1) Examine the effectiveness and limitations of the essay with mature, insightful, reasoned explanations and proofs.
reasoned explanations and proofs.
2) Is the essay formal or informal? Provide examples of reasoning.
- Audience is educated and academic
- May be directed to a specific group of readers
- May require prior knowledge
- Diction emphasizes charity and precision
- Avoids idioms and colloquialisms
- Less of writer's personality evident
- Topic is the primary focus — not the writer
- Usually factual and logical
- Follows prescribed plan
- Purpose is to inform, instruct, or convince — may also entertain
- Topic is of interest to the writer
- Appeals to a general audience
- Conversational tone
- May use popular imagery and idioms
- May even deal with "trivial" topics
- Doesn't pretend to treat a topic fully
- Topic can be serious but the essay strives to entertain and interest reader
- Vivid language
- Use of illustration, personal anecdote, humour
- Writer as important as topic
On the Road to Berlin By Ernie Pyle I took a long walk along the historic coast of Normandy in the country of France. It was a lovely day for strolling along the seashore. Men were sleeping on the sand, some of them sleeping forever. Men were floating in the water, but they didn't know they were in the water, for they were dead. The water was full of squishy little jellyfish about the size of a man's hand. Millions of them. In the center of each of them was a green design exactly like a four-leafed clover. The goodluck emblem. Sure. Hell, yes. I walked for a mile and a half along the water's edge of our many-miled invasion beach. I walked slowly, for the detail on that beach was infinite. The wreckage was vast and startling. The awful waste and destruction of war, even aside from the loss of human life, has always been one of the outstanding features to those who are in it. Anything and everything is expendable. And we did expend on our beachhead in Normandy during those first few hours. For a mile out from the beach there were scores of tanks and trucks and boats that were not visible for they were at the bottom of the water—swamped by overloading, or hit by shells, or sunk by mines. Most of the crews were lost. There were trucks tipped half over and swamped, partly sunken barges and the angled-up corners of jeeps and small landing craft half submerged. And at low tide you could still see those vicious six-pronged iron snares that helped snag and wreck them. On the beach itself, high and dry, were all kinds of wrecked vehicles. There were tanks that had only just made the beach before being knocked out. There were jeeps that had burned to a dull grey. There were big derricks on caterpillar treads that didn't quite make it. There were half-tracks carrying office equipment that had been made into a shambles by a single shell hit, their interiors still holding the useless equipage of smashed typewriters, telephones, office files. There were LCTs turned completely upside down, and lying on their backs, and how they got that way I don't know. There were boats stacked on top of each other, their sides caved in, their suspension doors knocked off. In this shore-line museum of carnage there were abandoned rolls of barbed wire and smashed bulldozers and big stacks of thrown-away life belts and piles of shells still waiting to be moved. In the water floated empty life rafts and soldier's packs and ration boxes and mysterious oranges. On the beach lay snarled rolls of telephone wire and big rolls of steel matting and stacks of broken, rusting rifles. On the beach lay, expended, sufficient men and mechanism for a small war. They were gone forever now. And yet we could afford it. We could afford it because we were on, we had our toehold, and behind us there were such enormous replacements for this wreckage on the beach that you could hardly conceive of the sum total. Men and equipment were flowing from England in such a gigantic stream that it made the waste on the beachhead seem like nothing at all, really nothing at all. But there was another more human litter. It extended in a thin little line, just like a highwater mark for miles along the beach. This was the strewn personal gear, gear that would never be needed again by those who fought and died to give us our entrance into Europe. There in a jumbled row for mile on mile were soldiers/ packs. There were socks and shoe polish, sewing kits, diaries, Bibles, hand grenades. There were the latest letters from home, with the address on each one neatly razored out—one of the security precautions enforced before the boys embarked. There were toothbrushes and razors and snapshots of families back home staring up at you from the sand. There were pocket books, metal mirrors, extra trousers, and bloody abandoned shoes. There were broken handled shovels, and portable radios smashed almost beyond recognition, and mine detectors twisted and ruined. There were torn pistol belts and canvas water buckets, first-aid kits, and jumbled heaps of life belts. I picked up a pocket Bible with a soldier's name in it and put it in my jacket. I carried it half a mile or so and then put it back down on the beach. I don't know why I picked it up, or why I put it down again. Soldiers carry strange things ashore with them. In every invasion there is at least one soldier hitting the beach at H-hour with a banjo slung over his shoulder. The most ironic piece of equipment marking our beach—this beach first of despair, then of victory—was a tennis racket that some soldier had brought along. It lay lonesomely on the sand, clamped into its press, not a string broken. Two of the most dominant items in the beach refuse were cigarettes and writing paper. Each soldier was issued a carton of cigarettes just before he started. That day those cartons by the thousand, water soaked and spilled out, marked the first savage blow. Writing paper came second. The boys had intended to do a lot of writing in France. The letters—now forever incapable of being written—that might have filled those blank abandoned pages! Always there are dogs in every invasion. There was a dog still on the beach, still pitifully looking for his masters. He stayed at the water's edge, near a boat that lay twisted and half sunk at the waterline. He barked appealingly to every soldier who approached, trotted eagerly along with him for a few feet, and then, sensing himself unwanted in all the haste, he would run back to wait in vain for his own people at his own empty boat. Over and around this long thin line of personal anguish, fresh men were rushing vast supplies to keep our armies pushing on into France. Other squads of men picked amidst the wreckage to salvage ammunition and equipment that was still usable. I stepped over the form of one youngster whom I though dead. But when I looked down I saw he was only sleeping. He was very young, and very tired. He lay on one elbow, his hand suspended in the air about six inches from the ground. And in the palm of his hand he held a large, smooth rock lovingly, as though it were his last link with a vanishing world. I have no idea at all why he went to sleep with the rock in his hand, or what kept him from dropping it once he was asleep. It was just one of those little things without explanation that a person remembers for a long time. The strong, swirling tides of the Normandy coast line shifted the contours of the sandy beach as they moved in and out. They carried soldiers' bodies out to sea, and later they retuned them. They covered the corpses of heroes with sand, and then in their whims they uncovered them. As I plowed out over the wet sand, I walked around what seemed to be a couple of pieces of driftwood sticking out of the sand. But they weren't driftwood. They were a soldier's tow feet. He was completely covered except for his feet; the toes of his GI shoes pointed toward the land he had come so far to see, and which he saw so briefly.