A rose. A bud. These two states have names. They are stable, graspable, fully defined. But in between them — in the thousands of instants where the petals are tearing open, where the bud is becoming but is not yet the rose — there is a state with no name. It has no dictionary entry. It is pure process, and most language skips straight over it.
This gap is where the best writing lives.
Aristotle distinguished two relationships a human being can have with making: mimesis (representation — imitating what already exists, naming what already has a name) and poiesis (making, bringing-forth — from the Greek root of "poetry"). Most prose operates in mimesis mode: it names the named states. The rose. The bud. He walked into the room and sat down. These are mimetic sentences — useful, clear, and complete, but constitutionally unable to go further than the dictionary. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
Poiesis is what happens when prose captures the threshold moment: the instant the rose is becoming the rose. Heidegger called this the threshold — what is the moment when the rose becomes a rose? Where is the threshold? — and argued that this question cannot be answered by naming. It can only be approached by making-in-language. That is what poiesis does. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
This is where so much poetry and wonder, enchantment, and estrangement comes in. And we are taught to ignore it because it has no definition. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
The newspaper sentence is the purest example of mimesis in prose, and it is genuinely good at what it does. A mimetic sentence replicates the world accurately. It serves as a transparent carrier of information. The author is invisible — only the event is present. This is a real virtue for reporting: you don't want impressionistic prose in a flood dispatch. You don't want the author's fingerprints on a mass casualty report. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
But the mimetic sentence carries a ceiling. It can only represent what already has a name. Everything unnamed — every threshold between states, every process mid-becoming, every quality that exists in the gap between categories — is off-limits. The newspaper sentence cannot write the rose opening. It can write the bud, and it can write the rose. The moment between? It moves on.
The deeper problem: when the mimetic sentence becomes the default for all writing — not just for news but for fiction, poetry, literary prose — the entire interval of human experience that has no name gets excluded from the record. "We are taught to ignore that because it has no definition." [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
Vuong traces a specific historical arc explaining how mimesis became the dominant mode:
The Victorian sentence (Whitman, Melville, Matthew Arnold, Hawthorne) was built for oratory. Think of Churchill's "We shall fight on the beaches" — the same idea repeated, accumulating, with the resolution withheld until the final clause. This rhetorical architecture kept a largely illiterate audience hooked: what is he actually saying? We have to keep listening. The result was a sentence rich in subordinate clauses, metaphor, and delay — something much closer to poiesis than to the newspaper. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
After the American Civil War, two pressures tamed the sentence simultaneously. First: newspapers needed standardization — reckless reporting had caused military disasters, and the press was disciplined into brevity and clarity. Second: the great American novel emerged as a serious literary form at exactly the same moment (DeForest's 1868 call for a novel that would unify a fractured country), coinciding with a generation of novelists who were journalism-trained — Hemingway, Stephen Crane, Jack London, Orwell. Their lean, declarative, mimetic style became the 20th century's definition of good writing. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
The consequence: the culture settled on one mode as the default, and everything outside it became suspect. Victorian richness became "purple prose." Metaphoric density became "pretentious." The sentence that draws attention to itself became a failure of craft rather than an act of art. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
AI is not the cause of this homogenization. It is its logical endpoint — the complete automation of the mimetic sentence, the extraction of all idiosyncrasy from language. But the process of taming has been running for 150 years. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
The mimetic sentence is not dispensable. Vuong is explicit: "Sometimes you do need sentences like 'he walked into the room and sat down.' You need that scaffolding to get you to the great poiesis moments." [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
Think of a cathedral. The mimetic sentences are the load-bearing walls — they hold the structure up, they move the reader through space and time, they give the narrative its skeleton. The poietic sentences are the stained glass windows. They are why anyone enters. A building made entirely of stained glass would collapse. A building with no stained glass is a warehouse. The art is knowing which is which, and not settling for a warehouse because warehouses are easier to build. [ORIGINAL — analogy]
The central question Vuong poses to his students: "Are you satisfied with what the dictionary has given you?" Not for every sentence — the scaffolding is real and necessary. But for the moments that determine whether a reader is still thinking about your work twenty years later: are you willing to cross the threshold into the unnamed? [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
Vuong identifies two places where the homogenized sentence hasn't fully taken hold, and both are instructive:
Poetry — because it dispenses with the assignments that keep fiction mimetic (no plot to tend, no character arc to maintain, no worldbuilding to sustain). When the obligation is only to language itself, the sentence is free to become an elsewhere arrangement. This is why Vuong recommends poetry as a laboratory for the prose writer — a space to practice poiesis without the structural obligations that pull prose back toward the mimetic. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
Nature writing — because mimesis collapses under its own weight there. If you write there was a sunny meadow, the reader already knows. They've seen photos. What value is your description? The only reason to read a nature writer is to experience the meadow through their perception — and that requires poiesis. J.A. Baker's famous mud passage: "Octopus mud that clutched and clung and squelched and sucked... Mud to the bone... Mud is another element. One comes to love it, to be like a waiting bird, happy only at the edges of the world." We are no longer reading about mud. Baker's interiority has broken through — the dam of mimesis has burst. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]
The lesson for fiction writers: the assignments (plot, character, structure) are real — but they are reasons to practice poiesis more, not reasons to abandon it. McCarthy's wild metaphoric tangents in Blood Meridian land inside a novel with a clear plot and characters. He simply refuses to let the scaffolding be all there is. [PARAPHRASED — Vuong]