Daily Archives: December 29, 2021

Anacoluthon

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.


The sun was setting, beyond Legos, beyond logos, beyond legible. There was this orange blot slowly sinking on the horizon like a round burning elevator headed for the ground floor of the universe. “Where is the truth in that?” I asked as I repositioned the funnel on my head so it pointed straight at the sky, held secured by the rubber band under my chin that I had threaded though the two holes I drilled on either side of the funnel and the knots tied at the ends of the rubber band.

This is what’s wrong with all of us, partially disguised platitudes wreck our concentration and ability to assimilate the grit of everyday life—like oysters unable to grind out pearls under the turbulent sea, we are gloppy and cold and undone. But all that is beyond me now. The stars are coming out. I point my funnel tip at Venus and put Dionne Warwick on my portable CD player: “The Look of Love” streams into my ears and the starlight beams through my funnel, directly into my brain. This is the “frame of reference” I drive, walk and run through life looking for as I eat the fried egg sandwich my Mom made me, with a hard yolk on white toast with butter, salt, and pepper. As I chew and swallow, I feel Eros drilling into my forebrain. Everywhere I look, everything I see, prompts love and affection— my car in the driveway, my lawn, the hollyhocks growing in the back yard: everything.

Dawn is breaking. The night sky has disappeared. The sun is headed up to the day’s top floor. I take off my funnel and put it back in its holster. I plug my portable CD player in to recharge on the back porch. In the kitchen, my hope is brewing fresh coffee. My Mom is frying two eggs, yolks hard. The toast is in the toaster. While in the toaster, the lights went out. Mom pounded on the outlet, and all is well.


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.