Conceding and Refuting

One way to appeal to logos is to acknowledge a counterargument—that is, to anticipate objections or opposing views. While you might worry that raising an opposing view could poke a hole in your argument, you’ll be vulnerable if you ignore ideas that run counter to your own. In acknowledging a counterargument, you agree (concede) that an opposing argument may be true or reasonable, but then you deny (refute) the validity of all or part of the argument. This combination of concession and refutation actually strengthens your own argument; it appeals to logos by demonstrating that you understand a viewpoint other than your own, you’ve thought through other evidence, and you stand by your position.

In longer, more complex texts, the writer may address the counterargument in greater depth, but Lou Gehrig simply concedes what some of his listeners may think—that his bad break could be a cause for discouragement or despair. Gehrig refutes this response, however, by saying that he has “an awful lot to live for!” Granted, he implies his concession rather than stating it outright; but in addressing it at all, he acknowledges a contrasting way of viewing his situation—that is, a counterargument.

Let’s look at an example by Alice Waters, a famous chef, food activist, and author. Writing in the Nation, she argues for acknowledgment of the full consequences of what she calls “our national diet”:

from Slow Food Nation

Alice Waters

It’s no wonder our national attention span is so short: We get hammered with the message that everything in our lives should be fast, cheap and easy—especially food. So conditioned are we to believe that food should be almost free that even the rich, who pay a tinier fraction of their incomes for food than has ever been paid in human history, grumble at the price of an organic peach—a peach grown for flavor and picked, perfectly ripe, by a local farmer who is taking care of the land and paying his workers a fair wage. And yet, as the writer and farmer David Mas Masumoto recently pointed out, pound for pound, peaches that good still cost less than Twinkies. When we claim that eating well is an elitist preoccupation, we create a smokescreen that obscures the fundamental role our food decisions have in shaping the world. The reason that eating well in this country costs more than eating poorly is that we have a set of agricultural policies that subsidize fast food and make fresh, wholesome foods, which receive no government support, seem expensive. Organic foods seem elitist only because industrial food is artificially cheap, with its real costs being charged to the public purse, the public health, and the environment.

(2006)

To develop a logical argument for better, healthier food for everyone, Waters refutes the counterargument that any food that is not “fast, cheap and easy” is “elitist.” She does that by redefining terms such as “cheap,” “[eating] well,” “expensive,” and “cost.” She explains in a step-by-step fashion the “smokescreen” of price that many people use to argue that mass-produced fast food is the best alternative for all but the very wealthy. She points out that “[o]rganic foods seem elitist only because industrial food is artificially cheap” (emphasis added). Waters asks her readers to think more deeply about the relationships among availability, production, and distribution of food: she appeals to reason.