Etiolate (pronounced ee-tee-uh-leyt)
(1) In botany, to cause a plant to whiten or grow pale by
excluding light.
(2) To cause to become weakened or sickly; to remove
vigor.
(3) To drain of color; to make pale and sickly-looking; to
become pale or blanched.
(4) In literary theory (usually as “etiolated verse” or
etiolated text”), to revise a text to remove fanciful or pretentious forms.
1791: The past participle of the seventeenth century French
étioler (to blanch) and used to mean “to
make pale, to remove a light source from plants during growth to induce them to
form in a lighter hue”, presumed to be a derivative of a Norman French dialect
form of with the appended -ate suffix. The
suffix -ate was a word-forming element used in forming nouns from Latin words
ending in -ātus, -āta, & -ātum (such as estate, primate &
senate). Those that came to English via
French often began with -at, but an -e was added in the fifteenth century or
later to indicate the long vowel. It can
also mark adjectives formed from Latin perfect passive participle suffixes of
first conjugation verbs -ātus, -āta,
& -ātum (such as desolate,
moderate & separate). Again, often
they were adopted in Middle English with an –at suffix, the -e appended after
circa 1400; a doublet of –ee. The idea
in French may have been derived from the notion of “to make the color of straw”
or even literally “to become like straw” and it
was used in a branch of horticulture to “turn a plant white by growing it in
darkness”, the attraction of white being the association with “delicacy; purity”
and it was a commercial approach in market gardens to create “high priced
vegetables” and was from étiolé, past
participle of the seventeenth century étioler
(to blanch), probably from the Norman dialect étule (a stalk) and the Old French esteule (straw, field of stubble) from the Latin stupla from stipula (straw; stubble). Etiolate
is a verb & adjective, etiolation is a noun, etiolative is a noun &
adjective, etiolated is a verb & adjective, etiolating is a verb and
etiolatively is an adverb; the noun plural is etiolations.
In literary theory, “to etiolate” a text is to remove or revise the “purple passages” (known just as alliteratively also as “purple prose”). In literature, purple passages are those sections of a text which are overly elaborate, flowery, or extravagant in style, often prioritizing ornate or decorative language and the use of needlessly long words, the meaning of which is often obscure. Such writing is thought a literary self-indulgence or a mere pretentious display of knowledge; grandiose execution at the expense of clarity, the usual critique being “style over substance”. The phrase is almost certainly derived from the historic use of the once rare and expensive purple dye being restricted (actually by statute or edict in some places) to royalty and even when availability became wider, the association with luxury & wealth continued. The idea has long been a tool of critics, Roman lyric poet Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus, 65-8 BC) in his Ars Poetica (The Art of Poetry, 19 BC) referring disapprovingly to the purpureus… pannus (a purple piece of cloth), the irrelevant insertion of a grandiloquent or melodramatic passage into a work. Horace thought this disruptive at best and absurd at worst and “purple passages” continues to be used to describe writing which is needlessly ornate, florid and usually discordantly incongruous. Used almost always pejoratively (although there do seem to be some admirers), comrade Stalin (1878-1953; Soviet leader 1924-1953) might have called such flourishes “formalism”. Amusingly, in an example of how idiomatic use in English must baffle those learning the language, “purple patch”, also once applied to such tortured text, would come to be used to describes any particular good period or performance (in any context), the use always wholly positive.
What is a purple passage is a cultural
construct and in literature fashions change, some works regarded still regarded
as “literary classics” written in a style which if release now would be thought
absurd or a parody. That’s because such
judgments tend now to be made on the basis of the manner in which people “actually
talk” and although that is highly variable and influenced by social class and regional
traditions, in the age of modern media there is probably a broad (if not at the
margins wholly accurate) understanding of the range and it’s to this literature
need to adhere. So, consider what Anne
Brontë has the Reverend Michael Millward say in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848):
“But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance—that
is, moderation—is almost impossible; and if abstinence be an evil (which some
have doubted), no one will deny that excess is a greater. Some parents have
entirely prohibited their children from tasting intoxicating liquors; but a
parent’s authority cannot last for ever; children are naturally prone to hanker
after forbidden things; and a child, in such a case, would be likely to have a
strong curiosity to taste, and try the effect of what has been so lauded and
enjoyed by others, so strictly forbidden to himself—which curiosity would
generally be gratified on the first convenient opportunity; and the restraint
once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don’t pretend to be a judge of
such matters, but it seems to me, that this plan of Mrs. Graham’s, as you
describe it, Mrs. Markham, extraordinary as it may be, is not without its
advantages; for here you see the child is delivered at once from temptation; he
has no secret curiosity, no hankering desire; he is as well acquainted with the
tempting liquors as he ever wishes to be; and is thoroughly disgusted with
them, without having suffered from their effects.”
Once that text is etiolated, the parson is suggesting if one’s children are introduced to strong drink under parental supervision, they’ll be less likely to grow up as drunken philanders and sluts. Did, in general discourse, even the most loquacious Church of England clergy of the 1840s talk in the way the author would have us believe or did novelists write in an elaborated, formalized style because that’s what their readers wanted? It can’t be certain because there are only letters and no audio recordings; such transcripts as we have are from formal, set piece events like public addresses or debates in parliament which are hardly representative but on the basis of what was reported as the way “educated folk” spoke in court proceedings, it was with nothing like the prolixity of Ms Brontë’s reverend gentleman. But that was the way fiction so often was written and the works of some who have contributed much to the canon must strike the modern reader as “artificially ornate” including John Milton (1608–1674), Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864), Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849), Herman Melville (1819–1891) and Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). Write now as they did now and expect to be accused of writing purple passages.
For most of human history, the purpose in agriculture was to cultivate plants for optimal growth and productivity but in the eighteenth century the technique of deliberate etiolation emerged as a niche industry with specific goals. What the gardeners did was at certain point in a plant’s development to deprive it of light while continuing to supply water and fertilizer. What this cause was for the foliage to lose its natural color and tend towards being white, manifested usually in a “straw-like” coloring although some outcomes truly were white. Additionally, many plants would grow with long, weak & slender stems, the elongation thought elegant compared with the thick, robust structures of those which remained exposed to natural light. In biological terms, what the plants were doing was devoting all available energy to grow longer in the search for light, that essential element of photosynthesis, the process with which plants convert the energy from light (historically sunlight) into the chemical energy (notably sugars) used by their metabolism.
Although the
technique was used of seedlings which were started indoors or in a sheltered
spot, encouraging early growth before being transplanted outside in the spring,
etiolated plants were valued most for their aesthetic appeal, the association
of white with not only delicacy & purity but
also wealth because the pale complexion of the rich was a symbol of a privileged
existence not spent toiling in the fields under the harsh sun which so darkened
the skin of peasants. Thus, etiolated plants, with their long,
slender stems were prized for their visual appeal in gardens and floral
arrangements while small, leafed vegetables in an unusually pale hue were
prized by the chefs of the rich because they were so useful in making food into
“plate art” a thing then as now and that such produce invariably lacked taste
was just a price to be paid for the effect.
Of course etiolation tended to weaken plants so it was only ever a niche
product for a high-priced market segment but, in controlled conditions, it did
prove a useful technique in selective breeding for specific traits and it’s
believed some of the long-stemmed plants still cultivated today are varieties
which date for the era.
Natural selection means plants do
tend to grow towards the light but many like also to grow vertically, something Albert
Speer (1905–1981; Nazi court architect 1934-1942; Nazi minister of armaments
and war production 1942-1945) had plenty of time to observe while serving in
Berlin’s Spandau prison the twenty year sentence he was lucky to have been
handed by the IMT (International Military Tribunal) in the first Nuremberg Trial
(1945-1946) for war crimes (Count three of the indictment) and crimes against
humanity (Count 4). In his clandestine
prison diary (Spandauer Tagebücher (Spandau:
The Secret Diaries) (1975)) he noted the mixed behaviour of the seeds he
planted:
June 25, 1951: A month ago I planted peas, in groups of
three, at depths of seven, fifteen, twenty-five, and forty centimeters, and
watered them plentifully. Today I
undertake a cautious excavation. Even when the eye was down, the shoot turned
in a sharp arc and grew vertically upward. None of the many shoots left the
vertical by so much as a few degrees, not even those that germinated at a depth
of forty centimeters. Only one pea at a
depth of twenty-five centimeters lost its sense of direction and grew into a confused
snarl of thick threads. In greenhouses, heating cables often keep the temperatures under the
roots higher than on the surface. So it
cannot be the sun’s warmth. A pine tree
twenty meters tall growing by a shady cliff in the Black Forest does not grow
toward the light, but vertically upward. Gravity, then? It is particularly important for technology,
which tries to achieve reactions similar to that of the pea, to investigate
such guidance mechanisms. New experiment. I have dug
a pit forty centimeters in depth. At the
bottom of it I lay out a row of alternating beans and peas. I close off the
side toward the south with a pane of glass. Then I fill in the pit with topsoil. The arrangement is such that the surface of
the soil is just as far from the seeds as the pane of glass. Consequently warmth and light operate with
equal intensity on both sides. If growth
is determined by one of these influences, the peas would have to grow
toward the glass. But I am still assuming that the plants have a
tendency to oppose the pull of gravity.
August 22, 1951: Once again the
peas have grown upward with amazing directional impulse, without reacting to
the sunlight offered from the side. Out
of thirty peas, eleven have found the long way, forty centimeters, to the
surface. Two peas gave up after they had grown twenty centimeters, and several
others became impatient with this long distance for growing. About eight centimeters under the surface of
the soil they sent out side shoots with formed leaves. But these peas, too, were disciplined enough
to abandon these energy-consuming shoots after half a centimeter. What vital
energy is displayed in these physical achievements, elaborating from a tiny round
pea a tube one to one and a half millimeters in thickness and forty centimeters
in length. As I suspected, no such strong biological
“instinct” can be ascribed to the beans.
Out of six beans, only a single one tried to make its way to the surface, and
it too gave up several centimeters before it reached its goal, while the
others, obviously confused, sent shoots out in various directions from the
seed. What brings about such different
behavior in such closely related plants?