Prologue I love style manuals. Ever since I was assigned Strunk and White''s The Elements of Style in an introductory psychology course, the writing guide has been among my favorite literary genres. It''s not just that I welcome advice on the lifelong challenge of perfecting the craft of writing. It''s also that credible guidance on writing must itself be well written, and the best of the manuals are paragons of their own advice. William Strunk''s course notes on writing, which his student E. B. White turned into their famous little book, was studded with gems of self-exemplification such as "Write with nouns and verbs," "Put the emphatic words of a sentence at the end," and best of all, his prime directive, "Omit needless words." Many eminent stylists have applied their gifts to explaining the art, including Kingsley Amis, Jacques Barzun, Ambrose Bierce, Bill Bryson, Robert Graves, Tracy Kidder, Stephen King, Elmore Leonard, F.

L. Lucas, George Orwell, William Safire, and of course White himself, the beloved author of Charlotte''s Web and Stuart Little. Here is the great essayist reminiscing about his teacher: I like to read style manuals for another reason, the one that sends botanists to the garden and chemists to the kitchen: it''s a practical application of our science. I am a psycholinguist and a cognitive scientist, and what is style, after all, but the effective use of words to engage the human mind? It''s all the more captivating to someone who seeks to explain these fields to a wide readership. I think about how language works so that I can best explain how language works. But my professional acquaintance with language has led me to read the traditional manuals with a growing sense of unease. Strunk and White, for all their intuitive feel for style, had a tenuous grasp of grammar.2 They misdefined terms such as phrase, participle, and relative clause, and in steering their readers away from passive verbs and toward active transitive ones they botched their examples of both.

There were a great number of dead leaves lying on the ground, for instance, is not in the passive voice, nor does The cock''s crow came with dawn contain a transitive verb. Lacking the tools to analyze language, they often struggled when turning their intuitions into advice, vainly appealing to the writer''s "ear." And they did not seem to realize that some of the advice contradicted itself: "Many a tame sentence . can be made lively and emphatic by substituting a transitive in the active voice" uses the passive voice to warn against the passive voice. George Orwell, in his vaunted "Politics and the English Language," fell into the same trap when, without irony, he derided prose in which "the passive voice is wherever possible used in preference to the active."3 Self-contradiction aside, we now know that telling writers to avoid the passive is bad advice. Linguistic research has shown that the passive construction has a number of indispensable functions because of the way it engages a reader''s attention and memory. A skilled writer should know what those functions are and push back against copy editors who, under the influence of grammatically naïve style guides, blue-pencil every passive construction they spot into an active one.

Style manuals that are innocent of linguistics also are crippled in dealing with the aspect of writing that evokes the most emotion: correct and incorrect usage. Many style manuals treat traditional rules of usage the way fundamentalists treat the Ten Commandments: as unerring laws chiseled in sapphire for mortals to obey or risk eternal damnation. But skeptics and freethinkers who probe the history of these rules have found that they belong to an oral tradition of folklore and myth. For many reasons, manuals that are credulous about the inerrancy of the traditional rules don''t serve writers well. Although some of the rules can make prose better, many of them make it worse, and writers are better off flouting them. The rules often mash together issues of grammatical correctness, logical coherence, formal style, and standard dialect, but a skilled writer needs to keep them straight. And the orthodox stylebooks are ill equipped to deal with an inescapable fact about language: it changes over time. Language is not a protocol legislated by an authority but rather a wiki that pools the contributions of millions of writers and speakers, who ceaselessly bend the language to their needs and who inexorably age, die, and get replaced by their children, who adapt the language in their turn.

Yet the authors of the classic manuals wrote as if the language they grew up with were immortal, and failed to cultivate an ear for ongoing change. Strunk and White, writing in the early and middle decades of the twentieth century, condemned then-new verbs like personalize, finalize, host, chair, and debut, and warned writers never to use fix for "repair" or claim for "declare." Worse, they justified their peeves with cockamamie rationalizations. The verb contact, they argued, is "vague and self-important. Do not contact peop≤ get in touch with them, look them up, phone them, find them, or meet them." But of course the vagueness of to contact is exactly why it caught on: sometimes a writer doesn''t need to know how one person will get in touch with another, as long as he does so. Or consider this head-scratcher, concocted to explain why a writer should never use a number word with people, only with persons: "If of ''six people'' five went away, how many people would be left? Answer: one people." By the same logic, writers should avoid using numbers with irregular plurals such as men, children, and teeth ("If of ''six children'' five went away .

"). In the last edition published in his lifetime, White did acknowledge some changes to the language, instigated by "youths" who "speak to other youths in a tongue of their own devising: they renovate the language with a wild vigor, as they would a basement apartment." White''s condescension to these "youths" (now in their retirement years) led him to predict the passing of nerd, psyched, ripoff, dude, geek, and funky, all of which have become entrenched in the language. The graybeard sensibilities of the style mavens come not just from an underappreciation of the fact of language change but from a lack of reflection on their own psychology. As people age, they confuse changes in themselves with changes in the world, and changes in the world with moral decline--the illusion of the good old days.4 And so every generation believes that the kids today are degrading the language and taking civilization down with it:5 The common language is disappearing. It is slowly being crushed to death under the weight of verbal conglomerate, a pseudospeech at once both pretentious and feeble, that is created daily by millions of blunders and inaccuracies in grammar, syntax, idiom, metaphor, logic, and common sense. In the history of modern English there is no period in which such victory over thought-in-speech has been so widespread.

--1978 Recent graduates, including those with university degrees, seem to have no mastery of the language at all. They cannot construct a simple declarative sentence, either orally or in writing. They cannot spell common, everyday words. Punctuation is apparently no longer taught. Grammar is a complete mystery to almost all recent graduates.--1961 From every college in the country goes up the cry, "Our freshmen can''t spell, can''t punctuate." Every high school is in disrepair because its pupils are so ignorant of the merest rudiments.--1917 The vocabularies of the majority of high-school pupils are amazingly small.

I always try to use simple English, and yet I have talked to classes when quite a minority of the pupils did not comprehend more than half of what I said.--1889 Unless the present progress of change [is] arrested . there can be no doubt that, in another century, the dialect of the Americans will become utterly unintelligible to an Englishman.--1833 Our language (I mean the English) is degenerating very fast. I begin to fear that it will be impossible to check it.--1785 Complaints about the decline of language go at least as far back as the invention of the printing press. Soon after William Caxton set up the first one in England in 1478, he lamented, "And certaynly our langage now vsed veryeth ferre from what whiche was vsed and spoken when I was borne." Indeed, moral panic about the decline of writing may be as old as writing itself: Non Sequitur © 2011 Wiley Ink, Inc.

Dist. by Universal Uclick. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved. The cartoon is not much of an exaggeration. According to the English scholar Richard Lloyd-Jones, some of the clay tablets deciphered from ancient Sumerian include complaints about the deteriorating writing skills of the young.6 My discomfort with the classic style manuals has convinced me that we need a writing guide for the twenty-first century. It''s not that I have the desire, to say nothing of the ability, to supplant The Elements of Style.

Writers can profit by reading more than one style guide, and much of Strunk and White (as it is commonly called) is as timeless as it is charming. But much of it is not. Strunk was born in 1869, and today''s writers cannot base their craft exclusively on the advice of a man who developed his sense of style before the invention of the telephone (let alone the Internet), before the advent of modern linguistics and cognitive science, before the wave of informalization that swept the world in the second half.