If you were to ask an English student to describe Ernest Hemingway’s writing style, you would likely hear words like “concise”, “masculine”, “terse”, or “journalistic.” They might describe his sentences as short and punchy. But if you ask a linguist the same question, they will give you a much more specific answer: Parataxis.
Literature is not just about the words an author chooses; it is about how those words are glued together. The architectural choices of sentence structure—syntax—determine the psychological impact of a story. In the realm of syntax, there are two distinct ways to organize reality: the hierarchical logic of hypotaxis and the relentless, side-by-side progression of parataxis.
Understanding the difference doesn’t just explain why Hemingway sounds like Hemingway; it reveals how grammar shapes the way we perceive cause, effect, and emotion.
To understand the power of Hemingway’s “iceberg theory”, we have to weigh the two dominant forms of sentence coordination.
For centuries, particularly in the Victorian era, literary prose was dominated by hypotaxis (from the Greek hypo meaning “under” and taxis meaning “arrangement”).
Hypotaxis uses subordinate clauses to explain relationships between ideas. It relies heavily on subordinating conjunctions like because, although, since, while, and after. It creates a hierarchy of information where one part of the sentence is more important than the other.
In this sentence, the grammar is doing the thinking for you. It tells you exactly why he felt faint. It provides logical context and emotional distinctness. It is the language of analysis, persuasion, and complex reasoning. Writers like Henry James or Charles Dickens were masters of this, weaving long, subordinated sentences that guided the reader through a maze of thought.
Parataxis (from the Greek para, “beside”, and taxis, “arrangement”) is the linguistic opposite. It places clauses side-by-side, usually giving them equal weight. It avoids subordination in favor of coordination. The glue of parataxis is the coordinating conjunction—most famously, “and.”
Notice the subtle but profound shift. In the hypotactic version (“Because the sun…”), the author explains the causality. In the paratactic version (“The sun beat down… and he felt…”), the author simply presents two facts. The sun acts. The man feels. They happen simultaneously.
This is the grammar of Hemingway.
Ernest Hemingway’s rebellion against 19th-century prose was largely a rebellion against subordination. He wanted to strip language down to its bones to tell “the truth.” To Hemingway, explaining why something happened was less honest than simply showing that it happened.
Consider the opening of A Farewell to Arms:
“The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.”
This provides a textbook example of polysyndeton—a specific type of parataxis where conjunctions (specifically “and”) are used repeatedly in quick succession. There are no “becauses” here. There are no “althoughs.”
By using parataxis, Hemingway achieves three distinct linguistic effects:
In a paratactic sentence, the falling leaves are grammatically equal to the marching soldiers. The grammar suggests that the universe does not prioritize human drama over nature. War is just another thing that happens, right alongside the dust and the breeze. This creates the famous “existential output” of Hemingway’s work. The world is indifferent, and the syntax proves it.
When you read a hypotactic sentence (“After he realized the danger…”), your brain processes the logic before the image. Parataxis mimics the way the human eye actually perceives the world. We don’t see “cause and effect” immediately; we see a sequence of images.
He stood up. He drank the wine. He looked at the door.
This staccato rhythm forces the reader to process the sensory data in real-time, creating a sense of urgency and presence that flowery prose often lacks.
This is the most crucial emotional impact of parataxis. By refusing to use subordinating conjunctions to explain feelings, the emotion is repressed beneath the surface.
Consider two versions of a breakup scene:
The first version describes any generic sadness. The second version feels cold, hard, and final. By removing the emotional “why”, the reader is forced to project the pain onto the character. The silence between the clauses speaks louder than the words themselves.
It is worth noting that Hemingway did not invent parataxis. He adopted it. The most famous example of paratactic writing in the English language is the King James Bible, specifically the Book of Genesis.
“And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.”
Ancient Hebrew exploits parataxis heavily. The translators of the King James Bible kept this structure (starting sentence after sentence with “And”). This gives the text a sense of grand, rolling inevitability. When Hemingway utilizes this style, he is tapping into a cadence that English speakers associate with ancient truth and epic history.
This style continues to influence modern writers. Cormac McCarthy, widely considered an heir to Hemingway’s style, takes parataxis to the extreme, often removing punctuation entirely to create a seamless, breathless flow of “and… and… and.”
For language learners and aspiring writers, the lesson here is not that parataxis is “better” than hypotaxis. It is about choosing the right tool for the job.
Use Hypotaxis when:
Use Parataxis when:
Grammar is often taught as a set of rules regarding what is correct or incorrect. But in literature, grammar is a map of human psychology. The difference between “Because he was sad, he wept” and “He wept” is the difference between a diagnosis and an experience.
Hemingway’s genius wasn’t just in his plot or his characters; it was in his intuitive understanding of linguistics. He recognized that by removing the “connective tissue” of language—the words that explain and justify—he could leave the reader alone with the raw, unvarnished facts. He didn’t tell us how to feel; he simply placed the images side-by-side and let the syntax break our hearts.
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