“I come here to listen, to nestle in the curve of the roots in a soft hollow of pine needles, to lean my bones against the column of white pine, to turn off the voice in my head until I can hear the voices outside of it: the shhh of wind needles, water trickling over rock, nuthatch tapping, chipmunks digging, beechnut falling, mosquito in my ear, and something more- something that is not me, for which we have no language, the wordless being of others in which we are never alone. After the drumbeat of my mother’s heart, this was my first language. 

I could spend a whole day listening. And a whole night. And in the morning, without hearing it, there might be a mushroom that was not there the night before, creamy white, pushed up from the pine needle duff, out of darkness to light, still glistening with the fluid outfits passage. Puhpowee.” (Kimmerer 48) 

Literary technique is the very backbone of powerful writing. It gives the style of a given work meaning and a structured sense of complexity. One of my personal favorite examples of an excellent use of these techniques is “The Grammar of Animacy”, a chapter from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s critically acclaimed memoir Braiding Sweetgrass. This chapter is pivotal to the message of Kimmerer’s writing and is a reflection of how profoundly dedicated to language she truly is. These first two paragraphs are an expression of the voices of the forest, prefacing the rest of the chapter in which Kimmerer attempts to learn and understand her native language, Potawatomi. Potawatomi is an incredibly verb-heavy language, acknowledging the elements of life in a way that many languages neglect. Granting nature authority, perspective, and as Kimmerer puts it: animacy. I believe that this is why the first passage of this chapter is a description of sounds, it is a vocalization of nature. It introduces the readers to the voices that her language grants us access to. 

Immediately what stood out to me in this passage was Kimmerer’s use of asyndeton. The entire first paragraph of this chapter is one, long sentence. It reads, “I come here to listen, to nestle in the curve of the roots in a soft hollow of pine needles, to lean my bones against the column of white pine, to turn off the voice in my head until I can hear the voices outside of it: the shhh of wind needles, water trickling over rock, nuthatch tapping, chipmunks digging, beechnut falling, mosquito in my ear, and something more- something that is not me, for which we have no language, the wordless being of others in which we are never alone.” Asyndeton originates from the Greek word asyndeton, which translates to “unconnected”. Asyndeton was therefore given its name since it refers to when conjunctions are omitted from a series of related clauses in a sentence, usually through the use of commas. Asyndeton is typically used, as I believe it is here in Kimmerer’s writing, to attract attention to a specific passage. Since the format suggests incompleteness, it forces the readers to thoroughly investigate the layout of the writing and collaborate with the author to decode their intended message. It causes the passage to be more interactive, engaging with its audience and asking them to be truly present with what’s written. Though asyndeton literally means “unconnected” I believe that the refusal of periods in this passage emphasizes the deep connections between nature that the Potawatomi language acknowledges. Additionally, it enforces a very specific form of pacing, forcing you to take everything in as a unit. It gives me the impression of one long brushstroke or a deep gust of wind. It reminds me of the sounds of the forest. 

Going off of this idea of sound, I also noticed a prominent use of euphony that is present throughout the passage. Kimmerer has an incredibly poetic style, one that heavily values the implementation of sound. In a chapter all about hidden voices, this theme becomes even more essential to the framework of her writing. The term euphony originates from the Greek adjective euphōnos, meaning sweet-voiced or musical. It uses soft consonants and semi-vowels to create a pleasant, agreeable, and almost poetic tone. Euphony is the parallel of cacophony, both are extravagant expressions of sound but the key difference is that euphony manages to maintain a sense of harmony that cacophony does not. They work together to create a unified sound. Euphony is softer and more peaceful than cacophony. “the shhh of wind needles, water trickling over rock, nuthatch tapping”, descriptors like this create a satisfying, melodic atmosphere. The repetition of harmonious continents, in pair with the long, flowing nature of the paragraphs, evokes a sense of musical unity. When you read this passage you can almost audibly hear the instruments of the forest working together to convey their message. Though cacophony suggests a louder expression of sound, euphony suggests a sense of collectiveness. Like an orchestra, each aspect of nature complements each other as well as depends on each other. The full story is incomplete without the presence of every voice. Together they are louder. 

Kimmerer pays such meticulous attention to structure in her writing, infusing deeper meaning into every aspect of her story. When she says, “After the drumbeat of my mother’s heart, this was my first language.” we, as her audience, know that “language” has a multidimensional meaning. It is not just the concept of language as we know it, it is something more, something heard but not spoken. Her use of symbolic detail to create semantics in her work is possibly what she is most famous for. The term “semantics” evolved throughout history from the Greek verb sēmainō which means “to signify”. It is the symbolism behind a statement; when a passage signifies more than just what is physically written. When Kimmerer muses over the sound of wind blowing through pine needles or the thumping of her mother’s heart, you know that she is talking about something far more profound. Something that is hidden in plain sight. It forces us to access our intuition, a part of our minds that we, as a human society, have largely put off to the side. As many sociologists have noticed in their studies of human behavior; we are the only species that attempts to rationalize gut feelings. We try to talk ourselves out of intuition. When a deer hears the sound of cracking twigs, it flees. It doesn’t stand there and think to itself “Well maybe I just imagined it” or “Maybe it’s just a squirrel.” It trusts how its body responds to what it knows could be there. In this way, intuition and instinct are very natural things and something we as humans have slowly disconnected with. But deep down it is still there, our ability to understand what is not said. Our ability to comprehend the invisible. Kimmerer’s writing provokes something truly native within us. In many ways, it demands that we use all of our senses, even ones that are hidden within us, to genuinely absorb her stories. 

Robin Wall Kimmerer’s writing is ripe with literary devices and artistic techniques well beyond the three that I have highlighted here. The work that she does is so intricate and unique that it is almost undefinable. Braiding Sweetgrass is simultaneously a memoir, a collection of folklore, a botanical guide, a poem and so much more, all wrapped up into one incredible book. It doesn’t fall into a singular, confining category that much of literature does because its purpose is to send a message that is both abstract and native. Something that is not quite concrete or visible to the human eye. At its very core, Braiding Sweetgrass is an expression of unity. It is a story with the sole intention of bridging its readers with the natural world that they have evolved to ignore. It reignites the intuition we had towards nature so long ago. The ability to see the complex world of stories and voices that are hidden just in plain sight.