Over the next two hours, Simon taught us more about topics than I had

imagined possible—or healthy.

According to Simon, the topic is a statement of the main point on which
two or more people disagree:

That Jane is an unreliable friend.

That the government should not bail out the big banks.

An easy test for whether a proposition is an appropriate topic is to write it

in the opposite form:

That Jane is an unreliable friend.

That Jane is not an unreliable friend.
That the government should not bail out the big banks.
That the government should bail out the big banks.

Both sides of the disagreement should be able to say that the statements
fairly describe what they and their opponents believe.
The defining characteristic of a debate topic was that it allowed for two
sides. So a general subject area such as “the economy” or “health care” could
not be one because it did not identify the particular debate in question. Nor
could a topic be a purely subjective opinion, such as “I am cold,” since the
other person could not argue that “no, you are not cold.”
Broadly speaking, people disagreed about three sorts of things—facts,
judgments, prescriptions—and each one gave rise to its own type of debate.
Factual disagreements center on claims about the way things are. They
take the form “X is Y,” where both X and Y are empirically observable
features of the world.
 Lagos is a megacity.
The crime rate in Paris was lower in 2014 than in 2016.

Normative disagreements concern our subjective judgments about the

world—the way things are or ought to be, in our view. They take the form “A
should be considered B” or “We have good reason to believe that A is
B.”

Lying is (should be considered) immoral.

(We have reason to believe that) tomorrow will be better.

Prescriptive disagreements relate to what we should do. These usually take
the form “C should D,” where C is the actor and D is an action.

Our family should get a gym membership.

The government should not impose limits on freedom of speech.

“In reality, we disagree about many things at one time. We clash on facts,
judgments, and prescriptions, sometimes in the course of a single sentence.
So our job is not as easy as identifying what we are arguing about. It is
instead to disentangle the multiple threads of disagreement and to chart a
course for resolving some of them.”
He went up to the board and wrote up a topic.

We, as parents, should send our children to the local public school.

“Now, circle what words could be contentious—that is, could spark a

disagreement between the two sides—and spell out the argument.”
I copied the sentence into my book and circled the word send. The answer
seemed obvious: this was a dispute about what ought to be done—a
prescriptive disagreement.
 We, as parents, should send our children to the local public school.

Everyone in the room arrived at the same answer, but Simon appeared
unimpressed. “What else could the two sides disagree about? Try to picture
the two sides looking at this sentence. Their perspectives will differ on some
words. Which ones?”
The next minute passed in silence. Then something clicked and people
began shouting out answers. The two sides could disagree about “local public
school.” They might have different factual information about what the
schools are like (e.g., the number of teachers) and conflicting judgments
about the purpose of school (e.g., the importance of academic achievement
versus belonging to a local community). They might also disagree about the
needs, personalities, and wishes of “children,” as well as the responsibilities
and obligations of “parents.”

We, as parents, should send our children to the local public school

Simon said the exercise, known as topic analysis, revealed the layered-
ness of arguments. What seemed to be one disagreement could, in fact, be
several, and a failure to recognize this multiplicity led people to speak past
one another. “How can we hope to make progress if the two sides are not
even having the same discussion?”

“What you heard from the previous speaker were not arguments.
Those were assertions. He never gave you any reasons to believe what he
said. He just told you what he believed and used a lot of emotive words.
Well, I’m sorry, but that doesn’t cut it in a debate.
“Look back on your notes, ladies and gentlemen. Ask yourself—even
if you agree with the opposition, especially if you agree with the
opposition
—did they present a convincing case for their conclusions?”
 A spurt of color flooded my cheeks. I reacted, at first, with
incomprehension and outrage: What was she talking about and, in any
case, who did she think she was? Then I heard a quieter voice venture a
more troubling question: Could she be right? I reached for my speech
notes, but then, noticing the crowd’s gaze oscillating between Debra and
me, I froze in place and tried to turn my face to stone. Debra turned to
the results of her vivisection, a taxonomy of my errors.
“A claim made without reasons or evidence (‘The death penalty is simply
abhorrent’) was an assertion; a claim made without evidence (‘Logic
dictates that the death penalty should deter crime’) was speculation; and
a claim reliant only on evidence (‘This botched procedure in Georgia
shows that the death penalty is completely unreliable’) was a
generalization.” –IMPORTANT FOR REBUTTALS

First, to come up with an argument, start with a conclusion—the fact,

judgment, or prescription that one wants the listener to accept.

Bob is not a nice person.

Second, take the conclusion, add the word because, and fill in the
sentence. This is the main claim, or the point that the argument will have to
prove.

Bob is not a nice person

because he is inconsiderate of other people’s feelings.

 Third, take the main claim, add the word because, and fill in the sentence.
This is the reason—a consideration in favor of a claim.
Bob is inconsiderate because he is often cruel to others, including to his
friends.

Fourth, support the reason with evidence—a piece of information or fact

from the real world.

At dinner last Friday, he made hurtful comments about Sheryl’s

job.

An argument contains nearly infinite space for improvement. A speaker

could always come up with more reasons and evidence, as well as
better versions of each. Then he or she could devise more and better
arguments to form a case. However, the point was that an argument is
incomplete without these elements.

The fact that Bob is inconsiderate means he is not a nice

person because, regardless of his intent, he causes people a
great deal of pain.
This last step revealed what Bruce described as an argument’s “two
burdens of proof”—that is, the two things that an argument has to prove
before it can have a chance of convincing a listener. These burdens apply to
almost every argument we encounter daily and are known as the “truth” and
“importance” conditions:

Truth: The main claim is factually correct or otherwise believable.

Importance: The main claim supports its conclusion.

 For the argument above—Bob is not a nice person because he is
inconsiderate of other people’s feelings—these burdens are:

Truth: Bob is, in fact, inconsiderate of other people’s feelings.

Importance: If Bob is inconsiderate, we should conclude he is not
nice.

The argument needed both legs to stand. If the speaker could not show that
the main claim was true, the whole point was moot. If he or she could not
show that it was important, the listener was within their rights to respond with
a big shrug: .

In the back of the classroom, a narrow room where every stray sound
echoed, I ripped out a sheet of paper from my notebook with what discretion
I could manage. Then I began to write down a design for a rhetorical exercise
of my own. I reduced the debate argument to its most basic form and arrived
at a structure centered around the four Ws: what, why, when, and who cares?

What is the point?

Why is it true?
When has it happened before?
Who cares?

The structure was simple, but it contained the most essential features of a
good argument. For example, on the affirmative for the topic “That we should
abolish jury trials,” I might have written:
 What? We should abolish jury trials because they result in an
unacceptable number of wrong verdicts.

Why? Juries do not understand legal evidence. They are

unduly swayed by the media and also reflect the inherent
biases of their societies.
When? Lawyers in the U.S. attest in overwhelming numbers to
the “CSI effect,” a term used to describe the distortionary effect
of television shows on juries’ understanding of forensic evidence.

Who cares? A wrong verdict is a miscarriage of justice for the

victim, the accused, and the society at large. It also reduces
confidence in the criminal justice system.

The four Ws also applied to arguments we made in our everyday

lives. Though we could not plan our points in advance, we could
easily reach midstream for the other elements. For example, if
the eldest daughter in a family of five opposed her parents’ plan
to adopt a dog, she could strengthen her position with an
argument that answered the four Ws: What? We should not
adopt a dog because we will never go for walks.
Why? Everyone is too busy. On Wednesdays, we don’t get home
until 8:00 p.m.
When? The last goldfish we brought home from the store died due
to neglect.

Who cares? The dog will be unhappy without regular walks, and
members of the family will fight over this added chore.

I sensed the temperature in the room begin to rise, though the gas heater in
the corner appeared as inactive as ever. In the grip of this heat, I resolved to
write a hundred arguments over four weeks—a number round and ridiculous
enough to plausibly suggest magic.
 Rebuttal, or the art of taking down an opposing argument, is
straightforward in theory. As Bruce had explained to me years earlier, an
argument has two burdens of proof: to show that its main point is true and
that it supports the conclusion.

We should criminalize marijuana

because it is bad for people’s health.

Truth: Marijuana is, in fact, bad for people’s health.

Importance: If marijuana is bad for people’s health, we should

criminalize it.

No argument can succeed without meeting both of its burdens.

So it follows that one can take down an argument by showing that it is
untrue or unimportant or both.

Un-truth: Marijuana is not, in fact, bad for people’s health.

Un-importance: Even if marijuana is bad for people’s health, we
should not criminalize it.

This insight forms the basis of all rebuttal, on issues great and small: We

should buy a new car

because the old one is out of fashion.

Un-truth: The old car is not, in fact, out of fashion.

 Un-importance: Even if the old car is out of fashion, we should
not buy a new car.

There are several ways to show that an argument has failed to meet its
burdens.
Truth rebuttal says the target argument contains inadequate information.
Its content may be factually incorrect (“No, people are not buying fewer
hatchbacks these days”) or lack evidence (“You haven’t given any reasons
for me to believe that people’s tastes are changing”). There can be conflicting
information that makes the point inconclusive (“Yes, that’s what Cars Daily
says, but Motor Enthusiasts reckons something else”).
Importance rebuttal takes two forms. One says the target argument is
unimportant—that it does not provide a reason to support its conclusion. An
opponent may be making a logical leap or misjudging the relevance of their
argument (“Who says we have to drive a fashionable car?”).
The second says the target argument is outweighed by other
considerations—that it does support its conclusion but that there are good
reasons to reject the conclusion nonetheless. There may be better
alternatives (“Yes, we should drive a fashionable car, but we could do that
by modifying the old one”) or competing considerations (“Yes, we should
drive a fashionable car, but we should also live within our means”).

“Democracy lives and dies on the ability of citizens to choose good

representatives. Politicians make decisions based on their personal beliefs,
experiences, and relationships.” Paula’s voice, resonant and grave at first,
began to climb in pitch. “Access to information is not a luxury. It is our right.
The personal is political and information is power.” Like an open flame, her
voice swelled over the vowels and crackled on the consonants.
I gripped my felt-tip pen, then reached for Paula’s argument: “The media
should intrude because personal information helps citizens choose good
representatives.”
The argument had two burdens of proof:
 Truth: Personal information, in fact, helps citizens choose good
representatives.

Importance: If personal information helps citizens choose good

representatives, then the media should intrude.

This gave me three openings for attack. I could say the argument was
untrue, unimportant, or outweighed by other considerations:

Untrue: No, personal information does not help citizens choose

good representatives. The majority of this information is gossip
and hearsay.
Unimportant: The fact that personal information may help
citizens choose good representatives does not mean the media
should intrude. Installing CCTVs in candidates’ homes would
also produce revealing information, but we’d never allow that.

Outweighed: Even if the media has good reason to intrude into

politicians’ lives, doing so would inflict collateral damage on
their families and loved ones.

The coach said he appreciated our passion but that, in our rush to tear
down the other team, we had missed a crucial point: disproving opposing
arguments was not the same as proving one’s own case.
“Your job in this debate was not to show that the other side had crap
arguments or that they were bad people. It was to convince the audience to
pass this sweeping restriction on media freedom. I don’t think you did that.
No amount of no is going to get you to yes.”
Bruce explained that the best debaters ended their rebuttal with a positive
claim. They switched from attacking what they opposed to advocating for
what they supported, and thus answered the question: If not this, then what?
“If media companies are not driven to advance the public interest, then
what drives them? If a right to information is the wrong principle to
prioritize, then what is the right one?” He described this final step of rebuttal
as providing the counterclaim. “After the destruction, you have to supply a
better answer.”