Mission 2026: Binge reviewing (and rereading on occasion) all previous Reads, I was too slothful to review, back when I read them.
Reading Cecelia Watson’s ‘Semicolon: The Past, Present, and Future of a Misunderstood Mark’ is a strangely intimate experience.
One does not expect intimacy from punctuation, from a mark so small it can be overlooked entirely, yet Watson manages to turn the semicolon into a character with a biography, a temperament, a history of scandal and redemption.
And for me, reading this as a professional English tutor added a particular, almost private pleasure. Watson’s book felt less like an abstract history of punctuation and more like a vindication of countless classroom moments—those pauses where a student hesitates, unsure whether to end a sentence or let it breathe a little longer.
The semicolon, in her telling, becomes a pedagogical ally: a mark that rewards attentiveness, judgment, and confidence rather than rote rule-following.
I found myself thinking of lessons where grammar stopped being mechanical and became ethical—about choosing clarity without flattening thought, connection without confusion. In that sense,
‘Semicolon’ affirmed something I have long suspected but rarely articulated: that teaching English is not about enforcing correctness so much as nurturing sensitivity to rhythm, nuance, and the courage to let ideas meet each other halfway on the page.
The following eight chapters make this book up:
1) Deep History: The Birth of the Semicolon
2) The Science of Semicolons: American Grammar Wars
3) Sexy Semicolons
4) Loose Women and Liquor Laws: The Semicolon Wreaks Havoc in Boston
5) The Minutiae of Mercy
6) Carving Semicolons in Stone
7) Semicolon Savants
8) Persuasion and Pretension: Are Semicolons for Snobs?
By the time you finish the book, the semicolon no longer sits passively on the page; it glances back at you, knowingly, as if it has survived far worse accusations than your mild hesitation about whether to use it in the next sentence.
Watson begins not with rules but with birth, and this is crucial. The semicolon does not emerge from a grammar handbook or a classroom chalkboard but from Renaissance Italy, from a moment of exuberant disorder when punctuation had not yet been shackled into obedience. Venice in the late 15th century was not merely a city of canals but a city of presses, ink, ambition, and intellectual bravado.
The semicolon is born there in 1494, and Watson treats this birth not as an accident of typography but as a deliberate aesthetic choice. It is half comma, half colon—visually and philosophically—a compromise made visible, a pause that refuses to choose between continuation and conclusion.
The figure who midwifed this birth, Aldus Manutius, emerges in Watson’s telling as something like a Renaissance hacker: a printer who thought deeply about how texts should move through the world and through the mind.
Manutius was obsessed with flow—how a reader breathes while reading, how quickly the eye travels, how thought unfolds across lines of ink.
His innovations extend far beyond the semicolon itself. He refines Greek typography so that ancient texts can circulate more widely; he invents italic type, slanted and elegant, a visual cue for emphasis and intimacy; he shrinks books into portable objects by folding pages again and again, creating what we would now call paperbacks.
The semicolon fits naturally into this ecology of efficiency and elegance. It is a tool for speed and nuance at once, allowing sentences to stretch without breaking, to hold complexity without collapsing into chaos.
Watson’s prose lingers lovingly on this moment when punctuation was experimental, when readers and writers tested marks the way musicians test scales. There were no fixed rules, only tendencies, preferences, instincts. Humanists repunctuated classical texts not out of pedantry but out of belief: belief that how a sentence pauses changes how it thinks. The semicolon, in this light, is not a technical convenience but a philosophical statement. It says that thought is not always binary, not always period or comma, not always end or continuation. Sometimes thought hovers.
The early semicolon is promiscuous in the best sense of the word. It appears where it pleases, inserted by printers and writers according to feel rather than prescription. Watson delights in this looseness.
For centuries, the semicolon wanders through texts without a stable job description, invited into sentences because it feels right, because something in the rhythm demands a longer pause than a comma but refuses the finality of a full stop.
This indeterminacy makes the semicolon vulnerable. Once rules arrive—and rules always arrive eventually—the semicolon is accused of being vague, pretentious, and unnecessary. Watson shows how a mark born in freedom suffers under standardization.
The first serious attempt to civilize the semicolon in English comes with Ben Jonson, and Watson treats this moment with gentle irony. Jonson, poet, critic, arbiter of taste, does not so much tame the semicolon as give it a respectable alibi. He defines it as a pause longer than a comma, shorter than a period, a place where one imperfect sentence leans into another.
This definition, slightly awkward and faintly apologetic, gives the semicolon a foothold in English prose. Because Jonson uses it, others follow. Authority confers legitimacy, even in punctuation.
Watson is acutely aware of the politics embedded in this process. Marks survive not because they are inherently superior, but because powerful writers endorse them.
Yet legitimacy comes at a price. As grammar hardens into doctrine, the semicolon becomes suspect. It is too flexible, too suggestive, too resistant to simplification.
Watson traces the slow accumulation of hostility around the mark, a hostility that is often emotional rather than logical. The semicolon, she suggests, irritates because it exposes the writer’s thinking in motion. It refuses the neat packaging of ideas. It insists on adjacency rather than hierarchy. In a culture increasingly obsessed with clarity as speed, the semicolon looks indulgent.
The book becomes particularly fascinating when Watson documents the real-world consequences of punctuation disputes. This is where the semicolon steps out of literature and into law, into violence, into history.
1) Two law professors in 19th century Paris settle a disagreement over semicolon usage with a duel.
2) In 20th century America, two men accused of the same crime receive radically different sentences because of ambiguous punctuation.
3) Alcohol sales in Boston are suspended for years because a semicolon destabilizes a statute.
4) Even the prosecution of Nazi war crimes is momentarily threatened by a misplaced mark.
Watson does not sensationalize these anecdotes; she lets them accumulate, quietly devastating. The implication is clear: punctuation is not decorative. It governs meaning, and meaning governs lives.
What makes Watson’s treatment compelling is her refusal to moralize. She does not argue that semicolons are inherently good or bad. Instead, she shows how they function as stress tests for language systems. Where precision is demanded, ambiguity becomes dangerous.
Where ambiguity is necessary, over-precision becomes oppressive. The semicolon sits exactly at this fault line. It is neither fully binding nor fully separating. It creates relationships without specifying their nature. That is its power—and its peril.
The middle sections of the book read like a salon argument conducted across centuries. Watson assembles the semicolon’s critics with care, letting them speak in their own voices. The contempt is often theatrical. Grammarians sneer; novelists mock. Kurt Vonnegut famously dismisses semicolons as ornamental proof of higher education. Others call them effete, cowardly, and pretentious. The vehemence is striking. One does not usually hate punctuation this much unless something deeper is being threatened.
Watson suggests—without overstating—that the semicolon becomes a proxy for anxieties about class, education, and authority. To use a semicolon is, in some eyes, to signal elitism, to flaunt learning, to slow the reader down.
In an age that prizes accessibility and speed, the semicolon feels like resistance. It demands attention. It asks the reader to linger in uncertainty. That is an unforgivable sin in certain stylistic regimes.
And yet, the haters are rarely consistent. Watson’s treatment of Mark Twain is quietly devastating. Twain publicly disparages semicolons, compares them to parasites, boasts of excising them from his prose. Yet his most famous novel contains them in abundance. Watson does not accuse him of hypocrisy; she simply lays out the evidence.
The semicolon, it seems, sneaks into sentences when writers are not looking, when thought outruns doctrine. It appears when complexity insists on being held together rather than chopped apart.
On the other side stand the lovers: Henry James, Virginia Woolf, Fitzgerald, Melville. Watson’s reading of Melville is particularly rich. In ‘Moby-Dick’, semicolons proliferate not because Melville is showing off, but because his sentences are doing too much work to be neatly divided. They sprawl, digress, double back, accumulate metaphors. The semicolon becomes structural, a series of small nails holding an unwieldy architecture together. Remove them, and the building collapses.
Watson’s sensitivity to literary texture shines here. She understands that punctuation is not merely grammatical but musical. A period shuts a door. A comma opens a window. A semicolon keeps two rooms connected, letting air flow between them.
This is why writers who care about rhythm gravitate toward it. It allows sentences to think aloud.
The book’s later chapters feel almost elegiac. Watson surveys the modern landscape of writing—emails, text messages, marketing copy—and notes the semicolon’s retreat. Brevity rules. Declarative clarity trumps nuance. The semicolon, with its subtlety and patience, feels out of place. It belongs to a slower tempo of thought, one that allows ideas to coexist without forcing resolution.
Yet Watson refuses to write an obituary. Instead, she frames the semicolon as a specialized instrument, like a cherry pitter in a kitchen drawer: unnecessary for daily meals, indispensable when needed. This metaphor is both humble and defiant. It rejects the idea that language must always be optimized for efficiency. Some tools exist for pleasure, for precision, for moments when thought exceeds simple structures.
What lingers after finishing the book is not a desire to use more semicolons indiscriminately, but a sharpened awareness of choice. Watson does not evangelize.
She educates, contextualizes, humanizes. The semicolon emerges as a survivor—mocked, misused, misunderstood, yet stubbornly present. Its history mirrors the history of writing itself: experimentation giving way to standardization, followed by rebellion, followed by forgetting, followed by rediscovery.
Reading this book feels, at times, like listening to a defense attorney argue for a client everyone has already judged. But Watson is too intelligent to plead innocence. She knows the semicolon can be abused. She knows it can clutter prose, obscure meaning, signal insecurity. What she insists on is proportionality.
The semicolon is not a crime; it is a risk. And all interesting writing involves risk.
In the end, ‘Semicolon’ is not really about punctuation. It is about how we tolerate complexity, how much ambiguity we allow ourselves, how patient we are with thought that does not arrive prepackaged. The semicolon stands as a small, defiant mark against a culture of either/or. It says: both can exist; one can lead into another; meaning can be relational rather than absolute.
Closing the book, one feels oddly protective of this tiny glyph. Not because it needs saving, but because it reminds us of something fragile and essential: that language is not a machine but a living system, shaped by breath, hesitation, and desire.
The semicolon survives because writers, at certain moments, need to refuse the tyranny of the full stop.
They need a pause that is not an ending.
They need, briefly, to keep going.
A brilliant book. Most recommended.