely to be seen as trivial, and with a confusing topic, start with a joke.
John Swales has argued that scholarly introductions make three (not entirely discrete) moves: establishing a territory, establishing a niche within that territory, and occupying that niche (Genre Analysis, especially 137-166, quotes are from 140-141). An introduction makes generalizations about a relatively broad disciplinary topic (the territory), and then quickly moves to a more specific question or set of questions within that larger area (thereby establishing that there is a niche within that large territory). An effective introduction doesn’t simply describe the existence of a niche (that there are many scholars investigating a certain topic), but that this more specific area of inquiry is interesting and important. According to Swales, authors generally do so through one of four ways: counter-claim, gap, question raising, continuing the tradition. A counter-claim move would involve asserting that there is a particular consensus, and then claiming that the consensus is wrong. A gap argues that there is some aspect of the issue that has been ignored—such as a text, phenomenon, approach, era, group, or genre. An author might point to a known gap, such as by citing scholars who have called for a certain kind of research, or narrate the field in such a way that the presence of the gap is clear. Question-raising isn’t always distinguished from gap (since, presumably, the questions one raises have not been answered and therefore constitute a kind of gap), but it can be different. An author might point to an apparent contradiction, a way that some data violate expectations, or a puzzling aspect of the current consensus. The distinction between “continuing the tradition” and identifying a gap is similarly vague, in that an author will likely promise to continue the tradition in a direction not previously taken. Simply continuing the tradition is probably not going to seem significant enough, unless the introduction promises that the way s/he will continue the tradition will do something significant to the consensus.
William Germano, like many editors of scholarly presses, puts particular emphasis on the way that the “establishing a niche” section (more commonly called “literature review” although that term is sometimes used to encompass all three moves) is very different in dissertations from books, and that recently minted Phds often have the most trouble with revising that aspect of their scholarship. In a dissertation, establishing the territory and the niche are primarily useful for credentialing, for showing that one has read all the major scholarship in the area, relevant or not. For a book or article, however, only the relevant scholarship matters (hence a smaller amount) and one’s critical relationship to that material must be more highlighted.
That is, the “occupying the niche” is crucial—when the author “contracts” (to use Wayne Booth’s term) or promises to fill the gap, answer the questions (or at least phrase them more usefully), resolve the contradiction, and generally advance the conversation for a relatively large number of scholars, or in a way that will be of interest to a relatively large number of scholars. Swales sketches four strategies that authors use to make such a promise: outlining the purpose, describing the present research (in such a way that it makes clear that this method effectively tests an interesting hypothesis), announcing the main findings, or indicating the structure of the article (the topics, and not necessarily the claims, of each section).
Swales’ work is sometimes hard to apply, and I’ve found that readers will try to apply his terms too rigidly, as though they always happen discretely and in the same order, but his way of describing the kind of work that gets done in introductions seems to me useful, and consistent with Cicero. The introduction does not simply raise a reader’s interest and make them want to keep reading (the most common way to describe what an introduction is supposed to do) but an effective introduction persuades a reader that there is an important question, related to a current scholarly discussion, and that the author is the person to pursue it in ways that the reader will find enlightening.
[1] De Inventione, in most translations, this is: honorable, dishonorable, confused, mean, or mixed.
[2] Thesis questions, like topic sentences, are often mis-identified as thesis statements (“the issue this paper will pursue is whether X’s solution has unbearable costs”), a mis-identification that encourages students to misread.The prolepsis introduction, discussed below, in which one begins by summarizing one’s opposition argument, is very common in scholarly writing, but, since students are told that introductions end with the thesis, they will read a piece as arguing precisely the opposite of what it is actually arguing.
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