Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.
“Check this out—maybe you can make sense of my father’s inability to tell me he loves me.” I said this to my wife and intended to answer for her. Before I had a chance she laughed and said “Because you’re an asshole. Think about it. I haven’t told you I love you since you made the first payment on our first car. That was 22 years ago. It was a used Corvair—dangerous at any speed. You flipped over in the driveway and Puppydups was killed. You complained about what it was going to cost to have him cremated. That’s about when I decided you were an asshole. It is the most enduring feeling I have for you—me and your father—you’re an asshole.”
I was shocked by Bonnie’s revelation. Now I knew why she never talked to me. Now I knew why she threw things at me—most recently, a bag of flour that exploded when it hit me in the face and powdered the kitchen.
“Aside from wrecking our car and killing our dog, is there anything else?” I never should’ve asked.
“Anything else?” She screamed. She had a list in her apron pocket. Clearly, she had been waiting for this moment. She unfolded the list and began reading.
“No birthday present ever, only went to movies once, never go out to dinner, tried to put our daughter up for adoption, drink all the beer, cheated on me with cashier at CVS, gambling addiction, never mow the lawn, order pineapple and ham on your pizza. I have three of these lists, but this ought to be enough to establish your asshole-hood in your head. I’ve been waiting for this moment! Now it’s my turn. I’ve cleared out our bank account and sold our car (the title is in my name) and home (the mortgage is in my name). I’m headed to Puebla, Mexico to live the good life without you. Here, sign these divorce papers asshole.”
I couldn’t believe it. Clearly, I was an asshole and deserved what I got. Nevertheless, it was a nightmare. I begged Bonnie to reconsider. She laughed and threw a paring knife at me. It stuck in my arm. I signed the papers and she stormed out of the kitchen. Her packed bags were sitting by the door. She opened the door, picked up her bags, and got in the waiting cab.
I tied a clean sock around my wound, got a beer from the fridge, sat down in my living room chair and thought about being an asshole, and the consequences. Two days later I was evicted from my home. Since I don’t have a car any more, I’m living in a little tent down by the river. Most of the other men living down there are assholes too.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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