Analysis

1. What's your impression?

2. How do you know?

3. Why is it important?

         C'est tout. That's it. That's all you need.

         Let me describe an analysis that you're all familiar with so you can see these questions at work. Suppose my eight-year-old son, McLean, has a runny nose and a cough. He feels hot to the touch, and I can see his face is red. So, I take him to our pediatrician, Dr. Bellardi. (I'd bet you'd like him).

         Now, Bellardi doesn't literally ask himself those three questions, for he's been conducting analyses (making diagnoses) longer than some of you have been alive. Still, you can see how these questions inform his procedures.

         First, he registers an impression. "Uh-oh, McLean is sick." (This occurs, of course, after I get my kid past the receptionist and promise to pay for this visit.) In medicine, this is called a "preliminary diagnosis."

         Next, he puts McLean on that -- I don't know what to call it: that soft workbench with the butcher paper that unrolls from one side, and the paper is covered with dinosaurs or Mickey Mouses? You know what I'm talking about.

         Now, operating in response to the second question, How do you know he's sick? Bellardi then pulls the stethoscope out of the refrigerator, places the tubes in his ears and the frozen black disk on McLean's chest, and listens for congestion. Then he brings out that tiny flashlight and looks down McLean's throat, looks into his ears, and quickly runs the light by his eyes to see if the eyes dilate properly. Often, Bellardi puts his hands beneath McLean's jaw -- almost as if he's going to strangle the child -- to feel for swollen glands.

         In medical terms, Bellardi has gone to the patient in search of symptoms so as to refine his preliminary diagnosis. And upon finding swollen glands and a scarlet middle ear, Bellardi says, "It's otitis media, a bacterial infection of the middle ear. You have insurance, don't you, Mr. Swanson?"

         What's Bellardi done so far? He's conducted an analysis:

1. What's your impression? The kid's sick.

2. How do you know? Well, let's examine him... Sure enough, based on the symptoms I perceive, he's ill. He's got an ear infection for which he'll need antibiotics.

3. Why is this important? Although it goes without saying for a doctor -- that we want to heal the sick -- this question becomes important for you as writer. But, more on that in a minute.

        Clear so far? I hope so. Now, we move from this particular kind of analysis to analysis in general, and let me give you some of the terms of analysis and show you what they mean.

         Let's start with what a doctor would call "symptoms." An analyst would call them "facts." You know what facts are, right? Well, they're...  I know that... Well, facts are true, aren't they? Things proven?

         Facts are things verifiable by the senses. Notice how Bellardi looked, and listened, and felt. He was searching for and verifying symptoms, or the facts of illness.

         And this business about appealing to the senses should ring some bells in your own head. Remember that a primary feature both of a good description and of a good narration (story) is specific, concrete detail. Remember? And Details are words that appeal to the senses. See the connection? If you use vivid details in a description or narration, not only do they enliven prose but, more importantly, they read like fact and so ring like truth.

         All right, back to an analysis... Bellardi drew his first impression of McLean by assessing a whole constellation of facts in a quick hurry. Now, on occasion, I've seen Bellardi socially, but, with McLean looking sick and our showing up at his office while he's working, Bellardi can infer that ours is not a social visit. Nope, we're there because one of my sons is sick and needs his professional help.

         So, here it is: Bellardi's first impression is called an inference. You've heard the term, right. And it's easily confused with "implication," yes. (More on inference/implication in a minute.) Well, an inference is a reasoned conclusion based on facts.

         This business of drawing inferences on the basis of facts is the essence of analysis. And it is what your brain does for a living. Watch.

        Suppose you're driving across Alondra, trying to get to Cerritos College for 9:30 class. You're late. In a hurry. Off in the distance, you see that the light at Alondra and Studebaker is green.

         You might make it. You accelerate.

         Right there, you've conducted an analysis.

         You've assessed the facts. You're late; the light has been green now for a few seconds; past experience tells you that this is a long light. You draw an inference: you can make it. Then you act.

         Like Bellardi checking McLean and prescribing antibiotics, you've checked the facts of the situation and prescribed acceleration. It's the very same thing: analysis.

         You do it when you meet a person. "He's a nice guy." You do it when you watch a movie. "What a piece of junk!" You do it when you decide what you're going to eat for lunch or wear for school. It is for your brain what breathing is for your lungs. You do it all the time, and we do it almost without thinking, instinctively.

         Now, didn't I tell you that analysis was easy?

         But writing one... Writing an analysis gets tough.

         Let's start with a fairly straightforward character analysis. I'm going to sketch out a scene here. Suppose you and I are standing just outside the Liberal Arts office building, right there at the Elbow Room (you know that corner spot where they serve espresso and the like). You're asking me about how to develop an argument in your research paper -- something of great concern to both of us.

         Suddenly, a colleague of mine -- call him Yak -- comes blasting in between us, gets right in my face, and starts talking, spraying little droplets of spit everywhere.

         I back up a bit and lean to the side, trying to signal an apology to you. But as I lean, Yak leans with me, still in my face. I lean the other direction, and so leans Yak, now waving his hands.

        Abruptly, Yak stops talking, turns toward you, and burps.

        You recoil.

        Yak turns back toward me and continues his harangue. Then, without waiting for a response from me, he bolts -- just takes off walking.

        Now, this could be a scene from real life, from a movie, from a book... But as a body of facts, things verifiable by your senses, it lends itself to analysis. So, let's begin.

        What's your impression?

        Well, Yak seems _______

• inconsiderate

• rude

• aggressive

• loud

• blustery

• a jerk

• agitated

         Thus begins your analysis. Each word listed there is a product of analysis and each worthy to stand as a claim or thesis (you know the word as inference -- the reasoned conclusion based on facts, which you witnessed).  This is very much like a first draft of an analysis, just the super quick sketching out of first impressions, and it's as accurate as Bellardi's preliminary diagnosis.

         But, you need to refine your claim, as did Bellardi. So, you pause, take a sip of coffee, reflect, and think two things: which word best describes Yak, and which word would be easiest to support with the evidence, the facts you perceived?

        Since you're not here, I'll make the choice. How about:

        Yak seems rude.

        There you have a claim, an analytic thesis -- as they used to call them (but never explained them) in high school, a "topic sentence," and the beginning of your analysis.

        Now, ask yourself how do you know? After having witnessed such rude behavior, it seems so obvious as to need no such prompting question -- just as for Bellardi, McLean's illness seemed so obvious. But, you need to write an analytic paragraph, and Bellardi had to refine his diagnosis.

        So, how do you know?

        Yak interrupted.
        He was in Swanson's face constantly.
        He didn't even introduce himself.
        He didn't say hello or good-bye.
        And, of course, that burp. How can you forget the burp?

        There you have them: the facts, the things that you saw and heard. Now, let me ask you: what would be the best way to organize those facts so that they support your claim or thesis? How about putting them in the chronological order in which they occurred -- that is, how about a NARRATIVE. Nice shot. Yes, the story of Yak's visit between you and me would clearly support your claim that Yak seems rude.

        Now, I should mention here that description and narration, the two topics we've already discussed, are called rhetorical strategies or rhetorical modes. As you can see, they are just two ways by which you can organize your evidence in support of a claim. The strategy I'll be writing about next is comparison/contrast -- no doubt you've heard of it. I bring it up here and now simply to say this: the kind of claim you make helps you determine what kind of strategy or mode to use. Using a narrative to support the claim that Yak is rude seems pretty obvious. But, what if your claim said something like:  Yak has to be the rudest person I've ever seen. With a claim like that, you'd not only want to narrate the Yak incident, but, to fully support that claim, you'd probably want to compare and contrast Yak's behavior to the behavior of some rude person whom both you and your audience knows...

        I don't want to get off on another rhetorical mode right now; suffice to say, again, that the kind of claim you make helps you decide what kind of rhetorical strategy to use. More on this later.

        For now, you might be asking, "How would an analytic paragraph look fully developed?"  Here's one: