Lipograms
A lipogram is a piece of writing produced without the use of a certain letter, or group of letters. The most obvious lipogram is the "no-e" lipogram, e being the commonest letter in most European languages.
The purpose of the lipogram may not seem obvious. One of the guiding precepts of the Oulipo is that of enhancing creativity through the overcoming of arbitrary constraints. Although any constraint might at first glance be considered something that will reduce creativity, by virtue of being a constraint, the matter is not quite so simple. Clearly the total number of possible texts is drastically reduced by any significant constraint, but "total number of possible texts" is not synonymous with creativity. By imposing some constraint, the writer is forced to write in a manner in which he would probably not otherwise have chosen. He may therefore end up finding and using various expressions, combinations of words, etc, which would not have otherwise sprung to mind. The obvious example of this is the field of formally-structured poetry (ie, not blank verse).
For instance, McKee writes in his "Story":
"Robert Frost said that writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down, for it's the self-imposed, indeed artificial demands of poetic conventions that stir the imagination. ... Thanks to the [limitation] of this rhyme scheme, the poem achieves an intensity it would have lacked had the poet allowed himself the freedom to choose any word he wished. . . .
Talent is like a muscle: without something to push against, it atrophies. So we deliberately put rocks in our path, barriers that inspire."
T.S. Eliot supports such a view:
"When forced to work within a strict framework the imagination is taxed to its utmost - and will produce its richest ideas. Given total freedom the work is likely to sprawl."
Thus, some constraint may help the writer to find new ways of self-expression; the lipogram is one of the simplest constraints to impose.
The most famous lipogrammatic text is Georges Perec's novel "La Disparition", written entirely without the letter e. Even more impressively, this was translated successfully into English without recourse to the letter e!
Here is something not particularly impressive that emerged during one recent train journey:
So what, you might ask, did Oulipo think of statistical distributions of our common writing tools a, b, c, d . . . ? Abhorring various vain parts of that array, Oulipists sought to attain linguistic karma without using a particular popular symbol. A task not without pangs, but fascinating. Naturally, an actuary would concur happily with such an approach, arbitrary though it might look. Finding actuarial work boring and fatiguing? Not using your brain? Writing up valuations all morning starting to pall? Try this Oulipo way to add zing to your days&ldots;
An Oulipist actuary would jump gladly at what curious work this constraint would still allow: analysis of surplus, quaint industrial branch affairs, quantification of a liability? Stochastic hanky-panky? Or is that too tricky? Discontinuations? A paid-up policy - only singular applications, though - not too many such contracts! All this you could still find on an actuarial syllabus; and writing about your calculations would instil disciplinary traits, if not actually much wisdom. Alack, you could avail not of such joys as &ldots; (not too tricky a list to do, I trust).
Equally unprofound, but more amusing (resulting from the artificially stilted style), is the lipogrammatic extract in Archibald and the Killer Daffodils:
Archibald stood riskily on a narrow promontory sticking from a cliff wall. Sixty yards down from him was Dr Chow Yun Li Wong, instructing his human robots to work quickly. This gang was loading a cargo of fatal daffodils onto thirty or so tractors. Soon, if that convoy of tractors got going with such a dastardly cargo, half of this world would fall into Dr Wong's foul hands.
Archibald thought about his situation. It was risky, but it was his duty to our world. Archibald was tiring from his fight with various giant mutant tarantulas, and his scrambling across what was a most difficult cliff, but his duty to mankind was paramount in this conflict of good against bad.
Using his last half-pound of vigour, Archibald's vocal cords spat out that mimicry for which our boy was famous, down to that part of Dr Wong's domain known as his fatal-daffodil-loading-bay.
"Stop that cargo-loading activity, and go off for a half-day holiday. Back tomorrow."
His copying of Dr Wong's tonal quality was astounding. Without a twinkling of procrastination, that toiling gang put down daffodils, tools and various cups of hot liquids, and that was that. 'Ciao ciao,' said many.
Archibald had thought of a good point at which to do this - Dr Wong was sitting, only half-conscious, imbibing organ music which was coming from a curious old contraption.
Waking from his stupour, not a vassal was in sight. Just his antagonist, Archibald, looking calm and cooly juggling his batons, which had bright shining tips, similar to aluminium in colour.
"It's no good, Doctor. You can throw in your damp fibrous bathroom cloth, if you'll pardon my Mandarin."