Towards the end of George Orwell’s piece, Politics and the English Language, Orwell includes a nice little list of rules for writers. The list includes instructions such as, “Never use a long word where a short one will do,” or “Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.” It also includes the instructions: “Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous,” which is as helpful and charming and it is irretrievably British. The six total rules which Orwell outlines typically center around the notion of maintaining clear, simple, and effective speech. As he mentions earlier in the piece, the result of ignoring these rules is “Staleness of imagery” and “Lack of precision.”
Three of the six rules all center around the idea of an economy of words. Don’t use a big word when a small one will do. Don’t use jargon when an everyday equivalent will do. If it is possible to cut a word out, cut it out. In terms of our class discussion last week, this advice is often very much in line with the avoidance of cliches, yet it is also unfairly limiting in many instances. Sure, why say that something is “Tight as a drum,” When you can simple call it tight? Particularly with longer cliches such as “Looking a gift horse in the mouth” or “Out of the frying pan and into the fryer,” it is clear that there would be more effective and precise ways to express these ideas-- hopefully with a word or two instead of a tired cliche. These cliches also break Orwell’s first rule, “Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.” It is obvious that such a manner of speaking would go against Orwell’s personal philosophy of proper writing, and it is up to the writer to devise a way to say what he is saying with precision, effectiveness, and an economy of words.
However, when it comes to an economy of word while speaking, I think that cliches, when used properly, are handy and worthwhile (even in accordance with Orwell’s rules.) Writers can be held to a higher standard, because no matter how long one slaves over a written sentence, it is read in the same direct manner. As Yates writes of poets in Adam’s Curse, “A line will take us hours maybe; yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.” Writers have the luxury (or perhaps the burden) of time to perfect this approach and hold fast to such rules. Yet with rhetoric and conversation, too much time spent searching for the right words can snuff the fire behind a strong point, especially when the right meaning can be conveyed through a cliche on the tip of your tongue that you are trying to withhold as you search for another option. In these situations, it is better to say a cliche if it helps you convey a feeling and get you to your desired point in time for it to maintain its punch.
Still, there is an exception to my acceptance of cliches. In stand-up comedy, there is an unwritten rule among comics that they can fudge the truth in the details but the punchline, the point of the story or joke, needs to come from an honest place. The same principle is true in memoir-writing and other loosely-defined non-fiction genres. I believe that this is also true in terms of the cliche. When it is helping you reach your point, as described above, it is following Orwell’s rules because it is, to use a cliche, trimming the fat. It is cutting out unnecessary time and words because an adequate expression can help you cross a bridge into the rest of your thought. It might not be an Orwellian clearness of speech, but it certainly is a clearness of imagery. It is when the expression is the thought that it falls out from Orwell’s rules. This is when precision and originality are being sacrificed for expediency. These are moments when we are not only invited not to think, but it is clear that the speaker themself abstained from thinking. Examples of this are cliches such as, “You will rue the day that ___________!” These moments are meant to be grand declarations yet undercut by their ubiquity and lack of originality.
If a writer wants to scour their writing and inspect every sentence to ensure they are free of cliches, they are welcome to do so. This speaks to the “stitching and unstitching” to which Yeats refers. Cliches are acceptable as bridge to an idea or a point, but (in either speak or in writing) it is crucial that the point be said as plainly as possible. Theses statements should pass each of Orwell’s six rules without the hint of a problem. It’s in the getting there that perhaps we can be a bit more forgiving. If you want to paint me a picture with cliches I grew up with, ones that fill my head immediately with the exact notion you intend, I won’t hold it against you. As long as it takes me more efficiently down the path which you’re guiding me.