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Four Arrangements of a Contrast Paper

The Split Paper

Alternating Block or Paragraphs

Split paragraphs

Weaved Paragraphs

You can mix alternating block, split paragraphs, and weaved paragraphs in the same paper.

The Split Paper
The split paper first tells all about on element of the contrast and then all about the other element, leaving the reader with the bother of remembering and noticing the differences. The split paper is unacceptable because it burdens the reader to discover all the points of contrast. Sometimes professional writers use it when one element needs a complex, detailed explanation before readers can get a clear picture, such as when explaining American Indian religious beliefs. It does not work for most subjects.

American and English Detective Story

It may be helpful to see detective stories as falling into two types: the tidy and intellectual English detective story and the messy and physical American detective story.

In the English detective story, a safe, understandable, orderly, refined, civilized world is momentarily disrupted by a tidy but slightly annoying murder or two, typically in a drawing room or a country estate or a ship on the Nile, or an Orient Express sleeping car. The characters cooperate politely and patiently, confident that the malefactor will be brought to justice and order will be restored. For a while we readers share their comfortable lives, wishfully picturing ourselves in this world of privilege.

The English detectives are intellectual acrobats. They are refined, sophisticated, and intimate with powerful friends who help them. They are so amazingly well-informed they can spot a clue in a handkerchief with Cyrillic initials or in an anomaly in the intricate pattern of chiming church bells. They speak polysyllabic words in sentences connected with semicolons in a paragraph filling a page. They stroll through the case unruffled. They carry names like Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey. When they spring a trap, they already know who will take the bait. They merely want the proof.

The English murder is neat, delicate, exotic—tame enough for Sunday night on PBS. Bodies are discovered under a rose bush or in the hot house, or sitting at the breakfast table. Six people can examine a bullet hole on the forehead of a corpse that later turns up alive. The clues rely upon a preponderance of obsessive compulsive behavior: the island’s cannon always fires at precisely noon; a barrister drinks sherry at the Bull’s Head tavern every afternoon at 4:30. The killer must be among the suspects in an isolated setting: a ship, a snowed-in train, a small island during a storm that no boat can survive, a country mansion where the bridge is washed out.

In contrast, the American detective story happens in a chaotic, messy, world that has little or no chance of becoming any better. It is peopled with corrupt politicians, scheming businessmen, unfaithful spouses, liars, sinners, criminals, and psychopaths. Bodies are routinely thrown in dumpsters, canals, and landfills. Nobody much cares or cooperates, except the detective who hangs onto the case like a pit bull jawing a swinging rope. He knows solving it will not make the world right, but at least he can lean up this one small mess. We readers are both repulsed and fascinated by this evil world but relieved to leave it.

The American detective is not much smarter than the readers—just more cynical. He is a loner who knows a few cops, but he doesn’t trust them and they don’t trust him. He is a tough guy with a tough name like Sam Spade or Mike Hammer, but he gets beat up pretty often. His language is the colorful slang of the streets (“I see the frame. I just don’t see the picture.” “Joe couldn’t find a prayer in the bible.”) For $30 a day he takes other people’s chances. He is confrontational: he will lie and slap suspects around, even a woman. He pursues his case with relentless physical energy. His most effective investigative technique is to throw a hammer into the works and see what happens. When he springs a trap, he doesn’t know what to expect. He knows only that it will be dirty and evil.

The American murder is messy and common. The corpse is bloody and hard to move. If a victim turns out not to be dead, it is because another body was burned or bludgeoned beyond recognition. The solution comes not from obscure clues but from the obsessive compulsive detective checking out leads until he finally notices two contradictory lies or makes a serendipitous connection between a liquor billboard and the key to a locker in a bus station.

The names English and American are misleading if taken too literally. A few English authors wrote hard-boiled American detective stories, notably Dick Frances, an ex-jockey whose ordinary heroes show an abnormal capacity to withstand injury and pain. Many American authors—like Rex Stout, whose corpulent Nero Wolfe solved murders without leaving his fortress-like New York City apartment—wrote poached egg English detective stories.

For The English sleuth, solving a murder is a stimulating, intellectual game to while away the time in a safe, comfortable world. For the American private eye, it’s an exhausting, physical job that helps only a little to make bearable a dangerous, corrupt world.

Alternating Block or Paragraphs
This is the best arrangement for this subject. Readers need only recall the information about one element in one paragraph of a sub-point (the world, the detective, the murder) before reading the next paragraph with information from the other element on that sub-point. This arrangement is fine when the information gives a general, overall impression.

English and American Detective Story

It may be helpful to see detective stories as falling into two types: the tidy and intellectual English detective story and the messy and physical American detective story.

In the English detective story, a safe, understandable, orderly, refined, civilized world is momentarily disrupted by a tidy but slightly annoying murder or two, typically in a drawing room or a country estate or a ship on the Nile, or an Orient Express sleeping car. The characters cooperate politely and patiently, confident that the malefactor will be brought to justice and order will be restored. For a while we readers share their comfortable lives, wishfully picturing ourselves in this world of privilege.

In contrast to the rational world of the English detective story, the American detective story happens in a chaotic, messy, world that has little or no chance of becoming any better. It is peopled with corrupt politicians, scheming businessmen, unfaithful spouses, liars, sinners, criminals, and psychopaths. Bodies are routinely thrown in dumpsters, canals, and landfills. Nobody much cares or cooperates, except the detective who hangs onto the case like a pit bull jawing a swinging rope. He knows solving it will not make the world right, but at least he can clean up this one small mess. We readers are both repulsed and fascinated by this evil world but relieved to leave it.

The English detectives are intellectual acrobats. They are refined, sophisticated, and intimate with powerful friends who help them. They are so amazingly well-informed they can spot a clue in a handkerchief with Cyrillic initials or in an anomaly in the intricate pattern of chiming church bells. They speak polysyllabic words in sentences connected with semicolons in a paragraph filling a page. They stroll through the case unruffled. They carry names like Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey. When they spring a trap, they already know who will take the bait. They merely want the proof.

The American detective, however, is not much smarter than the readers—just more cynical. He is a loner who knows a few cops, but he doesn’t trust them and they don’t trust him. He is a tough guy with a tough name like Sam Spade or Mike Hammer, but he gets beat up pretty often. His language is the colorful slang of the streets (“I see the frame. I just don’t see the picture.” “Joe couldn’t find a prayer in the bible.”) For $30 a day he takes other people’s chances. He is confrontational: he will lie and slap suspects around, even a woman. He pursues his case with relentless physical energy. His most effective investigative technique is to throw a hammer into the works and see what happens. When he springs a trap, he doesn’t know what to expect. He knows only that it will be dirty and evil.

The English murder is neat, delicate, exotic—tame enough for Sunday night on PBS. Bodies are discovered under a rose bush or in the hot house, or sitting at the breakfast table. Six people can examine a bullet hole on the forehead of a corpse that later turns up alive. The clues rely upon a preponderance of obsessive compulsive behavior: the island’s cannon always fires at precisely noon; a barrister drinks sherry at the Bull’s Head tavern every afternoon at 4:30. The killer must be among the suspects in an isolated setting: a ship, a snowed-in train, a small island during a storm that no boat can survive, a country mansion where the bridge is washed out.

The American murder is messy and common. The corpse is bloody and hard to move. If a victim turns out not to be dead, it is because another body was burned or bludgeoned beyond recognition. The solution comes not from obscure clues but from the obsessive compulsive detective checking out leads until he finally notices two contradictory lies or makes a serendipitous connection between a liquor billboard and the key to a locker in a bus station.

The names English and American are misleading if taken too literally. A few English authors wrote hard-boiled American detective stories, notably Dick Frances, an ex-jockey whose ordinary heroes show an abnormal capacity to withstand injury and pain. Many American authors—like Rex Stout, whose corpulent Nero Wolfe solved murders without leaving his fortress-like New York City apartment—wrote poached egg English detective stories.

For The English sleuth, solving a murder is a stimulating, intellectual game to while away the time in a safe, comfortable world. For the American private eye, it’s an exhausting, physical job that helps only a little to make bearable a dangerous, corrupt world.

Split paragraphs
This works about as well as the alternating block arrangement for this subject, except that most readers would prefer the six shorter paragraphs to these three longer ones. Notice that the topics sentences now are revised to include both the English and the American story. This arrangement is fine when the information gives a general, overall impression. If the paragraphs do not get too long, readers will process the information more easily in split paragraphs than in alternating block paragraphs.

English and American Detective Story

It may be helpful to see detective stories as falling into two types: the tidy and intellectual English detective story and the messy and physical American detective story.

The English detective story assumes a rational world, whereas the American detective story assumes an irrational one. In the English detective story, a safe, understandable, orderly, refined, civilized world is momentarily disrupted by a tidy but slightly annoying murder or two, typically in a drawing room or a country estate or a ship on the Nile, or an Orient Express sleeping car. The characters cooperate politely and patiently, confident that the malefactor will be brought to justice and order will be restored. For a while we readers share their comfortable lives, wishfully picturing ourselves in this world of privilege. In contrast, the American detective story happens in a chaotic, messy, world that has little or no chance of becoming any better. It is peopled with corrupt politicians, scheming businessmen, unfaithful spouses, liars, sinners, criminals, and psychopaths. Bodies are routinely thrown in dumpsters, canals, and landfills. Nobody much cares or cooperates, except the detective who hangs onto the case like a pit bull jawing a swinging rope. He knows solving it will not make the world right, but at least he can lean up this one small mess. We readers are both repulsed and fascinated by this evil world but relieved to leave it.

The English detectives are intellectual acrobats, while the American detective is not much smarter than the readers—just more cynical. English detectives are refined, sophisticated, and intimate with powerful friends who help them. They are so amazingly well-informed they can spot a clue in a handkerchief with Cyrillic initials or in an anomaly in the intricate pattern of chiming church bells. They speak polysyllabic words in sentences connected with semicolons in a paragraph filling a page. They stroll through the case unruffled. They carry names like Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey. When they spring a trap, they already know who will take the bait. They merely want the proof. On the other hand, the American P. I. is a loner who knows a few cops, but he doesn’t trust them and they don’t trust him. He is a tough guy with a tough name like Sam Spade or Mike Hammer, but he gets beat up pretty often. His language is the colorful slang of the streets (“I see the frame. I just don’t see the picture.” “Joe couldn’t find a prayer in the bible.”) For $30 a day he takes other people’s chances. He is confrontational: he will lie and slap suspects around, even a woman. He pursues his case with relentless physical energy. His most effective investigative technique is to throw a hammer into the works and see what happens. When he springs a trap, he doesn’t know what to expect. He knows only that it will be dirty and evil.

The English murder is neat, delicate, exotic, while The American murder is messy and common. The English murder is tame enough for Sunday night on PBS. Bodies are discovered under a rose bush or in the hot house, or sitting at the breakfast table. Six people can examine a bullet hole on the forehead of a corpse that later turns up alive. The clues rely upon a preponderance of obsessive compulsive behavior: the island’s cannon always fires at precisely noon; a barrister drinks sherry at the Bull’s Head tavern every afternoon at 4:30. The killer must be among the suspects in an isolated setting: a ship, a snowed-in train, a small island during a storm that no boat can survive, a country mansion where the bridge is washed out. Unlike in the English murder, the corpse in an American murder is bloody and hard to move. If a victim turns out not to be dead, it is because another body was burned or bludgeoned beyond recognition. The solution comes not from obscure clues but from the obsessive compulsive detective checking out leads until he finally notices two contradictory lies or makes a serendipitous connection between a liquor billboard and the key to a locker in a bus station.

The names English and American are misleading if taken too literally. A few English authors wrote hard-boiled American detective stories, notably Dick Frances, an ex-jockey whose ordinary heroes show an abnormal capacity to withstand injury and pain. Many American authors—like Rex Stout, whose corpulent Nero Wolfe solved murders without leaving his fortress-like New York City apartment—wrote poached egg English detective stories.

For The English sleuth, solving a murder is a stimulating, intellectual game to while away the time in a safe, comfortable world. For the American private eye, it’s an exhausting, physical job that helps only a little to make bearable a dangerous, corrupt world.

Weaved Paragraphs
This is an unnecessarily complex arrangement for this subject. Weaved paragraphs are required when the information consists of technical specifications that readers would have difficulty remembering. Otherwise, weaved paragraphs are used only to emphasize specific points of contrast to achieve.

English and American Detective Story

It may be helpful to see detective stories as falling into two types: the tidy and intellectual English detective story and the messy and physical American detective story.

The English detective story assumes a rational world, whereas the American detective story assumes an irrational one. In the English detective story, a safe, understandable, orderly, refined, civilized world is momentarily disrupted by a tidy but slightly annoying murder or two, typically in a drawing room or a country estate or a ship on the Nile, or an Orient Express sleeping car. In contrast, the American detective story happens in a chaotic, messy, world that has little or no chance of becoming any better. The characters in an English mystery cooperate politely and patiently, confident that the malefactor will be brought to justice and order will be restored. Nobody, however, in an American mystery much cares or cooperates, except the detective, who hangs onto the case like a pit bull jawing a swinging rope. He knows solving it will not make the world right, but at least he can lean up this one small mess. For a while we readers of an English mystery share the comfortable lives of upper class characters, wishfully picturing ourselves in this world of privilege. The American mystery, however, is peopled with corrupt politicians, scheming businessmen, unfaithful spouses, liars, sinners, criminals, and psychopaths. Bodies are routinely thrown in dumpsters, canals, and landfills. We readers are both repulsed and fascinated by this evil world but relieved to leave it.

The English detectives are intellectual acrobats, but the American detective is not much smarter than the readers—just more cynical. Whereas English detectives are refined, sophisticated, and intimate with powerful friends who help them, the American detective is a tough guy who for $30 a day takes other people’s chances. He is a loner who knows a few cops, but he doesn’t trust them and they don’t trust him. English detectives are so amazingly well-informed they can spot a clue in a handkerchief with Cyrillic initials or in an anomaly in the intricate pattern of chiming church bells. Unlike the English sleuth, the American detective is confrontational: he will lie and slap suspects around, even a woman. He pursues his case with relentless physical energy. His most effective investigative technique is to throw a hammer into the works and see what happens. English detectives speak polysyllabic words in sentences connected with semicolons in a paragraph filling a page. The American detective’s language is the colorful slang of the streets (“I see the frame. I just don’t see the picture.” “Joe couldn’t find a prayer in the bible.”) English detectives stroll through the case unruffled and carry names like Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey, while the American detective gets beat up pretty often and has a tough name like Sam Spade or Mike Hammer. When English detectives spring a trap, they already know who will take the bait. They merely want the proof. When the American detective springs a trap, he doesn’t know what to expect. He knows only that it will be dirty and evil.

The English murder is neat, delicate, exotic—tame enough for Sunday night on PBS, while the American murder is messy and common. In the English murder, bodies are discovered under a rose bush or in the hot house, or sitting at the breakfast table and six people can examine a bullet hole on the forehead of a corpse that later turns up alive. In the American murder, the corpse is bloody and hard to move. If a victim turns out not to be dead, it is because another body was burned or bludgeoned beyond recognition. In the English murder, clues rely upon a preponderance of obsessive compulsive behavior: the island’s cannon always fires at precisely noon; a barrister drinks sherry at the Bull’s Head tavern every afternoon at 4:30. The killer must be among the suspects in an isolated setting: a ship, a snowed-in train, a small island during a storm that no boat can survive, a country mansion where the bridge is washed out. In the American murder, the solution comes not from obscure clues but from the obsessive compulsive detective checking out leads until he finally notices two contradictory lies or makes a serendipitous connection between a liquor billboard and the key to a locker in a bus station.

The names English and American are misleading if taken too literally. A few English authors wrote hard-boiled American detective stories, notably Dick Frances, an ex-jockey whose ordinary heroes show an abnormal capacity to withstand injury and pain. Many American authors—like Rex Stout, whose corpulent Nero Wolfe solved murders without leaving his fortress-like New York City apartment—wrote poached egg English detective stories.

For The English sleuth, solving a murder is a stimulating, intellectual game to while away the time in a safe, comfortable world. For the American private eye, it’s an exhausting, physical job that helps only a little to make bearable a dangerous, corrupt world.

Last updated 10/01/2008