Say It Again, Will: Anaphora

GEORGE:
Master Shakespeare, are you with us?

SHAKESPEARE (warm, amused):
Indeed, sir. I am ever at your elbow—though I confess, your age is wondrous. In mine own day, men grew old chiefly by avoiding theaters.

GEORGE:
Ha! We’ll take the win where we can.
All right—anaphora. I’m going to pronounce it slowly so I don’t embarrass myself: a-NA-pho-ra.

SHAKESPEARE:
A fair stumbling, sweetly done. And what think you it means?

GEORGE:
Here’s my best “general adult” definition: anaphora is when you repeat the same word or phrase at the beginning of a line or sentence—and that repetition builds rhythm, emphasis, and emotional force.

SHAKESPEARE:
Aye. Like a drumbeat that gathers soldiers—or gathers tears.

Transcript

This podcast is Celebrate creativity and this series is Conversations with Shakespeare.  My name is George Bartley and I'd like to welcome you to
“Say It Again, Will: Anaphora”

SFX: soft museum hum / or gentle candle-flame crackle (your choice)
MUSIC: brief Renaissance-lute theme under (5–7 seconds), then fade.

GEORGE (Host):
Lantern lit! Curtain up!
Welcome back to Conversations with Shakespeare—the show where I try to keep my questions modern, and Master Shakespeare keeps my ego… appropriately Elizabethan.

Now—quick note for listeners: today we’re talking a little bit more about a rhetorical device. Don’t run away. “Rhetorical device” simply means a tool a writer uses to make language more memorable, more persuasive, more musical—sometimes all at once.

Tonight’s tool is called anaphora.

GEORGE:
Master Shakespeare, are you with us?

SHAKESPEARE (warm, amused):
Indeed, sir. I am ever at your elbow—though I confess, your age is wondrous. In mine own day, men grew old chiefly by avoiding theaters.

GEORGE:
Ha! We’ll take the win where we can.
All right—anaphora. I’m going to pronounce it slowly so I don’t embarrass myself: a-NA-pho-ra.

SHAKESPEARE:
A fair stumbling, sweetly done. And what think you it means?

GEORGE:
Here’s my best “general adult” definition: anaphora is when you repeat the same word or phrase at the beginning of a line or sentence—and that repetition builds rhythm, emphasis, and emotional force.

SHAKESPEARE:
Aye. Like a drumbeat that gathers soldiers—or gathers tears.

GEORGE:
Exactly. But here’s what I want, Will—
Not just the definition. I want the “how.”
When did you use it? Why did you use it? And how do we hear it working?

SHAKESPEARE:
Then we must go to a man who speaks as if his heart is a courtroom—
A Jewish individual in Venice, pressed and mocked, who pleads not for pity but for recognition.

GEORGE:
Shylock?
SHAKESPEARE:
Shylock.

GEORGE:
Before you quote, quick listener note: The Merchant of Venice can be a tricky play—comic on the surface, thorny underneath. We’re not doing a full interpretation today - that's for later.  We’re currently doing a “writer’s workshop” moment: how a device makes a speech hit harder.

SHAKESPEARE:
Wisely said. Now—hear the anaphora. Hear the repeated “If you…” like a hammer on a nail:

“If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?”

GEORGE (softly):
That repetition—“If you… If you… If you…”—it’s like steps down a staircase. Each line lands harder.

SHAKESPEARE:
Just so. Anaphora does three labors at once.
First: it organizes thought—makes it easy for the ear to follow.
Second: it intensifies feeling—each line adds pressure.
Third: it invites the audience to answer, even if silently. The questions are a net.

GEORGE:
So you’re not merely stating. You’re cornering the listener—politely.

SHAKESPEARE:
“Politely,” he says—while I hold the dagger to their conscience.

GEORGE (laughs):
Now we’re talking.
Let me ask this: when you wrote that speech, were you thinking, “Ah yes—anaphora, the rhetorical device”?
SHAKESPEARE:
Sometimes a poet knows the name of the tool. More often, he knows the effect he wants—
and his hand reaches for the tool as a carpenter reaches for a hammer.

GEORGE:
So: effect first, label later.

SHAKESPEARE:
Most times, aye. And mark this: anaphora is especially useful when a character is trying to be heard over noise—noise of prejudice, noise of mockery, noise of the crowd.

GEORGE:
That’s such a practical “stage” point. This isn’t just literature on a page—this is language that has to cut through an audience.

SHAKESPEARE:
And through an actor’s breath. Repetition helps the performer. It gives the voice rails to run on.

George
Mr. Shakespeare could you repeat that example of anaphora for me so I can look at the qualities of the first phrases again?

Certainly George,
“If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?”

GEORGE:
Okay—give me the behind-the-curtain version. If I’m an actor, what does anaphora do for me?

SHAKESPEARE:
It gives you momentum.
The first “If you…” begins.
The second “If you…” commits.
The third “If you…” convinces.
And the audience—without knowing the term—feels the rising structure in their bones.

GEORGE:
I love that: structure you can feel.
Now—because some of my listeners might be writers and speakers, let’s make this practical.
Master Shakespeare, if someone wants to use anaphora today—podcast host, preacher, teacher, activist—what’s the simplest way to do it without sounding corny?

SHAKESPEARE:
Three rules—plain as bread.

GEORGE:
Go on.

SHAKESPEARE:
Rule one: Keep the repeated phrase short. Two or three words is plenty.
Rule two: Each repeated line must advance the thought—no mere echo.
Rule three: Use it where emotion rises: grief, anger, urgency, vow, prayer, persuasion.
Anaphora is a staircase; do not climb it to nowhere.

GEORGE:
Beautiful. “A staircase; do not climb it to nowhere.”
I’m stealing that. (With attribution!)

SHAKESPEARE:
Steal away. I stole half of mine from Plutarch and the rest from tavern talk.

GEORGE:
All right—let’s do a little “workshop.” I’m going to try anaphora, and you tell me if I’m doing it right.

SHAKESPEARE:
Proceed. I shall either crown you—or pelt you with metaphorical tomatoes.

GEORGE:
Okay. Here goes.
(clears throat)
“When we listen, we learn.
When we listen, we soften.
When we listen, we change.”

SHAKESPEARE:
Not ill! The phrase is short, the meaning advances, and the feeling rises.
But—if you wish it sharper, make the last line less abstract. “Change” is noble, yet misty.

Try: “When we listen, we learn.
When we listen, we soften.
When we listen, we let the other live in us.”

GEORGE:
Oh—that’s gorgeous. And slightly terrifying.

SHAKESPEARE:
Art should be a little terrifying. Else it is upholstery.

GEORGE:
So anaphora can be gentle or fierce, depending on the context.

SHAKESPEARE:
Aye. In comedy, it can be playful—like someone tripping over their own insistence.
In tragedy, it can be a bell tolling.
In persuasion, it is a marching foot.

GEORGE:
Let me circle back to Shylock for one more moment.
In that speech, the anaphora is doing something moral: it insists on shared humanity.


SHAKESPEARE:
Yes. Repetition is insistence made audible.

GEORGE:
And that’s the hidden trick: the device isn’t decoration. It’s function. It’s purpose.

SHAKESPEARE:
Now you speak like a playwright.

GEORGE:
Careful. Don’t encourage me too much. I’ll start writing sequels.

SHAKESPEARE:
Most sequels are crimes.

GEORGE:
Fair.

SFX: small laugh beat / page flip

GEORGE:
All right, friends—there’s your rhetorical tool for today: anaphora—repetition at the beginning of successive lines to build rhythm, emphasis, and emotional power.

Master Shakespeare, any  words for the listener who thinks, “I’m not a writer; why should I care”?

SHAKESPEARE:
Because you speak.
Because you persuade.
Because you comfort.
Because you argue.
Because you promise.
And when you must be remembered, repetition is a lantern in the dark.

Remember, Anaphora is the repetition of the same word or phrase at the beginning of successive lines or sentences.
It’s the opening repetition—the “same start, again and again”—that builds rhythm, pressure, and emotion.

GEORGE:
And for listeners who like a quick “real life” example, you’ve heard anaphora everywhere:

“I need a break.
I need a plan.
I need a change.”

Same beginning. Different landing. Your brain loves the pattern.

SHAKESPEARE:
The ear loves a path it can follow.

Pop Quiz Corner (10 seconds)
GEORGE:
All right—pop quiz, no trauma this time.

GEORGE:
Now, Master Shakespeare—would you give us one more example of how you used anaphora.

SHAKESPEARE:
Certainly. Let us go where the sonnet lives: in a narrow room of fourteen lines, where one must make music, argument, emotion—quickly.

Sometimes I begin line after line with the same small word—often “And”—so the feeling accumulates like wave after wave.

Anaphora can sound like insistence.
Like grief that keeps returning.
Like thought that cannot let go.


GEORGE:
So the repetition isn’t laziness—it’s pressure.

SHAKESPEARE:
Aye. Each repeated beginning says: “This matters. And this also. And this also.”

GEORGE:
That’s such a helpful listener clue: if the start of the line keeps repeating, you’re probably hearing anaphora.

SHAKESPEARE:
Yes. The device is built for the voice. A listener can catch it even when they cannot name it—until now.

GEORGE:
Okay—what does anaphora do to an audience?

SHAKESPEARE:
Three things.  

GEORGE:
Naturally.

SHAKESPEARE:
First: it creates rhythm—the listener settles into a beat.
Second: it creates emphasis—each new line feels connected and purposeful.
Third: it creates emotion—because repeated beginnings can sound like pleading, praying, praising, protesting.

GEORGE:
So it can be gentle—like a lullaby—or forceful—like a rally speech.

SHAKESPEARE:
Exactly. A whisper can repeat as well as a shout.


GEORGE:
All right, workshop time—because this is where listeners feel accomplished.
I’m going to try anaphora for a podcast line, and you tell me if it’s working.

SHAKESPEARE:
Proceed. I shall sharpen it, not shatter it.

GEORGE (clears throat):
“Tonight we listen for pattern.
Tonight we listen for power.
Tonight we listen for the moment the language starts to sing.”

SHAKESPEARE:
Very good. “Tonight we listen…” is clean and repeatable.
And your third line lands with image. That is how anaphora wins: same opening, stronger ending.

GEORGE:
Let me try a shorter one—more like a motto:
“We notice the pattern.
We notice the pressure.
We notice the turn.”

Shakespeare
Ah! Great correction. Listeners—did you catch that? Same beginning: “We notice…”

Buzzer
Now it's time for pop quiz corner - one more quick win

Which is anaphora?

A) “Bright days, dark nights, long memories.”
B) “In bright days we laugh. In bright days we hope. In bright days we try again.”


SHAKESPEARE:
That is easy. B.

GEORGE:
Yes! Same start: “In bright days…”

The Warning
GEORGE:
Master Shakespeare, what’s the danger? When does anaphora go wrong?

SHAKESPEARE:
When it becomes a habit rather than a choice.
When every paragraph begins the same way, the audience grows numb.

Use it where emotion rises, where argument tightens, where you want the listener to feel the build.

GEORGE:
So: a spotlight, not the whole lighting system.

SHAKESPEARE:
Precisely.

GEORGE:
Friends, that’s anaphora: repeating the same beginning—again and again—to build rhythm, emphasis, and emotional force.

And if you remember nothing else, remember this:
If the start keeps repeating, your ear is catching a tool at work.

SHAKESPEARE:
And now that you can hear it—will you not hear it everywhere?

GEORGE (smiling):
Yes. Yes, we will.

Good night, Master Shakespeare.

SHAKESPEARE:
Good night, sir.

GEORGE (warm):
Lantern in the dark—here we are again.

MUSIC: Renaissance-lute theme returns softly.