Traductio (tra-duk’-ti-o): Repeating the same word variously throughout a sentence or thought. Some authorities restrict traductio further to mean repeating the same word but with a different meaning (see ploce, antanaclasis, and diaphora), or in a different form (polyptoton). If the repeated word occurs in parallel fashion at the beginnings of phrases or clauses, it becomes anaphora; at the endings of phrases or clauses, epistrophe.
I was vicious. Vicious. Vicious, vicious, vicious. I was like a flesh and blood machine gun. Vicious! I would mow you down on full automatic making you into a stain on the sidewalk with my fists and my feet.
I was so tough that people with poor dental hygiene would run when they saw me coming—if they tried to chew me up they’d lose their teeth. I was like a combat boot made of kangaroo skin that you couldn’t drive a nail through—ready for war. Vicious!
I had the killer instinct sitting on my soul keeping it conscience-free, without regrets, scrubbed off memories, vicious. While everybody else was feeling guilty, I was feeling nothing, except maybe, a desire to wash the blood of my hands, or clean my knife blade, or reload my shotgun. My little brother called me a psychopath. He was right, so I killed him when we were deer hunting. POW! One big .12 gauge slug to the head and I proved him right. I felt good about that. Even though he had powder burns on his forehead, his death was judged as a hunting accident. Vicious! Ha ha.
When I killed my sister’s pet mice and baked them in the oven, everything caught up with me. Initially, I laughed that I hadn’t seasoned her mice with garlic sauce or made a Caesar salad to go with them. That’s when the shit hit the fan. My mother heard me and called “Balmy Days Psychiatric Institution.” When the orderlies showed up, I was chewing on a mouse. Its tail was hanging out of my mouth. One of the orderlies said “Spit it out.” I promptly swallowed it and laughed my vicious laugh. They strapped me to what is called a “Hannibal Board” and carried me to the waiting ambulance. They turned on the sirens and off we went. I loved it!
Now, I am heavily medicated. I am no longer vicious. Now, I am charitable. I am kind and generous and I don’t have bizarre desires any more, although the roaches on the walls make my mouth water, but, they’re too fast for me to catch. When my sister comes to visit, she brings me little sandwiches shaped like mice. We both think it’s funny. That’s not a good sign.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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