Note-Taking

Front matter

by S. S. SEWARD, Jr.

by

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY

The Aim in Note-Taking

CHAPTER I THE AIM IN NOTE-TAKING

Ask our friend, the average student, what is the use of taking notes, and he will answer without hesitation: Why, to preserve a record of what a lecturer has said, for the sake of future use, especially in reviewing for examinations. And probably he will go on to assert that the reason why notes are not better than they are is because it is impossible, between listening to a speaker and scribbling upon paper, to make the notes full enough.

False Ideals.—Does it seem absurd to challenge a way of thinking about notes that seems at first glance so self-evident, and that is held, more or less consciously, by so very many people? Yet just because this common view is held to be so obvious, is reason for questioning whether it be not superficial. This, at least, is true: that if there is a better way of thinking about notes, we want to know it, especially if we are entering on a systematic study of the subject. And it is certainly worth our while to review the whole question on its merits,—first the reasons against the accepted theory, then the reasons for holding a different view.

A Shorthand Copy.—Why, in the first place, is not fulness of notes a good thing in itself? Or, to put the extreme case concretely, why would not a shorthand transcript of a lecture be the perfect, though unattain able, ideal of notes? Because, to give the most superficial reason first, such notes would be too bulky to keep, too long to reread, too clumsy to hunt through for particular topics. Much that one hears in a lecture is of no value for record, however useful it may have been in the original presentation of the subject; from all such useless matter, whether digressions or elaborations, we shall do well to keep our notes free. There is a better reason, too, one that goes deeper; but that may well wait, for the present.

Suggestive Jottings.—If not fulness of notes, then, are not ideal notes a record of suggestions,—jottings unintelligible to another reader, it may be, yet sufficient to guide the owner in reconstructing the original ideas? Again, the most obvious objection is superficial, yet sufficient. We are too prone to forget the original substance, or, retaining it, to hold a vague, uncertain idea, perhaps only half true—which is at least no better than forgetting altogether. And are we likely to grasp a subject accurately if we merely jot hasty phrases, putting off till the time of review the test as to whether we have really mastered the subject or no?

Unaided Memory.—Yet another solution of the note-taker’s problem is there, with obvious advantages, yet serious defects: dispense with notes altogether. Instead of dividing the mind between listening and writing, concentrate it on listening carefully, training it to retain what is grasped. For certain individuals this is indeed an excellent way, and it has the general advantage of being based on a sound principle,—that the final value of a lecture is that which reaches the mind of the hearer, rather than that which gets put down in the note-book. But the disadvantages are very serious too: first, that only the exceptional mind can be trusted to rely so wholly on itself; secondly, that the student with only mental notes is at a disadvantage in reviewing a subject; thirdly, that if the listener has a tendency toward vagueness of thought, his system offers no check upon resulting inaccuracy.

The True Ideal.—It remains, then, to determine what the true purpose of note-taking really is, and what is the test of a good set of notes. The problem reaches back to a more fundamental one, as to how far the lecturer, and how far the listener, contributes to a successful lecture. That the listener, indeed, has a share, and an important one, in the success of the lecture is the crux of the whole matter, and needs, therefore, thoroughly to be understood. The lecturer’s part is clear; the listener’s not so much so. One that benefits from a lecture is not content to sit passively and “be pumped into”; that gives no play to his own mind. Nor will he be an automatic recording machine; that calls for industry, but scarcely intelligence. His part rather is one of active mental effort. The speaker’s mind acts, and his reacts and assimilates; it recognizes important matter, observes digressions, takes note of illustrations, relates part to part, and distinguishes the true sense from other meanings likely to become confused with it.

Stated thus, the idea will perhaps be accepted readily enough; but it is so important that a tangible illustration will be helpful to show just how it works in actual practice. If we take up Huxley’s address on A Liberal Education, we come upon a passage of exceptional inter . As we read it we absorb it; but we do more than that: we try to anticipate its main idea, we comment on its significance, we question its validity. In the bracketed remarks in italics that follow there is an attempt to show how an alert reader is likely to react on the ideas as they unfold. Thus:

And by way of a beginning, let us ask ourselves—What is education? Above all things, what is our ideal of a thoroughly liberal education?—of that education which, if we could begin life again, we would give ourselves; of that education which, if we could mould the fates to our own will, we would give our children? [An interesting question: I wonder how his definition will fit the education I am receiving.]

Well, I know not what may be your conceptions upon this matter, but I will tell you mine, and I hope I shall find that our views are not very discrepant. [I have heard it said that education is a development of all one's mental powers. I wonder if that is his idea?]

Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game of chess. [What's this?]

Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look, with a disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a pawn from a knight? [That certainly is true. But how will he make the connection?]

Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. [Yes, the point seems well made. But doesn't that seem to limit education to learning facts, not developing powers?] The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated—without haste, but without remorse.

My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture a calm, strong angel who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win—and I should accept it as an image of human life. [Seems convincing from the point of view of success, certainly.]

Well, what I mean by Education is learning the rules of this mighty game. In other words, Education is [Now we're coming to it.] the instruction of the intellect in the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and their forces, but men and their ways [That's the thing to remember. But it's a larger meaning for Laws of Nature than I'm accustomed to. Is it fair to include so much?]; and the fashioning of the affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in harmony with those laws. [His idea includes character, then, after all.] For me, education means neither more nor less than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of numbers, upon the other side. [Yes, there he has summed it up—the centre of his thought. See if he will show it to be practical as a working theory.]

Results of Good Note-taking.—Now this process of query and comment is not note-taking, but it is presupposed in note-taking. And it makes possible a correct answer to the question as to wherein lies the final usefulness of notes. It shows that behind the accumulation of jottings is our mental attitude as note-takers—the most important thing. Our notes should, indeed, be useful for purposes of review; yet that usefulness is not their chief value. They should be full, yet contain only what the mind has accepted as significant. The practical value of our notes will take care of itself as a matter of secondary importance, if we devote ourselves wholly to their main purpose—to make us alert, clear-headed, and responsible as we listen to a lecture, and to serve as a ready test of the firmness of our grasp. To take good notes is not preliminary to study, but study. itself of the most vital kind; calling at once on all one's. powers of concentration, judgment, and craftsmanship.

Such being the purpose of our notes, how are we to know whether we have successfully accomplished it? The effort is intangible, incapable of being accurately. judged; but the notes remain, a clear test of results. Some way must be found of measuring the degree of success. The standard, clearly, should be high, capable of indicating the ideal perfection of notes. And that, it seems, is no less than this,—that our report be illuminating to one who has not heard the original lecture, selecting for him what was important to remember, setting forth the relation that one part bore to another, and phrasing the whole in a style both brief and accurate. Though we aim, at the time of writing, to hold ourselves to the strictest standard, we realize that we are not the best judges of our own success; notes that are really good should be clear to a stranger who picks. them up to read, or to ourselves long after, when the original subject has been forgotten.

To start with an ideal so high as this might seem to mean discouragement from the very beginning. And should we demand of ourselves that we absolutely meet the standard, such indeed would the result probably be. But the very fact of having a clear aim is enough to satisfy us at first; it matters less how far we have gone on the right road than that we have avoided the wrong road altogether. To go on then with a greater measure of self-confidence is to know that all progress is genuine progress, and no steps need be retraced. For that satisfaction, even some initial discouragement, should it be felt, would be after all but a small price to pay.

Two Divisions of Note-taking.—Thus far it has been assumed that the whole problem of note-taking is confined to the task of the lecture room. Centered there it certainly is, but not confined. We take our notes from articles or chapters read, as well as from lectures heard; and we use them, as will be later seen, for a variety of purposes. In order, therefore, that our practice be flexible enough to adapt itself to varying conditions, it seems wise to apply our principles, as we reach them, definitely to the two great divisions of note-taking,—those based on printed material, and those based on the spoken word. And since it is easier to work with the written article than the spoken lecture, it will be convenient to gain experience and confidence in the simpler problem before addressing ourselves to the more difficult. That idea furnishes a suggestion of method,—first to determine how best to work up notes from a printed article; then to adapt the process to the special conditions of the lecture.

How to Condense Notes

CHAPTER II HOW TO CONDENSE NOTES NOTES FROM READING

Finding the Substance.—Were our task in note-taking merely to select the more striking items of an article, and jot them down as they occur, there would be no occasion for writing this chapter. But enough has been already said to show how much higher is the aim, and how much more thoughtful must be the method. Since note-taking is a complex process, including both the condensation of a passage into a single note and the organization of these notes so as to bring out the plan of the entire article, it will be in the interest of simplicity if we take up at once the preliminary process, condensation, reserving for a later chapter all consideration of organization into a larger whole. In doing so we deal with the single passage only, represented by a paragraph or its equivalent, and disregard any relation it may bear to what comes before or after. It is of course somewhat arbitrary so to regard a paragraph, and we shall have to modify our practice in some measure when we apply it to the larger unit. But that will be easily done, once the essential principles of handling separate passages have been mastered. In order to arrive at these principles we have first to consider how to find the substance of a note; then how to phrase it.

Looking for Ideas.—It may safely be said, at the outset, that the real problem in notes is in dealing with ideas, not mere facts. Facts—such as names, dates, formulæ, tables, statistics—are indeed often important, in which case they should be accurately incorporated in notes; but it will generally be found that they are incidental to ideas, not independent of them. Take the statement, for example, that King Richard of England and King Philip of France took part in the Third Crusade, in 1189. That certain men travelled in company to the Holy Land in a given year is a mere fact; but when it is understood what those men represented, and why they went, the circumstance becomes significant, and constitutes essentially an idea. Oftentimes facts are grouped about an idea, in support or illustration of it. Thus, a writer who wishes to express the idea that the largest species of tree in the world is the Californian Sequoia Gigantea might give statistics as to the size of the largest specimens, their age, and their distribution, and compare these facts with statistics regarding other kinds of trees. Now, however interesting these supporting facts may be, it is the idea that is important. The facts may be grouped under the idea—in which case brackets are appropriate—or, in the interest of condensation, the facts may be dispensed with altogether: the idea must be retained. And so the general point becomes clear: mere facts may be cited in connection with ideas, either incidentally or in accompanying statements, or they may, if unimportant, be omitted; the main problem in summarizing for notes lies in dealing with the significance of things, with judgments, interpretations, conclusions—in a word, with ideas.

The next step is to test our results and to consider how we may tell whether our search has actually brought us ideas or not. And since the matter is so purely practical a one, we cannot do better than take a concrete example, and look for a plan of procedure that may be directly applied to the case. A passage from Bryce's American Commonwealth, dealing with "The Uniformity of American Life," will serve this purpose admirably. It runs as follows:

There are some extraordinary natural phenomena, such as Niagara, the Yellowstone Geysers, and great cañon of the Colorado River, which Europe cannot equal. But taking the country as a whole, and remembering that it is a continent, it is not more rich in picturesque beauty than the much smaller western half of Europe. The long Alleghany range contains a good deal of pretty scenery and a few really romantic spots, but hardly anything so charming as the best bits of Scotland or Southern Ireland or the English Lake country. The Rocky Mountains are pierced by some splendid gorges, such as the famous cañon of the Arkansas River above South Pueblo, and show some very grand prospects, such as that over the Great Salt Lake from the Mormon capital. But neither the Rocky Mountains, with their dependent ranges, nor the Sierra Nevada, can be compared for variety of grandeur and beauty with the Alps; for although each chain nearly equals the Alps in height, and covers a greater area, they have little snow, no glaciers, and a singular uniformity of character. One finds, I think, less variety in the whole chain of the Rockies than in the comparatively short Pyrenees. There are, indeed, in the whole United States, very few first-rate pieces of mountain scenery rivalling the best in the Old World.

Looking for Complete Statements.—Our first impulse might naturally be to look for a heading or a phrase that will sum up the meaning of the paragraph. Natural Beauty is the general subject, but that is vague and really tells us nothing. It might imply that the natural beauties of America are enumerated, or given praise, or denied praise. A more accurate heading would be, Comparison of Natural Beauty of America and Europe. Yet that is little better, for it gives no hint as to which way the verdict lies—the very point of the whole passage. The heading, Superiority of European Scenery to American, would answer this difficulty, but might actually mislead one into thinking that the author had abandoned his subject, the uniformity of American life, and turned to discuss standards of natural beauty. The whole difficulty vanishes when we express the thought of the passage in a complete statement—not a subject merely, but a subject and predicate. For our purpose it is not enough simply to name the subject with which a passage deals; the subject becomes an idea only when something is said about it—and that requires the definite statement of a sentence.

Testing Statements.—It is easy to frame sentences that express ideas; but how are we to know whether our statements be the right ones? The question brings us to the next point of interest. We recall from our study of rhetoric the doctrine of the "Topic-Statement," according to which every perfect paragraph is considered to be the expansion of a single idea. This idea is expressed sometimes in the words of the text, sometimes not, but it is always implicit in the paragraph, and capable of being definitely formulated. Expressed or implied, however, the topic-statement gives us the very test we wish: If the note that summarizes a passage fairly represents the. "topic" idea from which the passage may be imagined to have been expanded, then we may feel sure that the statement we have chosen is the one we are after.

What that statement is, of course, is not always evident at the first. In fact, it sometimes does not become apparent till the middle of the passage or even till the very end. Too great haste in summarizing, therefore, is likely to result in misstating the point altogether. Our object is not to scribble the first remark that seems striking, but to watch deliberately until we are sure we have clearly grasped the thought in its entirety.

The whole matter becomes tangible when we turn once more to our passage from Bryce. The first sentence is striking indeed; but as we read on we find that it emphasizes a fact that all the rest of the passage shows to be exceptional. Presently we find a statement more to our purpose, expressed definitely in the words of the text that, taken as a whole, the American continent "is not more rich in picturesque beauty than the much smaller western half of Europe." And the rest of the passage confirms us in accepting this statement as the central idea of the whole. Should we wish to find a wording of our own, we might do so a little more comprehensively, as follows: "Although America contains natural phenomena that Europe cannot equal, the scenery of Western Europe surpasses that of America in variety of grandeur and beauty." Whichever wording we choose, we find it equally true that the whole idea may be comprehended in a single sentence, and that the idea appears in its entirety only when we have read well on in the passage.

Expressing the Substance.—If it has become clear, then, how to look for the substance of our notes, we are now in a position to consider more definitely the problem of expressing or phrasing them. And here the passage that we have been examining gives us our first and most important observation.

Using General but not Vague Terms.—On looking more closely, we find that Mr. Bryce has stated both particular facts or opinions, and a generalization based upon them. It might seem, at first, that the particular facts, being more concrete and specific, are more valuable, and more to our purpose, than the generalization. But second thought corrects this view. The author is not concerned with characterizing Niagara and the Grand Cañon for their own sake, nor even with establishing the superiority of the scenery of the Alps over that of the Rockies. These details confirm his point, but do not constitute it. That point is general—the conclusion that European scenery as a whole is more varied in its beauty than American. The note that adequately expresses the idea, therefore, must obviously be in general terms,—general, but not sweeping or vague. That "European scenery surpasses American" is a general statement, but it is so sweeping as to go far beyond the meaning of the author. That "European scenery has variety" is also general, but so vague as to have no value whatsoever. Accuracy is no less important in the statement of large ideas than it is in those of particular facts. If a passage distinguishes one idea clearly from the multitude of things that might be said upon its subject, the note that sums it up must distinguish that one precise idea no less accurately.

Adding Related Ideas.—Here we might leave the matter, if we were satisfied to let the simplest of statements sum up the passage for us. But the passage under consideration is typical of many another, in which the main idea is supplemented by one or more contributing ideas. The fact that our most satisfactory note began with the clause, "Although America contains natural phenomena that Europe cannot equal," suggests the thought that a paragraph having one or more ideas contributing to a main idea can best be represented by a sentence having, two or more clauses clearly related together. The unity and emphasis of the paragraph are brought out by the unity and emphasis of the sentence. Stated thus, the matter may seem at first rather technical, but in practice we find ourselves adopting the device unconsciously.

This will appear in its practical aspect if we select a few typical examples to stand for the many that are constantly arising. Let us assume, then, that a passage contains two contrasted ideas, that might be suromed. up thus:

European scenery surpasses American in beauty. American scenery, on the other hand, surpasses European in grandeur.

The two statements may readily be related together in a compound sentence, as follows:

European scenery surpasses American in beauty, but is surpassed by American in grandeur.

Should the two statements, however, consist of a main idea supplemented by a subordinate one, the sentence that relates them is complex, with the main emphasis clearly on the main clause. Just such a sentence, in fact, is the one beginning "Although," with which we summarized the passage from Bryce. Another typical case occurs when the relation between two ideas is one of cause and effect, with the emphasis, naturally, on the latter. Thus:

The points of scenic interest in America lie far apart. They are for that reason little sought out by travellers.

The relation is readily indicated by the appropriate conjunction:

Since the points of scenic interest in America lie far apart, they are little sought out by travellers.

Adjective and adverb clauses are also useful in supplementing a main idea with additional information. An example is furnished in this sentence:

The Alps (which are readily accessible from all parts of Europe) are much sought out by tourists (as can be seen by noting the statistics of railroads and hotels).

Because we have taken pains thus to analyze certain cases, it by no means follows that our actual practice is formal and deliberate. On the contrary, these sentence forms, like others that might be instanced, are in familiar daily use, and are likely to be used unconsciously. While we are accustoming ourselves, however, to the practice of quickly summing up a complex idea, it will often be helpful to have these typical sentence moulds definitely before us, that we may the more readily pour into the appropriate one any idea that obviously fits it.

NOTES FROM LECTURES

The methods used in condensing a topic from a spoken lecture are in a general way the same that are used in summarizing a printed passage. Yet there is a differ- ence; and we can apply the general methods best when we have grasped clearly just what the new conditions are. At first glance, we are impressed most by the greater difficulty of the problem in the lecture room over that of the library; and there are indeed valid grounds for that impression. The chief difficulty, of course, is that the lecture does not stand still while we search for its successive ideas, but flows on and on; if we do not grasp the thoughts as they pass, we lose them altogether. And the task seems more complex, of course, if we have to keep the ear intent upon listening, the mind upon condensing, and the pen upon transcribing, all at the same time. Yet as we gain experience, we find that the difficulties are not so great as at first appear; that, in some respects, the problem of the spoken lecture is, in fact, the easier of the two. Let us see.

Taking Sufficient Time.—We shall do well, in the first place, if we rid ourselves of nervous hurry in taking down the points of a lecture. This is not merely because tense, over-anxious straining prevents free exercise of the mind, but for the simpler reason that there is no need of special haste,—that there is time enough. A speaker is not content to crowd one important idea close upon the heels of another: he prefers to dwell upon it, to enforce it, to add illustrations, to amplify with comment. While he does so, there is time and to spare for the listener to phrase and jot down the essential thought. This becomes obvious when we compare the small compass of an adequate set of notes with the actual length of an article or lecture. It is illustrated tangibly in the example of notes from Bryce, as given in the next chapter. Simple observation makes the general point perfectly clear. It is not only bad policy but bad judgment to take notes with nervous haste; the speaker needs reasonable time to unfold his ideas, and we may ourselves take reasonable time in condensing them.

Observing Signals of Voice.—But how are we to pick out the significant point from the comment and illustration that accompany it? That seems the difficult part; but in point of fact there are conditions in the spoken lecture that simplify it beyond our realization. To the eye, the successive sentences in a paragraph are all uniform—the same type, the same spacing. But the speaker's voice is flexible, and has varied ways of indicating the significance of any given passage. One way is to pause and to speak with greater deliberation, when the words have special importance. Or a speaker may accent a significant sentence by the pitch of his voice, or its stress. In bringing out the special importance of certain words he is not unlikely to go so far as to repeat them, not only adding to their emphasis by so doing, but giving extra time for transcribing them in the note-book. If a lecture be drawled in a monotone, it is indeed a trying task to pick out what we wish to preserve; but when the voice is continually commenting upon and interpreting the text, the problem is more than half solved for us.

Yet more is this the case when the lecture, instead of being read, is informally phrased from notes in the speaker's hand. Under these circumstances the style is likely to be much looser; there is more emphasis on the main ideas, less upon secondary aspects; repetition is more common; there is greater simplicity of treatment. The speaker may even pause to indicate specifically what are the salient points worth recording.