My memoir of sorts . . .

I first stepped out onto the path towards the land of Ramage with feelings of reservation. I was like a small child riding on a plane by themselves to their eccentric great aunt’s house, whom they’ve never met before; nervous, somewhat meek, and without a hope for at least some semblance of an enjoyable stay.

Yet, I was determined to slog through it all, regardless of my dim expectations. I would make it through Ramageland to tell the tale. Reluctantly, as I sat in my dorm room and picked up Rhetoric: A User’s Guide. Flipping the crisp white pages to the first chapter, I began reading and stumbled across the border into the capital of Rhetoric.

Going into this strange place full of John Ramage’s thoughts and philosophies, I had no idea what to expect. My definition of rhetoric was very vague, and sometimes the dictionary definitions I looked up were even more so. I often found myself wondering why rhetoric’s true identity was so elusive. Arriving in Ramageland, where rhetoric was such a crucial part of life, I was very nervous owing to my lack of expertise in the subject. I was firstly accosted by an official who referred to himself as the Anti-Rhetoric Spokesperson. It was strange that Ramage would hire someone whose job it was to preach the evils of rhetoric, while he himself was, as far as I knew, a pretty big fan.

“Beware the rhetorical thought, the rhetorical argument. Beware rhetoric!” He said passionately in a voice rheumy with age.

“Um, isn’t Ramage for rhetoric, though?” I asked.

The Spokesperson waved his fists in feeling and agitation.

“That is what John wants you to believe! I however, bring tidings of the truth, and not just the truth, but the absolute truth!”

I decided that it would be unwise to interject at this point.

“Rhetoric is a low-budget pseudoscience; its methods can’t be formalized or routinized and its conclusions are uncertain.” (2) “Rhetoricians are constantly wandering around it circles because they can never come to a definite answer. It is silly and unproductive, I say. Why mess with the stuff when you can have the truth!” He again eagerly brandished his arms in a physical exclamation point, as if I hadn’t gotten the idea already.

He continued to lecture to me that rhetoric usually advocated lying, depended upon corruption in order to thrive. As I continued to read this section, though, I found that in learning why some people disliked, even loathed, rhetoric, I gained a clear insight into what rhetoric was and I was able to form my own opinions on the topic and come up with a definition that would suit me personally. Perhaps Ramage wasn’t so crazy in offering me the perspective of someone who was against rhetoric.

I was rescued just in time by Ramage himself and was given a tour of Ramageland guided by his own views on just how rhetoric was utilized and what it meant to us as people. I was introduced to two types of people who lived there – the rhetorical person, and the serious person. These two groups were polar opposites. The men were arguing, descending a set of stairs that lead up to a building that resembled a courthouse, garbed in robes of green and white.

“I’m telling you, if we could just work this out somehow,” the man in green was saying, “we might be able to compromise. Just think about it.”

The other man was obviously nervous about this idea, as he needed his pure white robes with his hands.

“I don’t think so. That’s not what it says in the books, and that’s not how we were told to go about things. It’s a bad idea. No, no, no.”

I had no idea what they were talking about, but just from overhearing their conversation I could understand the difference in their personality types.

I wandered down the foggy streets, following Ramage, his voice trailing off into the damp grayness in the air. Most of what he said was lost on me as he tossed out metaphor after metaphor until they began to lose their meaning. I began to contemplate whether or not this would ever make sense to me, and if I should just give up and leave, until we came to a noble looking white marble building with massive carved pillars garnishing its face, protecting the grand double doors that reached to the second floor. A series of fountains welcomed anyone who chose to walk down the path to such a glorious looking estate.

Ramage had finally seemed to notice that I was no longer paying attention. Realizing what had caught my eye, he said, “Ah, this is the Manor of Identity. Care to stop for a visit?”

I nodded my assent. Now here was something that looked at least mildly interesting. The doors swung open wide as we approached them, and on crossing the threshold I caught a glimpse of the spectacular foyer with a sweeping double staircase.

“This is probably one of the most important grounds we have in this city for studying rhetoric, but very few know about it,” he started to explain.

I braced myself for another long-winded speech full of twists and turns and metaphorical obscurity.

“ . . . Arguably the most important function served by rhetoric is the work it does in service of identity formation,” he told me. (33) “This is where it all takes place – identity formation that is, in terms of rhetoric.”

He began to ascend the stairs and led me through another set of doors at the top. The next room we entered was long and dark. The only light was that which was filtering through the windows on the wall facing the outside in a half-hearted sort of way, thanks to the thick fog. The wall opposite the windows held three mirrors enormous in size, stretching from floor to ceiling. Their silvery glass was perfectly clear and unblemished.

“Here we have the dimension room,” Ramage explained. “It holds everything that constructs a person’s identity. Go ahead and step in front of one of the mirrors.”

I walked to the one closest to me, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.