Description, an imperfect and not very exact definition in which one tries to know a thing by certain properties and situations that are particular to it, it is sufficient to give an idea of the thing and to distinguish it from other things, but does not develop the nature or essence of the thing.

The Grammarians content themselves with descriptions , the Philosophers want definitions. See Definition.

A description is the enumeration of the attributes of a thing, several of which are incidental as in how a person is described by their actions, words, writings, responsibilities, etc. At first glance, a description seems like a definition; a description is even exchangeable with the thing described, but the thing described cannot be completely known because a description does not fully contain or fully expose the essential attributes of the thing. For example, if we say that Damon is a stylish young man who has his hair, who has a black cloak, who frequently keeps good company, and pays court to such and such minister; it is evident that we don’t really know Damon since the things with which we construct him are exterior and incidental—young, hair, black cloak, socialite, pays court—these things do not make up the character of the person. A description is therefore not strictly a response to the question quid est? or “what is it?” but also responds to the question of quis est? or “who is it?”

In effect, the principal function of descriptions is to convey singularity or individuality because subjects of the same species do not differ greatly in their essences, but only by hic & ille , [1] and these differences are not sufficient enough to observe or distinguish. But the members of the same species differ greatly in their non-essential properties: for example, Alexander was a scourge, Socrates a sage, Augustus a politician, Titus was just.

A description is therefore properly the meeting of non-essential properties by which one thing is easily distinguished from another, although these things differ little or nothing in nature. See Accident, Mode, etc.

Description is a favorite figure of Orators and Poets, and one can distinguish different types in their work: 1. descriptions of things like a battle, a fire, a contagion, a shipwreck; 2. descriptions of time otherwise called chronography. See Chronography; 3. descriptions of places also called topography. See Topography; 4. descriptions of people or characters that we call portraits. See Portrait. Descriptions of things must present images that show objects in time; this is what Boileau does with languor in Le Lutrin :

But how is it that all the descriptions that describe objects well, that by precise images render things present—not only that which is great, extraordinary, or beautiful, but even that which is disagreeable to see—please us so much? It is because the pleasures of the imagination are extremely extensive. The principle of this pleasure seems to be an action of the mind that compares the ideas that are born from the words with the ideas that come from the very presence of objects themselves. That is why the description of manure may please the understanding by the accuracy and the propriety of words used to describe it. But the description of beautiful things is infinitely more pleasing because it is not only the comparison with the original painting that fascinates us, but we are also delighted by the original itself. Most men prefer Milton’s description of paradise to the one he gives of hell, because in the latter, fire and sulfur do not satisfy the imagination as do the flower beds and fragrant groves: yet, perhaps the two paintings are equally perfect in their genre.

However, one of the greatest beauties of the art of description is to represent objects that can excite a secret emotion in the reader's mind and put his passions in play; and what is unique is that the same passions that we find disagreeable at any other time please us. When beautiful and vivid descriptions develop in our hearts, we find that we like to be frightened or distressed by description , even though we feel so much anxiety from the fear and pain that come to us from other causes. We regard, for example, the terrors that we imprinted on ourselves with the same curiosity and the same pleasure that we find upon looking at a dead monster: the more frightening its appearance, the more pleasure we feel in having nothing to fear from it. So when we read in some story the descriptions of injuries, deaths, tortures, the pleasure that these descriptions create in us does not come only from the pain they cause, but also in the secret comparison we make between the characters in these situations and ourselves not being in these situations.

Just as the imagination can represent to itself things even bigger, more extraordinary, and more beautiful than those which nature usually offers the eyes, it is acceptable and worthy of a great master to gather all the beauty possible in his descriptions . It does not cost more to create a larger perspective than to create a limited one, to paint everything that can make up a beautiful rural landscape—the solitude of the rocks, the cool forests, crystal clear water, their soft murmurs, the greenness and fortitude of lawn, the Sites of Arcadia—than to depict only some of these objects. They must not be represented as we see them by chance every day, but as we imagine they ought to be. We must add illusion and enchantment to the soul. In a word, an author, and above all a poet, who describes from his imagination with all the bounty of nature in his hands to give him the charms he chooses, provided he does not modify nature too much, wants to excel, and does not fling himself into the absurd. But good taste and genius will guarantee good description . See Mr. Addison's reflections on this matter.

Translator's Notes

1. Latin for “this and that.”

2. Translation of this passage of Le Lutrin comes from Michael Marrinan and John Bender’s The Culture of Diagram (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010), 84.