For whom?

Inklings James Dundas-Grant, Colin Hardie, Dr Robert Havard, CS Lewis, and Peter Havard on a walking tour, c. 1955

The dangers posed by adverbs in writing fiction—awkwardness, overreliance—is well known. A less obvious problem with adverbs in non-fiction arises when they offer accidental one-word commentary when the author is aiming for dispassionate, nuanced, unbiased narrative. Two examples from very, very good books I’ve read recently:

First, from a book about Lewis, Tolkien, and the Inklings:

Both men enjoyed clubs, but Tolkien especially relished being a part of male-only circles with clever names. It should be pointed out that the view held by Tolkien (and by the vast majority of British culture at this time) was that true friendship was only possible between members of the same gender. For Tolkien and Lewis, this was partially shaped by their generation’s intimate experience with other men in the trenches of war. There were women writers who the Inklings much admired, like Dorothy Sayers and Ruth Pitter, who would very much have been at home with the Inklings. Sadly, women were never part of their official meetings.

Second, from a case study in a book by a religious historian about the theological importance of studying the past:

It is also important to understand the historically complex relationship between various churches and slavery in the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Atlantic world. For instance, Mary Prince had joined the Moravian Church in Antigua. The Moravian missions in Antigua (and elsewhere) did keep slaves, but, paradoxically, the Moravians also ministered to slaves, including to Mary Prince.

To which one might ask: Sadly for whom? Paradoxically for whom?

Not to the Inklings. Not to the Moravians. Sadly here means “sadly to a modern person who expects groups of friends to look like the stock photos on college recruiting pamphlets.” Paradoxically here means “paradoxically to a modern person who has not really thought about how complicated and tangled up the relationships and affections of a world suffused with slavery could be, and were.” Or perhaps they just haven’t read Philemon.

The first passage invites us to imagine some hypothetical world in which the Inklings’ meetings would have been improved by being coed. The second passage actually undermines what it has already said about the complexity of religious groups’ approaches to Caribbean slavery, and suggests as well that those who owned slaves cannot, would not, or should not have ministered to them—which is obviously untrue.

It’s interesting and revealing to me that, in both examples, the adverbs are interjected or parenthetical. They are intrusions of the author’s own time and—possibly but not necessarily—personal perspectives into a past that they have otherwise done an excellent job of describing charitably, with good attention to context and the cultural differences between now and then. The one begins, for example, by pointing out common cultural assumptions and shared historical experiences among the Inklings; the other nests the story of Mary Prince among others equally as complex—of mixed-race abolitionist slaveowners, for example.

Perhaps sadly and paradoxically should be read as a hesitation or lack of confidence. After all, both authors are broaching potentially contentious topics in these passages. The Inklings example especially reads, to me, like something an editor might have insisted on the author addressing. But the result, for the reader paying attention to such things, reads like a slip or a stumble.

Again, both of these come from excellent books, which is why I haven’t identified their titles or authors. But they also offer good examples of why—beyond the usual Strunk & White reasons—you should guard your adverbs closely. Maybe stop and ask For whom? of them more often.