I have nothing against rules. They're indispensable when playing Monopoly or gin rummy, and their observance can go a long way toward improving a ride on the subway. The rule of law? Big fan.
The English language, though, is not so easily ruled and regulated. It developed without codification, sucking up new constructions and vocabulary every time some foreigner set foot on the British Isles—to say nothing of the mischief we Americans have wreaked on it these last few centuries—and continues to evolve anarchically. It has, to my great dismay, no enforceable laws, much less someone to enforce the laws it doesn't have.
Certain prose rules are essentially inarguable—that a sentence's subject and its verb should agree in number, for instance. Or that in a “not only x but y” construction, the xand the y must be parallel elements. Why? I suppose because they're firmly entrenched, because no one cares to argue with them, and because they aid us in using our words to their preeminent purpose: to communicate clearly with our readers. Let's call these reasons the Four C's, shall we? Convention. Consensus. Clarity. Comprehension.
Also simply because, I swear to you, a well-constructed sentence sounds better. Literally sounds better. One of the best ways to determine whether your prose is well constructed is to read it aloud. A sentence that can't be readily voiced is a sentence that likely needs to be rewritten.
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