It is common these days to hear irony misused — not the device, although that certainly happens, but the word and its adjective ironic. So, it has been observed that it was ‘ironic that Shane Warne’s mother gave him the fluid tablet’ which got him into trouble; or that it is ‘ironic that bushfires in New South Wales were followed by flash-flooding’.
Irony is a useful word that deserves more care. It may be curious or interesting that his mum’s diuretic got Shane Warne into trouble, but it is not ironic. It may be paradoxical, and certainly unfortunate, that one natural disaster is followed rapidly by another of a different sort; but this is not ironic.
Irony draws its name from the Greek eironia: ‘dissimulation; ignorance purposely affected’, which is reflected in the name of a stock comic character in Greek drama called Eiron. Eiron was frequently opposed to the boastful Alazon who, blinded by his own good opinion of himself, failed to notice the skill in Eiron’s disingenuous observations, and was defeated. The comic effect of the exchanges between Eiron and Alazon was appreciated by Athenian audiences, who knew in advance that Eiron was cleverer than he seemed and than Alazon noticed.
The central idea of irony is the contradiction inherent in words spoken or events depicted. The OED2 defines it as:
A figure of speech in which the intended meaning is the opposite of that expressed by the words used; usually taking the form of sarcasm or ridicule in which laudatory expressions are used to imply condemnation or contempt.
A condition of affairs or events of a character opposite to what was, or might naturally be, expected; a contradictory outcome of events as if in mockery of the promise and fitness of things.
And Johnson:
A mode of speech in which the meaning is contrary to the words: as, ‘Bolingbroke was a holy man’.
Socratic irony is the device, adopted by Socrates in imitation of Eiron, of asking seemingly ignorant questions designed to drive dogmatic opponents into logical difficulties. To the audience who understood Socrates’ approach, this carried all the enjoyment of seeing the engineer hoist, unwitting, on his own petard. The patient cross-examiner who, by seemingly innocent questions gradually edges her witness into an impossible position, is using Socratic irony. If others in court are aware already of the document or circumstance that will destroy the present witness when the trap is ready, the parallel with Socrates is complete.
Dramatic irony has the audience informed of larger events, unknown to the play’s protagonists, so that they proceed in their ignorance towards a fate already prefigured by the audience. In that setting, their words can be made to carry a quite different significance to the audience than they apparently have to the speaker. The same device can be used conversationally, and with just as telling effect. In the last stages of Scott’s ill-fated Antarctic expedition of 1912, Captain Oates left the shelter with the comment ‘I am just going outside and may be some time’. The circumstances gave his words a very different meaning, which must have been well understood by his companions. Oates’ remark is recorded in Scott’s journal on 16 March 1912. It is the last entry.
Some will say Oates’ comment is an example of meiosis, and so it is. Meiosis consists in enhancing the effect of what is intended by understatement. The extent of understatement may make meiosis and irony indistinguishable. Meiosis has the effect of emphasis: it does not have the edge or poignancy usually associated with irony. Litotes is a special form of meiosis. It also involves understatement, but couches the statement as the negative or the opposite of what is intended, as in ‘no small effort’ or ‘by no means insignificant’.
Linguistic irony is more concerned with semantic ambiguity than with the contrast between words and circumstances. It is cousin to sarcasm, but is less savage. Sarcasm comes from the Greek word meaning to tear flesh: it is always unkind. Johnson uses it in his definitions of lash, nip, and whip.
Irony is gentler: the Elizabethan courtier and rhetorician George Puttenham called it ‘the drye mock’. So: a very young and inexperienced counsel rose to deliver a plea in mitigation before a stern judge in a serious matter: ‘M-m-my poor client … M-m-my poor client …’ he stammered. ‘Go on, I am with you so far’, said the judge. Aristotle said: ‘Irony better befits a gentleman than buffoonery; the ironical man jokes to amuse himself, the buffoon to amuse other people.’
It is recently fashionable to recognise two other forms of irony: structural irony and romantic irony. Structural irony looks rather like dramatic irony in post-modern clothes. The contradiction is seen between the words spoken in a text and the circumstances being depicted by the text itself. The spectacular maunderings of Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen were often rich in structural irony, no doubt unintended. Likewise the brilliant BBC TV series The Office, in which the principal characters displayed their vanity and foolishness by their own self-inflated management-speak. In romantic irony the writer and reader collude in the complete knowledge that their vantage point gives them, and view with wry amusement the folly of the characters within their limited horizons.
Closely related to irony, but less often used, is paradox. Like irony, paradox has contradiction at its core. But whereas irony finds contradiction between available meanings of a single utterance, or between an utterance and the events to which it relates, paradox is concerned with a contradiction in things themselves.
Paradox comes from para (against) and doxos (opinion). A paradox involves a statement that seems true but contradicts observed reality or the opinion or expectation born of experience. Zeno of Elea was famous for his four paradoxes. His Achilles paradox proves that the faster runner in a race cannot pass the slower runner. The arrow paradox proves that an arrow in flight is actually at rest.
The liar paradox was first propounded by Epiminedes in the sixth century BC. ‘I am a liar’ is truly paradoxical: it is true only if it is false, and false only if it is true.
More recently, Olbers’ paradox points out that the universe is endless and uniformly populated with stars, so every line of sight must eventually find a star; accordingly, the night sky should be light, as every part of it is occupied by a luminous object.
Because paradox is a seemingly exotic word, it is taken and misused by those in search of ornaments for their prose. ‘It’s quite a paradox how completely we change from conception to death’, the Herald Sun reported on 9 May 1998. It may be troubling, perhaps, or marvellous, but it is not paradoxical: it is the universal experience that our appearance changes during the course of our lives, and nothing is paradoxical which conforms to universal observation and experience.
From the same root as paradox comes orthodox:
‘Holding right or correct opinions, i.e. such as are currently accepted as correct, or are in accordance with some recognized standard.’ (OED2)
‘Sound in opinion and doctrine; not heretical.’ (Johnson)
There are other useful words from the same origin. Unfortunately, they have fallen out of use. As opinions on matters of high importance harden along lines drawn by the saviours of the free world, we may need to revive some.
For our friends:
Homodox (adj): of the same opinion
Pleistodox (adj): holding the opinion of the majority
For our enemies:
Heterodox (adj): of opinions not regarded as correct or accepted
Pseudodox (n): a false opinion
Adoxal (adj): absurd, not according to reason
Cacodox (adj): holding a wrong or evil opinion
And finally, for use on both sides:
Doxastic (adj): depending on or exercising opinion; an object of opinion
Doxographer (n): one who collects and records the opinions of others