Dirimens Copulatio (di’-ri-mens ko-pu-la’-ti-o): A figure by which one balances one statement with a contrary, qualifying statement (sometimes conveyed by “not only … but also” clauses). A sort of arguing both sides of an issue.
Protagoras (c. 485-410 BC) asserted that “to every logos (speech or argument) another logos is opposed,” a theme continued in the Dissoi Logoiof his time, later codified as the notion of arguments in utrumque partes (on both sides). Aristotle asserted that thinking in opposites is necessary both to arrive at the true state of a matter (opposition as an epistemological heuristic) and to anticipate counterarguments. This latter, practical purpose for investigating opposing arguments has been central to rhetoric ever since sophists like Antiphon (c. 480-410 BC) provided model speeches (his Tetralogies) showing how one might argue for either the prosecution or for the defense on any given issue. As such, [this] names not so much a figure of speech as a general approach to rhetoric, or an overall argumentative strategy. However, it could be manifest within a speech on a local level as well, especially for the purposes of exhibiting fairness (establishing ethos[audience perception of speaker credibility].
This pragmatic embrace of opposing arguments permeates rhetorical invention, arrangement, and rhetorical pedagogy. [In a sense, ‘two-wayed thinking’ constitutes a way of life—it is tolerant of differences and may interpret their resolution as contingent and provisional, as always open to renegotiation, and never as the final word. Truth, at best, offers cold comfort in social settings and often establishes itself as incontestable, by definition, as immune from untrumque partes, which may be considered an act of heresy and may be punishable by death.]
I was and I wasn’t. I wasn’t what I was. I sounded like a riddle looking in a mirror. While something may be known one at a time, at another time it may be something different—now it’s a car, now it’s a cube of steel riding a magnet across a junkyard. Or, maybe not. Maybe it was a cube of steel when it was a car—a potential of steel, an actual car. Can you look at the cube as steel and say “That’s a 1992 Mercedes.” But I walk down the street swinging my arms back and forth like an ape. I am not an ape though. I am a cup of tea with legs. I must be careful not to spill. I do not want to stain the sidewalk Orange Pekoe. Why do I keep changing? Are they incarnations, or am I insane, or both? I think both. Or better, madness is a sort of a new incarnation. You forget your previous self and take on a brand new guise. When you’re really crazy you don’t remember your past. When you’re sort of crazy, you do remember. In a way being sort of crazy is worse than being totally crazy—you may be tantalized by a recent past—a reality that is “sort of” but not palpable enough to thwart the vague recollections that intrude on your dream and hurt. Being totally crazy is a glutted maelstrom of meaningless ooz with untraceable emotional import, like abstract art free from the canvas, possessing you with its colored fluidity.
There are many variations on this theme. I don’t know them. I don’t care when I roll around on the sidewalk singing Elvis’ “Don’t Be Cruel.” People look at me and step around me with disgusted looks on their faces. Why? Not because I’m in mental distress, but because I’m in their way. Then a guy that looks like Jesus hovers above me, motioning for me to get up. This happens once or twice a week. I usually get up and continue my crazy trek through the day. But today, I can’t get up. I am dead. A half-dozen teenage boys kicked and beat me to death while I lay drunk on the sidewalk. I look down and see my bloodied torso. The Jesus guy points. I look in the direction he’s pointing and there is a golden elevator. I climb on the elevator and ride to Heaven. As I step off the elevator, I become sane. I see my grandma coming toward me with a bouquet of flowers.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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