Note: The image for this is three characters from the wonderful comic Asterix. Get it? Three characters of Asterix. Like a dinkus. I knew you would find that as funny as I do.
Every novel is made not only of words, but of silence. The spaces between paragraphs, the pauses between scenes, and the visual signals that tell a reader something has shifted all work together to shape how a story is experienced. One of the most curious and enduring of these signals is the dinkus, a small typographical ornament that quietly tells the reader that time, place, or perspective has changed. Though it often goes unnoticed by casual readers, the dinkus has a long history and a specific narrative purpose, especially when contrasted with the simpler use of blank lines.
The word “dinkus” itself sounds whimsical, and in a way it is. It is a printer’s term that came into English from American printing slang in the nineteenth century, likely adapted from a German or Dutch word used informally for a decorative mark. Early printers and typesetters used the term to refer to any small typographic ornament that had no literal meaning but served a visual function. Over time, “dinkus” narrowed in usage to describe the asterism-like symbols or decorative breaks placed between sections of text.
In early printed books, these marks were not merely decorative flourishes. Printing was expensive, paper was valuable, and layout decisions mattered. When a chapter ended or a significant shift occurred within a chapter, printers often used ornamental breaks to make the transition clear without wasting space on a new heading or excessive white space. Rows of stars, floral ornaments, or symmetrical glyphs served this purpose. These marks told the reader, in a purely visual way, that something had ended and something new was about to begin.
As novels became more common and more experimental in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, writers began to rely on these visual cues to manage increasingly complex narratives. Multi-plot novels, shifting points of view, and non-linear timelines all benefited from a clear signal that the story had jumped. The dinkus became a quiet collaborator in storytelling, bridging the gap between narrative flow and reader comprehension.
By the time modern fiction emerged in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the dinkus had settled into a familiar form. Often it appeared as three centered asterisks, a small ornamental divider, or a simple typographic symbol. Its job was no longer decorative in the ornate sense but functional. It marked a break that was more significant than a paragraph change but less absolute than a chapter break.
This is where the distinction between a dinkus and a blank line becomes especially important for novelists.
A blank line, or extra line break between paragraphs, typically signals a soft pause. It tells the reader that the immediate action has shifted slightly, but that the scene itself continues. The point of view may remain the same. The setting usually remains the same. Time has not moved much, if at all. A blank line is often used when the emotional focus changes, when dialogue gives way to introspection, or when the narrative breathes before continuing. It is a subtle cue, one that most readers absorb without conscious thought.
In practical terms, a blank line often represents continuity. The characters are still in the same moment, even if the narrative lens has tilted. Perhaps a conversation ends and the protagonist reflects internally. Perhaps a physical action concludes and the consequences begin to unfold. The blank line gives space without implying distance. It is the equivalent of a pause in speech, not a change of topic.
A dinkus, by contrast, carries more narrative weight. When a reader encounters a centered symbol or decorative break, they subconsciously prepare for a more substantial shift. This may be a change in time, such as moving from evening to the following morning. It may be a change in location, such as cutting from one city to another. It may be a change in point of view, especially in novels that alternate between characters within the same chapter.
Crucially, a dinkus often implies that something happened in the gap, even if it is not shown on the page. The reader understands that life continued offstage. Characters slept, traveled, waited, or lived through hours that were not narratively important enough to dramatize. The dinkus functions as an ellipsis in space and time, compressing events while still acknowledging their existence.
This is why many writers use a dinkus when a scene switches to the next day. Night passes. Morning arrives. Nothing crucial needs to be shown, but the passage of time matters. A simple blank line would not carry enough weight to suggest that an entire night has elapsed. A chapter break might feel too heavy-handed, especially if the larger narrative arc continues seamlessly. The dinkus sits perfectly between those extremes.
Understanding this distinction helps writers avoid a common pacing problem. When significant time jumps are handled with only blank lines, readers can feel disoriented or cheated, as though they missed something. When every minor shift is given a dinkus or a new chapter, the story can feel choppy and over-segmented. The visual language of the page should match the narrative language of the story.
Modern publishing practices have simplified the appearance of the dinkus, but not its function. Many contemporary novels use three centered asterisks because they are universally supported by fonts and typesetting software. Others use a single glyph or a small horizontal ornament chosen by the publisher. Regardless of its exact form, the meaning remains largely consistent across genres.
That said, conventions are not laws. Some writers intentionally blur the distinction between blank lines and dinkuses to create uncertainty or fluidity. Literary fiction, in particular, sometimes plays with these expectations, using white space itself as a thematic element. Even in these cases, however, the reader’s ingrained understanding of typographic signals is part of the effect. Subverting a convention only works if the convention exists in the first place.
It is also worth noting that digital reading has subtly changed how dinkuses are perceived. On e-readers and phones, where pages reflow and margins shift, the dinkus remains one of the few stable visual markers of narrative transition. A blank line can be less noticeable on a small screen, while a centered symbol still stands out. In this way, the dinkus has proven remarkably adaptable, surviving the transition from hand-set type to pixels.
For writers, the key question is not whether to use a dinkus, but why. Every structural choice should serve the story. If a scene break implies elapsed time, a change in narrative footing, or an offstage development, a dinkus is often the clearest and most reader-friendly choice. If the break is more about rhythm, emphasis, or emotional shading within the same moment, a blank line is usually sufficient.
The dinkus may be small, but it carries centuries of typographic tradition and narrative logic behind it. It is a reminder that storytelling is not only about what is said, but about how the page guides the reader through silence as well as sound. When used thoughtfully, it becomes an invisible hand, gently moving the reader forward through time without ever needing to explain itself.
In the end, the dinkus endures because it respects the reader. It does not announce its purpose. It does not demand attention. It simply says, quietly and clearly, that the story has moved on, and invites the reader to move with it.
Another great article on the dinkus: https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2018/06/08/ode-to-the-dinkus
Totally different uses of the word dinkus: https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Dinkus
