THE

NOTESONCRAF FORYOTING\TRITER

as famous as-arcacherof creativewriting based own works. In this Practical'instructive handbook' he explains' he gave, on the coursesand seminarsthat of ;i-piy and cogently, the principles and techniques good wrltlng.

ALMOST JOHN GARDNER\TAS as he was for his

gets "It will fascinate anyone interested in how fictiur a bacome will it writer put ogether For the young '.r...rri'ru encouraging an tttttt handbook, a iudge, invesfriend...in che first half of the book, Gardner treats he half' second In the is. rigatesiust what fiction with filled is Fioion Art of The sJecific'technicalmatters. licrure, counsel,wise encouragement'" -John lJHeureux, The New YorkTinet BooAReaiew not iust "A denselypackedbook of adviceto all writers, and.funny' and young onar...It is serious'Provocativ lirerature"' about cares who anyorre to it i ...5--*a -Margaret Manning, The BoslonGlobe "He lap out virtually everything a Persor-lmight want to k ro* ltbout] how to sayit, with good and bad examin a ple, and iudgments falling like autumn leaves Ncrvemberstorrn." Post -William McPherson,The Washington "The next best thing to a graduate workshop i" T' tionwriting. Dra*iig on examplesfrom Homer to Kafka of to Joyce Caiol Oat.t,-Gardner unravels the-mpteries view'" of point and diction structute, plJt, se.tterrce -Book-of-the Month Club News

Inc' dcsign by Keith Sheridan Associates, C-over

JheART-

,fFICTION
Notes on Gaft for YoungWriters

JOHNGARDNER

VintageBooks A Divisionof Random House New York

CoPytight Fim VintageBooksEdition,Jrnuary 1985. of JohnGardner.All rightsreserved @ rcSrby th6 Estate Copyright andPan-American undei Internationel Random in the United Statesby Published Conventions. by in Cenada House,Inc, New York, andsimultaneously Limited,Toronto. Origindly RandomHouseof Cenada by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. in tp8+ published is madeto the following for Gratefulacknowledgment to repri-ntpreviouslypublishedmaterid: permission andGiroux, lnc.: Excerptfrom'Views of Farar, Srraus Mv FatherWeepins" from Ciry Life,'copyright@ 1969, by permision of Reprinted r6loby Donald'Barthelme. andGiroux,Inc' This pieie first appeared Farrar,Straus inThe New Yorker.Excerptfrom "i'he FancyWoman' fromThe CollectedStoriisof PeterTaylor,copyright by by PeterTaylor. Reprinted renewed1968 r94r,1969, andGiroux,Inc. of Farrar,Straus permission Inc.: Excerptfrom SettmGotbic Toles, RandomFfouse, copyrightiqr+ by HarrisonSmithanil Dinesen, by Isak 'Robert Inc.,cofyright renewedI96ub-yIsak Haas, Inc. House, Reprinted bv peimilsionof Random Dinesen. or tbe Ameicert From the Iirtroductiorito Superfiction An Anthology,by JoeD*id StoryTmnsformed: by JoeDavidBellamy. copyright Bellamy, @ 1975 House, Inc. of Random Repriited b! permission ExcerptfromThe Gentleman Simon& Schuster: ftom by OlgaSharae' Frrnciscoby IvanBunin,translated San Pres,Inc. Square by Washington copyright @'1963 'Rcpiinted of Simon& Schuster. by peimission Library of Congres Catalogingin PublicationDrtr Gardner, John,1933The en of ficdon. index. Includes t. Fiction-Technique.I. Tide. 1985 8o8.1 %-+ooo6 PN3355.G34 (Pbk.) ISBN o-39a-7zs++-r of America the United States Manufacturedlin

To allmy aedive+riting nde*s, ml m allny fellau urcbertof cteaive witkg

Contents

Preface [trl
PART I

Theory Notc onLitemry-Acsthetic t Aexhaic Lmt rnd Aninic Mlnery |ll Drern ItZJ z BuicSkilb,GnrqcndFictionas bgl 1 lnnest ndTnnb q MetafiertoarDeconsttaetion, anillwing Aroand [8:]
PART N

Proces Notes ontheFictional Enors tgZl 5 Cormnon 6 Teclmirye Uztl 7 Plotting b6tl Ex*cises bgfl Inder lzolJ

Preface

Thi$ is r book designed to teachthc seriousbeginnirg wrircc dre art of fiction I esunrefrom the ouset that the would-bc writer rsing this book cen becomer succesful vniter if hc wents m, sinqemostof the peopleI've known who rranted to bccomewriterg knowing what h meent,rlid becomewriters About dl that b requiredis that thc would-be writc understandclearly what it is that he wrrts ro becomeaud whet hs must do to become it If no mener how hard hc tries he simply qurnot do whet he mus do, thb book wi[ h.lp hir understrod why he \rns not sent into the world to bc r writer but for sorneotlrr noble purpooa Books on midqg tend to mstc much of how dilficult it is o becomer succesful writer, but the truth is draq though thc ability to vnite well b pertryrr giftJike the ability to ple)'basketballwe[ or to outgues thc stoct mark*-writing ability b mainly a product of good teachingsupponedby a deepdown love of writing. Thoogh learningo write tekestime md r grert deal of pnaicc, writiog op to the rrcrldb ordinary sundardsis frirly eeqy.As r metterof fect, mostof the bools onefindsin drugstores, supcfmarLets, end evensmall-townpublic librariesrrc nor welt wrhm rt ell; I snart chinp with e good creetire-vriting tc.ctrcs

ir

Preface
md r recl lovc of sining rround bangingI typcwriter oould hlvc wrincn bools vasdy morc intcrestingrnd clcgane Moct grown-up bchavior,when you comcright down to it' is decidPeopledon't drivc their czrsaswell, or wash cdly second-clas. as their ccn aswell, or eat eswcll, or cvenplay thc harmonica This is not to $ry poplc well asthcy would if thcy had sensc. rrc tcrriblc rnd should be replaccdby machincs;peoplc arc cxccllent rnd admirablccreaturesieffciency isn't cverything. But for the scriorsyoung writer who wantsto get publishc4 it to know that most of thc profasional writers is encouraging out thcreareptsh-overs The insuuctionhereis not for cvery kind of writer-not for the writer of nurscbooksor thrillen or Porno or thc cheapcr sort of sci-fi-though it is mrc that what holds for the most scriouskind of fiction will gcncrally hold for iunk fiction as wcll. (Not cveryoneis caprblc of writing iunk fiction: It re' quira an ruthentic iunk mind. Most oeativc-wrfuingteachgn of occasiondlyhelpingto produce,by hevchad thc cxpcrience in the The most eleganttechniqucs rccidcntnr pornographer. elegant becomc mind, a through world, filtcred iunk techiunk others,is may bc to it use whatcvcr niqua.) What fosaidhcrrc, artiss. literary saidfor thc clite; that is, for serious in nvo somcwhatoverlapping Thc instruction is presented pans.In Part One, I prcsentr generalthcory of fiction" r much how it works-than closcrlook at what 6cdon is-what it does, is usual in bool$ on craft. Undcrstandingvery clcarly what 6cdon "gosfor," how it worls asr modeof thought, in short what thc ert of fiction is, is the first steptoward writing well. In Pan Two, I dealwith specifictechnicalmattersand ofrer writing orcrcises. I to sey' neithersectionof this book is exhaustive. Needless have havc includcd here everything that, over the ycars, I to sty es a crcativc-writing teacher.Some found it necessery thingr ultimetely of great imPoftanceI have found it not ncccsaly to &ly; so thcy are not in this book. Let me give rn

?reface

cmmpla Thc skillful writcr mey play gameewith narativc *yles and poina of view. Hc man for instencc uscthc tonc of thc old Germentalc-tcller ("At thc nrn of thc ccntury, in thc provincc of D--, tkrc lived . . J'), and hc mxy usc that tong which suggests great ruthority, in r story wherc in thc end wc discoverthc narrator to bc unrcliablc.For the writer who has thoroughly digcsted rhe principlc offered in thit boolq it should bc unnecesaryto call rnention to whet thc weirdly ironic usc of tonc and stylc mrst do to the narretivc. the trunk of rny scicnce Seizc securelnrnd you haveconuol of its branches. I may aswcll edd that I do not givc much emphasis hcrc to thc variors forms of unconventionalfiction now popular in universitics Sincc mctafction b by nemre r fiaion-like critique of conventional f,ction, and sinceso-caltcd dcconstructivc fction (think of Roben Coover'sstory "Noah's Brother") uscsconventional methods, it scems to mc more important that young writcrs undcrstandconvendonalfiction in dl is conr plcxity than that thcy bc roo much distractcdfrom the fundamcntal. This book rnd thc cxerciscs ar rhe cnd of it havcbccn uscd for many ycars in thc various univcnitic wherc I've taught creativcwriting, most recently SUNY-Bingh:rmtor\and rt thc Brcad Loaf Writers' C-onferencgand at universitic whert friends of mine havc aught crcativc writing. In is underground designation as "Thc Black Boolq" it has had e wide circulation emongwriters and tcachers, most of them not people I knoq friendsof friends.I've gonenperiodiccomments on thc book's effectivencss, and et the edviceof othcrs who havc usedit I've rcviscd both the main text and thc exercises again and again.I do not publish it now because it seems to me to haveat lasrreached pcrfection-for all I know, all the changes may havcmadeit a hymn to confusion-but becausc I'm convinccd that in its prescntstageit's good enoughand, so far rs I'm amrc, the mosthelpfulbookof its kind.

!l

hefae

o how adic vcrsion*I hrd m oPafttgsection trnsomc crcetivc uidng oughtto beuugln-+hc ProP6uscof b- rnd how muchshouldbe rcquiredof otuout-of-clzscxercises, bc .od so whetthe propertoneof r worbhop should dents, of the wiilo forth. I thoughtthe dirusion imporambecarse writing clnnot reallybc ryreadml*rken notionthet "creative by crcetivewriting even ooghg" rn opinionofteo exprescd since it liesomthat scction teachers In drc endI've droppcd of thisboo\ whichis simplyhowto s'rite fio cidcthedomain (n m$terl in hesringmy o,pinions tio. Anyoneinterested nore angrntiel from how one shouldonduct e wrfuers' or I PGIL write with I Pncil' oneshould worbhopto whether (answen mine of book enother theur in can 6nd r typeuniter, ot lcctures)' rsted afterrcedinSF moctcommonly to questions OaBeconkgaNovelist.

NOTESON LITERARY-AESTHETIC THEORY

AestheticLaw

andArtisticMysrcry

Whrt thc bcginningwriter ordinarily wantslr e sct of nrlc on whet to do and whrt not to do in writing 6ction. As wc'll scc, oomc general principlcs can bc sct down (Thingp to Think About When Writing Fiaion) andsomcvcry gcneralwarnings can bc offercd (Thinp to Watch Out For); but on thc wholc thc searchfor aesthcticabsolutcs is a misapplicationof thc unitcr'r cncrgy. When one beginsto be prsuaded rhrt certain things must nevcr be done in fiction and cenain other things must alweys bc done, one has cntercd the first stegeof aesthctic anhritb" thc diseasc that cnds up in pcdantic rigidiry and thc etrophy of intuition. Evcqy truc work of an-and thus cvcry ettcmpt at art (since things mcant to bc similar must submit to onc standard)-must bc iudgcd primarily, though not exclusively, by its own laws.If it hasno laws,or if its laws arcincoherent, it feils-usually-on thatbasis. Trustwonhy aathetic universals do cxist, but they exist at such r high level of absuectionas to offcr almostno guidencc to the writer. Mosr supposed aesthetic ebeolutes prove relative undcrpressure. They'rc lrws, but thcy slip.Think, for instancc, of the wcll-known dicrum that all cxpectarions raisedby thc work of fiction mustbc srtisficd,cxplicitly or implicitln within

flTEORI ON LTTEMRY-AESTITETrc NOTES

thc fiction-the idea,to Put it anotherw.y' thet all legitimatc howmisedin the reader'smind must be answered, questions told if arc we Thrs, for examplg work. the inside nrbtly, wer an in philoaophy' Ph.D. r story has a given in thn a shirifi him help will somehow philosophy expecution is raisedthat in the story dohis fob. If philosophyis neveragainmentioned no imporreveals and if the most carefulscrutiny of the story t $t wey in which philcophy hasbearing'we feel dissetisfie4 annoyed.The story has,we say, Iooeeends The writer hr thc wont done his work carelesly, cynically. We may susPcct reeder'r his he scorns that monen the in it for he's him, that of end intentional b crafnmanship his shoddy that intelligencg If he preten& deponed. be he to malicious-in fact that ought to high seriousness-ifhe writes not Nmy$e{f story but sorne him s a thing evidently meantto Pastas ert-we denourrce donzel We're not talking here self-deluded faki a pretentious, rbout superficialslips lite-h Absdottt, Absalon!4^tllrnefs wood rn4 in asbuilt of, in one Passegc descriptionof r house for slip of es kind, of thi,s anoth"r place,stone.For mistakes correctios silent the tongue, the sympatheticrerder makes ert .re seriour thet ofiend in e would-bewort of The mistakes as when someider or event is inuoduced slipo in reasoning, that ought to changethe outcomebut then b forgonen' u for what it s, by the writer. And so it hr never recognized wery questirn cometo bJaxiometicthat r work shoulderffiwer themselve* fulfill that all of r work'e elemensshould it raises, Butbittme? No one will deny thlt the principle b useful' especidly abore c when applied in obvious wayq es in the exampleswhen Chikhov showsus the gun ostentatiusly loadedin Act One of Tbe Seagtll.No one will deny that eachtimc a writer he'scompleted. new work, he ought to loot it over in believes that thc the light of this generalprinciple.But the fact remains tlrc since from absolutg luppfu aestheticlaw is far from i: with havechovmimprtience bqgl""l"g of time greet unfuers

Aenhaic ltu ard Ardtt c Mlnery

E"ery rcadcr of Homer's ltiadb stirreal to sk whether Achillc lcally lovesBriseus or simplythinls of her-+s Aganremnon does-esr war priza The point b importantbecause it pro foundlyrffectsour iudgment of Achillc'chancter. If he both hvesBriseus andcpnsiders her his righdul prize (asof counc sheb), we haveadeguete motivation for hisrvithdrawdfron t{revnr, r withdrawel thet mustresultin the deeth of ftirnd!. If hc does not lovc her,lre b lik.ly ro soem to us petty md vindictive, r sulkychild too sensitive, evenfor r Grech about hb honor. Criricalgd will andHomer's highvaluetion of hb herohrd usto es$rmc tlut Achillc does loveBdserudrough dso,rs thenrenty-fourthbookmrkcscleer, hecxaggemtcc tho vdueof honor of thesonbestowed by othersBut erctpt onog b-"dy, thrcughthe mouthurd p,cnnt of view of e sccondery chrnctcr (Achilles'friendhtroHoc), Homcrrcfr$cssny d irvr to otu questioo. It's esif the whoh mattfr scerndo him bcnesth eph dignir'', mcrctcr-tablcgoslp pbrhepc, s torm scholars heve ergud Greekherocs thought it unmenl)r to c.rl veqymucheboutwomenOr, on the otherhand, pcrhapwitb $ a*p Tnseof whatb right rnd hb Grcekcouirty oi love'r placein the all-cnrbncing ordcr of Zers (r subiect-ue*erl in trc OQssey), Homerwouldbc shockd by o* doubrof hb hero'cgrcat-heenedness; thet b perhap hc thoughtAchillef lovc went without srying.But c'hatcvcrhb reason, Homcr gives rs only whathnokks thinla-.or clrirm he thi"t t in r rituetionthlt rright inclinhin o llF{nd offerg in hb osn noclue voioe, Tate another,more modernexamplaIn Slnkespcercl Hlrnlf wc mmrally askhow it b thrlwhen shipped ofi o whrt b mErntto bc hb deatb the rsually indecisivc princc to hobt his cnemies with thcir oumptlrd-cn evcnt Trnqges thettekcs p1".. 9ff sagean{ rt least in thesurviving tcrr, gtt oo resl qplanrtion.If prcsod,Sihakespearc might sayth.t- tro erpects rs to recognize thatthefor out-foxed b anold modfh lioemture-h could mdrc up 6G tiremG dcreibif bc hrd

THEoRY oN LITEMRY-AESrHETIc NCnEs

to-and that the point throughout b hot Hrmlct'r indccisivcncssin gencral(any princc wonh hb salt cm knock off r pair enxfawningundcrlinp) but hissclf-dcstructivc of hfucncmy's violrtof that dilemma, e specific mctaphysical iety ashe faces ing law for a higher law in an uncertain univcrsc; that b' of r ghoct. (I murderingr stepfathcr and king on thc say-so simplify, of coursc.The proofs arc clcar cnoughfor thc ratior alisi Horatio; but Horatio b not Hamlet. The center of every and fo character; play, as of all grert litererure, Shakapcarcan the rahe that indecisivcnes rage, and it is Hamlct's panic, this once-the so decisivcly qucstion of whet madc him act docs not answcr.) But thc explanation questionShakapearc mouth is probably not thc true one. I'vc put in Shakespeareb The iruth is very likely that almostwithout bothcring to think s.w by a flash of intuition thrt thc whole it out, Shakespcarc was unimportant,off the pint; and so like Mozen, quction straight to thc hcan of tic white shark of music,he snapped the ma$cr, rcfusingto let himselfbc slowed for an instant by of plot logic or pychological consistencytrivial questions unlikely to come up in the rush of dramq though questions they do occur to us tll we Porc over the book. Shakespeare's insti"ct told hinr, "Gct beck to thc busines bctwecn Hamlet aslightning,hc wasback. and,sudden andClaudius," This refusalto be led ofi to the uivial b commonin grat literaturq as is its comic opposite,the cndlcsly claboratcdcxplanationof the obviouswc find in, for instancg thc opentnq Lhapt.t of Trbtrmr Shandy.This is no proof that thc general principlc with which wc bcgen+he principle that e work it raises-is to the questions itroutd in somcway givc answers and othcn Shakespeare, of Homer, But examplc the valuelcs. suspcrdcd. bc czn comctims laurs ecthctic thrt docs suggest taking mcens coursc laws of acsthctic rccognizablc Suspending say to hb may to phy it safc risks,end thc teachcrwho wishes but nc for e bcsudcnts, "That's dl right for Shakcspcarc, ginner." Thc trouble wittt ttris solution is that it uics to rcach

Aesthetic Lsl)tandArrtnic Mystny

thc an of fiction by shrinkingthc art, making it something moremenageable but no longerart. Art depends heavily on feeling,intuition, taste.h is feeling, not somerule, that tells the abstract painterto put his yellow hereand there,not there,and may later tell him that it should havebeenbrown or purplcor pea-green. It's feelingthat makes the composer breaksuqprisingly from hiskey, feelingthat givc the writer the rhythmsof his sentences, the pafternof riseand fall in his episodes, the proportions of alternating elements, so that dialogue goeson only so long beforea shift to descriprion or narrative summary or some physical action.The greatwriter hasan instinctfor these things.He has,Iike a greatcomedian, an infellible sense of timing. And his instinct toucheseveqy thread of his fabric, even rhc murkiest fringes of symbolic structure. He knowswhen and whereto think up and spring sulprises, thme startling leapsof the imaginationthat characterizeall of the very greetest writing. Obviously thisis not to imply that cool intellectis uselesto the writer. What Fancy sends, the wrirer must order by Judgment He must think out completely, as coolly as any critiq what his 6,ctionmeans, or is trying to mean.He must complete his equations, think out the subtlesr implications of what hc's said,get at the uuth not iusr of his characters and action but also of his fiction's form, remembering that neatness can bc carried too far, so thar rhe work beginsto seemfusy and overwrought,anal compulsivc,unspontaneous, and remembering thaq on the other hand, messis no adequrtealternative. He must think ascleanly asa mathematician, but he must also know by intuition when to sacrificeprecisionfor somehighcr good, how to simplifn take shon cus, keepthe foregroundup thcre in front and the background back. The first and last imponant rule for the creative writer, then, is that though there may be rules (formulas) for ordinary, easilypublisheble ficrion-imitation fiction-therc are no rules for real fiction, any more than there are rules for serious

THEoRY rcnrs oN LTTEMRY-ADsrHsnc

vlsual art or musical composition There rre techniquauicls, can bc studicil hunilredsof thern-that, like carpenter's considentionseveqy and taught; there are moral and aesthetic on r littlg whetheror brood later sooner or writer must serious wey; thert ere common systematic not he broodsin a highly things-+hrt of doing mistakc-infelicitieq clodpole wayr rhow up repeatedlyin unsuccesful6aion and can be sholnn of how they underminethe 6cfor what they are by *lfis tion's inrcndedefiects;thcrc arg in shorg e greet many things evcry seriors writcr needsto think ebout; but there are no nrles Namc ong and instantlysomeliterary ertlst will offer w rs' Inve somenw work that breals thc nrlc yet pcrsuades and oneof thc greatioys of tioq aftcr dl, b rn's mainbusines* .cceP&$le' e3 evcry artist comeswith making the outrageous or when the painter mrkc sturply clashingcolors harmonious aedition inuoduccs-conrtincr vnitcr in the ingly--a ghosc mis is not m sry thet no one rcally knoun what fiction b or what is limits are; it b simply o recognizethat the valuc or "saying power" of any.piece of literaturc hes to dq findly' with the ctrancter and penonality of the ani* who crcatd ftJtis instincts,his knowledgeof ert and the world, his mar tcry. Mastery holds fast Whrt the beginning writer needq as it mey bc to hear, b not a set of nrles but discouraging otherthings,ma$eq'tof the an of breakingsourastery--emong cdlcd nrles.When m enist of true ruthority sPe}c-+omeonc or MelRaeine,Dostoevsky, likc Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, ville-we listcn, dl rnentiott, even if what he seysseerr 8t frst r little queer.(At eny nrte we listen if we're old enough inough, so that we know what kinds of things ere cxperienced boitng, iuvenile,ii*pt.-*ind.d, and what thingc erc not. To a cenainkind of mastery.) needs rcadwell, oneelso thar the greatwritcr's ruthoriry consiss On reflectionwe see humar The first we rny call, loosely,his sane of two elemena. ness; that is, his tru$wortfiinessrs a iudge of things' I stability

AestbabLtu ntd Attittc Mynny

rootcd in thc mm of thosc crmplex qualitiesof his charactcr rnd personality (wiedorn,generosiry,compasio4 snength of will) to which we respond, aswe respond to whet fubestin our friends, with instant rccogrition rnd admiration" sayin& "Ycs, you're right, thaCs how it is!" The second element, or perhaps I rhould sry fmce, b the writer's ebolute tnrst (not blind flith) in his own restheticiudgmens and instincts,e trrsr grounded panly i" his intelligenccrnd sensitivity-his ebility to penoeivc rnd undentandthe world around hinHnd panly in hb crpcrienceas r cnfsman; that is (by his oum hershstendards), his knowledgg &rwn from long pncticg of whst will worlc rnd what will not. Whrt this means, in prectical tcnns for the srudentcrritcr, b thet in order to achievemasreryhe must reed widely and deeply rnd must write not iust carefully but continudly, thoughdully asesing md reasesing what he writeq because practice,for the writer asfor the concertpianist,is the heartof the matter.Though the literaqydabblermey write r fine story now rnd then, the uue writer is onc for whom techniqueher bccomg asit is for the pianist,secondnenrc. Ordinarily this means univenity education" with counesin the writing of fiction, and poetry aswell. Someimportant writers havesaid thc opposite-for insuncg Ernest Hemingwan who is quoted as h"uing saidthat the way for a writer to learn his cmft is to go rway and write. Hemingway,ic *y help to remcrnber, went ewey for free "tutorials" to rwo of the finestteachcrs then living, Sherwood Anderson andGenmdeStein, It is true that somewriters have kept themselves more or les innocentof education,that some,like Jack Londonnwere more or lessself-madc men; thar is, peoplewho scratched out an education by readingbools baween work-shiftsbn boats,in loggng camps or gold camps, on farmsor in factoric. It is true that univenity education is in many ways inimicd to the work of the eni*: Rarely do paintershrve much good to say of aestheticians or hiltoqy-of-ert profesors, rod it's cqually un-

TO

TITEORY NOTES ONLTTEMRY-AESTHEflC

"academiC'writes to loolc commonfor eventhe most scrious, of English."And it's at n'theprofession with fond admiration ncvcrPro' that life in the univenity hasalmost truermoreover, has too lifc Thc 6ction. for good matter really subiect duced but opra soap too much much trivia" too much mcdiocrity, consider: No ignoramus-no wrfuerwho haskept himselfinnocentof cducadon-has ever producedgreetert. Onc uouble with heving read nothing wonh readingis that one never fully underthat ncverunderstands the othersideof one'sergument' stands never are), (all great argumene is en old one thc argument undentandsthe digniry and worth of the peopleone has cast failure n The Grqes of Witnes John Steinbeck's rs enemies. Wrah.It shouldhavebeenone of America'sgreat books.But while Steinbeckknew all there wes to know about Okies and to 6nd work, sorrowsof their movc to C.alifornia thc countless who employed ranchers &lifornia hc knew nothing about the in, their or interest rnd exploited them; he had no clue to, asthey did; and the resultis that SteinreasonJforbchaving beck wrote not a great end firm novel but a disappointing melodremain which complex good is pitted againstunmitigatcd, unbelievablc cvil. Obfcctivity, fair-mindednas, the thesc arc someof qistcmatic purzuit of lcgitimatc evaluadon, and evenif-'+s lifc, of university thc mosthighly toutcd values is no doubt truHome profesors arc asguilty of simplification rs John Steinbcck was' the very fact that these velues are Moreover, musthavesome effecton the elertstudent. mouthed no studentcen get far in any university without cncountering the discusion method; and what this means,at le*st in any good universiry,is that the student mu$ learn to lisren carefully and fair-mindedly to opinionsdifferent from his own. In In most assemthis is not commonelsewhere. my experiencc, blia, pcople all arguc on rhc samesidc. Look at small-town o-n papcrs.Tmth is not much valued where evcryonc egrecs what thc truth is and no onc is handy to speakup for thc side

Aesthetic lau md Arthtic Mystery

tr

that's becn dismised. However bad universiry profcssors mey bc in gcneral,every greatprofessor is a manor womandevotcd to truth, and every universityhasat leastone or two of them around. But what mako ignoramuscs bad writen is not iust their incxperience in fair xrgumcnt. All great writing is in r sensc imitationof greatwriting. Writing a novel,however innovative that novel may be, thc writcr strugglcsto achicvcone spccific lrrge cffect, what can only be calledthe efrect wc arc usedto gctdng from good novels.However wcird the technique, whateverthe novel's mode, we saywhen we havcfinished it, "Now thm is e noeel!"We sayit of Anna Karminaand of Uniler the Voleano,alsoof the mysteriously constructed Moby-Dick. lf. we say it of Smuel Becketr'sWatt or MaloneDieq of ltalo Calvino'sTbe Bmon in tbe Trees,or Kobo Abc's ?be Rained Map, we say it bccause, for all their surfacc oddiry, thosc novelsproducethe familiar cffect. It rarely happens, if it hap pensat all, that e writer can achieveeffectsmuch larger than the effects achieved in bookshe hasrcad and admired. Human beinp, like chimpanzees, can do very linle without models. One may learn to love Shakespeare by readinghim on one's own-the ignoramusis unlikely ro have done even this-but thereis no substitute for beingtakcn by thc hand and guided linc by line through Othello, Handet, or King Lerr. This is thc work of the universityShakespeare course!and evenif the tcachu is a personof limired intelligenceand sensitivity,onc can find in universitiesthe critical bools and anicles most likely to be helpful,the booksthat haveheld up, and the best of the new boola. Outside the university'sselecriveprocssr onc hardly knowswhich way ro turn. One endsup with some crank book on how Shakapearewas really an erheisr,or a Communht,or a pen-name usedby FrancisBacon.Outsidethc univeniry it scems prectically imposible to cometo an understandingof Homer or Vergil, Chauceror Dantg any of the great masterswho, properly understood,provide the highest

II

NOTES ON LNEBARY-AESNTEMCTHEORT

modcb yet echievedby our civilizatiol Whrtever hb gpnir* b Yirte the writer unfamiliar with the highesteffestspossible out leser effects to search dly doomed himselfh in a bcaer Adminedly the manwho haseducated at dL But his work b surc positionthan the man not educeted io beer the mark of his limitation. If one snrdiesthe work of, the self-educateLand we do not ncan here thc mrn who $ere out with limited but rigorous an<l clasicd educetion' like Herman Melville-whet one noticset once b the spottines and therefore awkwardnes of their knowledge Orc forgives the fgult, but the frct remainsthat fo distraca rnd makesthe worL les than it might have bcen. One finds fos instance,naively ercited and lengthy discusionsof ideesthat or have long been discredite{ or one finds .re commonplece of old nytlrs-interpretetions quitky inteqpretrtions curious, nrffer by comparison in themselves, ttnt, though intercting e'ith what the myths really say and mean We rea4 let ts san as I gfudgmg, recrlcinznt wife. Thc r story rbout Penelop writing may,be superb,but when we think of Homer'sPottttil of thJtrue prfect wife, as coungeollq cunning and devoted s her husban4Homer'sversionso oushinesthe new one thet we turn dmost in ditg,st from the new writer's worl Truct one cen aseasilyget spotty knowledgefrom univeniry gmdrb rtes, and one cen as easilyget creckpot opinionsfrom univerof fooh snrdy.The sucoess rity profesorc asfrom independent But idr in the universltyworld b one of C'od'sgreetmysteries. univenity through been who's the man point that besidethe man's. rtudy crn have knowledgeas sPotty as the self-nrade oppomlutiqoffer The university can do no more than nowhereebe: r wealth of boolc' oppornrnitiesmadeaveilable profesorg anil fellow $udents' rtieast a few fi$t-rete soutss' also tectures,debategreadingc and gatheringcwhere anyonc rt alt, if he'snot too shy, can trlk with sune of the b'stnovelof thc b, poets musicianqpainterg politicians'and scientlsts ths sithin it b only qge.If foolishnesrboun& in universidleg

Aestbetic Lmut otd Artistic Mlxery

ume university world that the honct understanding of litcm. turc is a conscious discipline.No one can hope to wrire really well if he hasnot learnedhow to endyze fiction-hos to rccognizer symbolwhen it iumpsat him, how to makeout theme in a literary work, how to eccountfor r writer's selectionsnd organization of fictional details. We neednot be much disuesed by the fact thet as r rule painters have very litde good ro sty of rrt hi*orians ssd .estheticien$or that writerq eyen our best-educated rvriterq often qpres impetiencewith English profesors. The critic'r work-that is, the English profesor's-is the endpis of wh* hasalreadybeencrrinen. It b his business to qntematizewhat he readsand to present his discoveries in the way mostlikely to be beneficial to his snrdens.If he'sgood at hit ioU, he doesthb more or les dispasionately, obiectiv.ly. He may be movedby e peniorlar work, and mey let his snrdents tnow ig but though tarsnrn down his cheekqhis purpose is to makestmctruemd meaningcrJntalclear.This czn lead-from rhe artist'spoint of view-+o rwo evils. First, the profesor, and indeedhis whoh profesioq may tend to choose not the bestworh of litcrenuc but thoeeabout which it b most pmible to make nrbde ob scrvations. Since the novelsof Anthony Trollope contain rlm6t no obcure dlusionsand no difficuh rymbotism,they rrc hrrd to teacluOne sundsin front of cles mouthingphtituder, matching cbout for something intersting to sry. On the otha hrn4 one crn dazzleone's studentselmost endlesly, or eor coru"ge one'ssnrdenc to dezzle one another,with talk about dlusion andsymbolin the work of ingenious but minor writers. Subdy and insidiously, standards become perverted."Good" es an resthetic iudgment conresto mean "tricky," ,,acldemic,, ttobscure.t' This perversion of sandardslea& to the secondevil: Thc literature program westesthe young unitert timc. Insteadof dlowing him to concentrare on imponrnt books,fiom Homer'g Iliad to John Fowles' Dmiel Mfitirr, it cluners his reading

r+

THEORY NOTES ON LTTER.ARY-AESTHETIC

houn with trivia, old and new. To the cxtent that I glvcn programfeelsobligedto trclt Englishand Americanliteraturc the offenscis likcly to be comin their historicaldevelopment, pounded.Though no onc will deny that writers likc ThomCI bt*ry orssxlr GeorgeGabbe havcboth thcir innateand their for the scrious interest, they haveno morc relcvancc historical littlc Watson's D. instancc, young writer than has,for James less. of DNA. Probably bookon thediscovery robot in thc program.Suange But thc studentis no helpless to say-+ince writers so often speakhanhly of Englishpro' fcsors-young writcn arc almost always the drrlings of the young writif they'regood and serious departmcnt, cspecially writcr to work thc for always possiblc crs; so that it's almost and he needs councs the gctung arrengement' out somcspecial (Who r hatc can rvoiding thoselikely to bc useles to him. of of Drydcn, Joyccinstcad studeniwho wants'Drntcinstcad any event, no law rcquirc that And in Edwards?) Jonathrn thc student leavecollcgc with a dcgrce-Jiscounting practical All that's rcquired is that thc student get' considerations. heneeds. thc literarybackground somehow, One last rcmark and wc can cnd this digrcsion on thc im' youngwriter, of formal education. for thc serious portencc, Thc $gumcnt thet what the writcr rcally needsis cxpcri' cncein thJ world, not training in literaturc--Soth rcading and writing-has been so cndlesslyrepeatcdthat for many it has comc to soundlikc gospcl.We cannottakc timc for e full anfrom Zanzibarto the Yukon" swcr hcre-how widc cxpcrience, is morc likcly to lead to clunered tcxnrc than to dccp and movingfiction, how thc first-handknowlcdgcof r dozentredcs is likcly to bc of lessvduc to thc writer than twcnry good informrnts, thc kind onc gcts talking to in berg on Grcyhound bu*s, et panic, or on eaggingpark benchcs.Thc primary subjcct of-ficcion is end hasalwaysbccn humancmotion, valucs,end belicfs.Thc novelistNicholasDclbrnco hrs rcmarkcd nerly wcrything that by thc agcof four onc hasexpcricnced

Aesthetic IN

arrd Ardstic Myxny

I,

one needs ase writer of fiction: Iove, pain, los, boredom,ragg guilt, fear of death.The writer's busines is to make op "oL vincing humanbeingr and createfor them basicsituations and ections by means of which they comcro know themselves and rcveal rhemselves to thc reader.For that onc needs no schooling..But i-ts by training-by studying great bools end by writing-that onc learnsto presentonc's fictions, giving them thcir due. Tluough the study of technique-not o" "rnoJing logging or slinging hash-one learns thi besr, mosr efficient wap of making characterscome alive, lerrns to know the differencc berwcencmodon and sentimentaliry,lcarm to discern,in the planningstages, the differencc berween the bener dramadcactionand thc worse.It is this kind of knowledge.-to rnrn to our carliersubiect-that leads coma$ery. However hc may get ir, mastery-not s full mental cataIoguc of thc rules--must be thc writer's goal. He must ger rhe art of fiction, in all its complcxiry-the wholc tradition *a At is technical options-down through the wrinkles and uicky wiring of his brain into his blood. Nor that hc needsto learn literature first rnd writing later: The two erc inFrocesses scparablc. Evcry rcal wrirer hashad Melvillc's experience. Hc works at thc problem of Ahab and thc whale (thc idee of an indiffercnt or malevolent univcrse),hc happcns to rcad Shakcspcarcand somephilosophybooks rr thc sametime, and becauscof his rcading hc hits on hcrecofore unheard-ofsolutions to problcmsof novclisticcxploration.Mastcry is not something thrt strika in an instant, Iike e thundcrboli bur a gathcrini power thar movessteadilythrough time, likc wcather. In other words, an hasno univenal rulcs becausc eachtme anist mcls down and reforgcsall past aesthetic law. To lcarn to writc well, one must begin with e clear undcrstending that for the anist, if nor for thi critic, aesthetic law is thc .i".y. To thc grcar enist, anything whatcver is possiblc.Invcntion, thc spontaneous generadon of ncw rulcs, is central to mc And sinccone docsnot learn to bc r literary anist by sturlying first

TEEOnI IWMS ON IJIBRTRY-AE}TIIEITIC

difierent fronr e litcrery srtist' it follovn how m be something as for the great uniter he hopesto young writer, the &rt for no firm ruleg no limiq no restrictions. becomg drere can be en eyefor what--by Whsteverworls is good.He mrst develop hb oumcrrefully informedstandrrdpworls.

Basic Skills, Genre,

and FictionasDream

ff fterc rrc no ruleq or nonc wonh hb anentioq wherc b thc bcginningwritcr to begin? Often one glroo at the writcr's york tclls thc teachcr6rt x/ht this snrdentunirer needsfirsq bcforc rdfiing rn inch in the directionof 6ction, b r review of fundemcnuls. No onc crn bopeto witc well if he hasnor mastcrcd-+bolutely mestcrcd --thc rudirncnE: grunm.r and qynur prmctrretim, dictioq sentenoc vrdery, peregraphstructurc, rnd so fonlu It is tnrc drat punctrntion (for instance)is o subdcan; but its srbdcry lies in suspcnding dre rulec rs in 'Toq don'g knorr, e god, damned, thing," or "He'd secn her bcforc,heuns sureof ie" No cditcr shouldcver havcto hesitrtefor rn instantover what thc ndc to be kept or suspcnded ir. If hc whhc, the tcachermay dal s'ith the snrdent'sproblemsas the counc goesdong (rs one dealswith qpclling), but this is not et dl the best way. Lcarningto unite fiction is too seriow a business to bc mixedin sith leftoversfrom freshman composition Thc tcacher,if hc tnows what he's doing, is too valuebleto be wa*cd in drb va/; anddre snrdeng oncehe learnsthrt he can gct rid of most ptoblemsquicHy and easily,is ccnain ro want to do so. With dr p-po hclp rnd the proper book, my good srudcnt crn

r7

T8

NOTES ON LTTER^NY-ADSTHEf,IC TTIEORT

oncc and for ell, in two weks. TItc cover thc fundamentals, propr book, in my opinion, is W. W. Wan's An Amaican and efficientbook on composition the moeteccurete Rhetoric, availablc,also chc most interesting and amusing.Usually thc himself,though occesmdentcan do and corrcct the exercises to his teachcr.If hc a to takc problem need sionallyhe mey fairly clcar sign that it's r help frcquentln findsthat hc nceds he'll ncvcrbc a writcr. How the rudiments. the writer hasmastcred Let us suppose shouldhe beginon fiction?What shouldhe write about,and how can he know when he'sdone it well? is t'Write about enswer and usuallyunfortunate A common what you know." Nothing canbe morclimiting to the imagination, nothing is quicker to turn on the psychc'scensoringdc,vicesanddistortion rhantrying to write truthfully and systcms' interestingly about onc's own home town, one's Episcopalien mothcr, one's crippled youngcr sistcr. For somc writcrs, the it usuallyworksby a curiadvice may work, but whenit does, The writer writeswell aboutwhet hc knowsbeousaccident: cause he hasrcad primarily fiction of iust this kind-realistic Ymkn, thc At' f,ction of thc sort we asociatewith TDc Nc'us Iantic Mmthly, or Hnpn's. Thc writcr, in othcr words, k prcscntingnot so much what hc knova about lifc rs what he knows about a particular literary gcnre. A bcner answer, though still not an ideal one,might havebeen"\ilrite thc kind of stoqyyou know and likc bcstq ghost stoqy,a sciencc-fiction piecc,a realisticstory aboutyour childhood,ol whatevet." Though the fact is not alwaysobviousat a glancewhen we look at works of ert very cloceto us in timc, thc artist'sPrimelr basb unit of thought-his primary consciousor unconscious gezrc' his work-is of dctails thc organizing rnd for selccting most obviousin thc caseof music.A compccr This is perhaps writcs an opira, a symphony,a conccrto' e tonc Pocm' a suitc or a strcema songcycle, a sct of variadons. of country dances, piccc (a modcm psychologicalrdaptation of of-consciousnes

BwicSkillt,Geme, ml FictionssDrcan

rg

thc tone pocm). Whrtever genre hc chooscs, md to sornG cxtent depcnding on which genrche chooses, hc writcs within, or slightly varic, uaditional sffucrurrunera form, fugal structurc, ABCBA melodic structure, andso forth; or he may creet, on what hc balievc to bc somefirm basis,I new srnrcture. Hc mry croosgcnres,introducing country/dances into r s)rnr phony or, sty, consrrucing r string quaftct on thc principle of thcme and variations.If hc's looking for novelty (scldom for eny morc noble rcason),hc may trlr to borrow structurc from somcothcr art, using film, theauical movement,or somcthing clsc.When ncw forms rrise, asthcy do from timc to time, they risc out of onc of rwo procsses, genre-crossing or the clevation of popular culrurc. Thus Ravel, Gershwin, Stravinsky, and many others blcnd chsical uadition rnd Amcrican iezt-in this crsc simultancouslycrosing gcnra rnd clevrting thc popular. Occasionallyin music as in the other rrrs, elevating popular culture must bc cxtcnded to mcen rccycling trash. Elccuonic music bcgenin thc obscrvationthat thc bcepsrnd boingpthrt comc out of radiog computcrs,and thc like might sound r littlc likc music if srructure wcrc imposed-rhnh. and something likc mclody. Anyhing, in fact-as thc Dadaistq Spikc Joncs,and John Cagepoinredout-might bc rurned into something like music:thc scream of e tnrck-tirc, thc noiscof r windowshadc, the bleatingof a sheep. Wc seemuch thc samein thc visual ar$. In eny culturc ccrain subiectsbccomeclasicd, repeated by ertiscaftcr artist -for insmncc,in thc CtuistianMiddle Ages,thc rhcmeof the dcad Christ's desccntfrom the crosg thc marryrdom of St. Stcphen,the mother and child. As thc surrounding culrure chengc+thc trcatment of clasical subicca changes, popular culturc incrcasingly impingcs, ncw forms arisc-literary ilIysuadon rcplacing Biblical illustration" seculer figures porodying rcligious fig*.q "real lifc" cdgrng out illustrative painting, ncw vcntrures of thought (pychology, mathcrnatics) treditional sti[ lifcs, rooms' end lan&crpcs to

'O

NOTES ON LITENATY-AESTIIEIIIC TEEORY

dreamimag* or spatialpuzzlecThe proccs of changcin the visualam in other wordg is identicrl to that in music.SomcFtemish timesit risesout of genrecrosing, aswhen Protestant 'prsente secular family ponrait in the uienguler painters it organizationof C,atholicholy-family painten; sometimes rises out of an elevationof the PoPular'or of trashoes on cut{uts' or in the uash collager Gioao's cemprnile,in Matisse's of Roben [auschenberg;and somaimschang comcqrthc uual czse--<utof both at oncc. The sameholds true for literanue. Novehy comc cbiefly from ingeniousgenre-crosing or elevation of familiar rnr' of genre-crosing think of the bestof ths terials.fu an example 'spotted Hotss" (thc one th* threc venions of Faulkner's bcginswith the words "That Flern"), where techniqlesof thc rnd cruel humoryarn-rnainly diction, comic exaggeration, shoa the reclistic-symbolic lc combinedwith techniquesof of behind md rtory. Genre-crosingof one sort or anotheris the great literaqy an in the Englirshtradition. Chaucel lntn mO ageinplaysone form off aginst another'asin thc Knigbls Taler- vlhue, along with other, less-well-knownforms, he of rll medicml alliterr' blen& epic and romanceThe greatest blendselementl Knighr, tive poems,Sir Gruain mt the Green with romrncl of tlie canhy fabliu (in thc tunpation scenes) most powerful techniquesrre dl ruclements.Shakapeare's his combinationof proseand ve$e to rults of genre-crossing: tange of drama; his combination of ihe emotional rpand Romanhigh-styleconventionwith conventiorsdrawn from the Engtish fott< ptays, rowdy medievalmystery plays (or guil{ pltn), rnd so on; end his crosing of tragic conventionand Milton's fondncs bmi" conoentionfor the "dark comedies." of scholarship' is one of the commonplaces for genrecrossing or trash+lone or in As for the elevationof popularmaterials combinationwith nobler fonns-think of John Hawka' blend novel and the American hanlof the psychological-symbolic boitd rnlnteqf, Italo C.l"ino's blend (in tqao and Cacmi'

Blsic SkillsrGmrerandF*t;n

t Drenn

2l

cottricsl of sci-fi, fantaqf, comic-booktanguegp and imagery, movie mclodrama" and nearly werything else,or Donald Berdrelme'r transformationof such culturel trash ss thc research qffioo& the travquestionnaire, the horror*how and animated clogue md psychiauist'r uanscript Like genre-crming, thc elevationof popular or trash materialsb rn old and familiar form of innovation. It was r favorite method of late GrecL poes lite Apollonioe Rtrodic (in the Argonmtice), Romao comic poetq many of the great medievd poee (thinl of ChaucerbRime of Sh Tbopa), and poetsof the Renaisancc. The noblestof modem literary fonrr, equivdent in rengc end cultural importanceto the noblestof musicd fonns, the synr phonn bug"n in the elevation and transformationof trash when Defoe Richrdson, and Fielding begpntransmutingiunk into an. RobinsonCrusoe end Moll Flmler ryring, respectively, from the nsiveshipwrecknarative and the rogue'scorr fession;Ptnrela md Clnissa add character and plot to thc popular collection of epi*olary models for the guidanceof young lndrtsi lonatban Wilile coma from the g"llo* broa& side,or story of the chrracter and horrible crimesof the felon aboutto be hanged. Nonc of thae writerq rnciem or modern,setdoumto unitc "to expreshimself."They satdown to write rhiskind of aory or that, or to mix this form with thrt form, producingsomenqr effecnSelf-expression, whateverits pleasures, comes rbout incidcntally.It alsocomes rbout inevitably.The realisricwriter may setout to conjureup the personality of hisaungcreatingfor her, or copying from lifg some srory through which her chancter b reveded,and rhus he reveals his suong feelingr about his aunt; that rs, he expreseshimself.The fabulist-the writer of nonreelisdcyarns,tales,or febles-mey semtt first glanceto bo doing somethingquite differuu; but he b nor. Dragong tikc bankers andcandy-store owners, mustheve6rm andpredictablc characten. A ulking treg a trlking refrigerator,e alking clock mut speak in o wey we learnto recognizgmustinfluenceevents

22

TTIEORY NOTES ON LTTERARY.AESTHETIC

in ways we can identify rs flowing from somcdefinitc motivrcencomeonly from oneof rwo placc, charactcr tion; andsince bools or life, the writer's aunt is aslikcly to show up in a feblc by which one writes a story. Thus the process asin a realistic sto{F on the other,is not much fablg on onehand,or a realistic rnd diffcrdifierent.Let us look morecloselyat thc similarities cnces. thc of fiction,the writer'sfirst fob is to convincc In anypiece or to pcrreaderthat the eventshe recountsreally happened, (givcn small the readerthat they might havehappened suade thc reador clscto engege changes,in the lewsof thc universe), writrealistic Thc lic. of thc absurdity in the patent er'sinterest tdc Thc verisimilitudc. is convincing er'sway of makingevents charor somc or shapc-shifters' writer, telling storia of ghosts, By the quality a differentapproach: uses acterwho neversleeps, of his voice, and by mernsof variou devicesthat disuact thc critical intelligencghe gea what Coleridgccalled-in one of in all litcrature-"the willing sentences the mostclumsyfamous which constitutes for the moment, suspension of disbelief Poetic faith." The yarn writer-likc Mark Twain in "The Glebrated BlueiayYarn" County" or "Baker's Frog of Calaveras Jumping -uses yet another lies,or hassome method:He tellsoutrageous lie' and he charactertell the poor narrator someoutregeous both the brillianccand the falsehood emphasizes simultaneously ashe can but of the lie; that is, he tellsthc lie asconvincingly thc obiections thce also raisesobiectionsto the lie, either countryreader might raiseor, for comiccffect,literal-minded bumpkin objectionsthat, though bumpkinish,call attention to theyarn'simprobabilities. Ail three kinds of writing, it shouldbe obviouset a glancg dependheavily on precisionof detail. In writing that depends into acthe reader the writer in effectargues on verisimilitude, setting-Cleveland, actual in some his stoqy He places cepmnc. San Francisco,Joplin, Misouri-and he usescharacterswc He givesrs would be likely to meetin the settinghe haschosen.

Baic SkilbrGeme, ml Fiction a Drerm

2,

such detail about the streets, stores,weather,politicq and concernsof Cleveland(or whateverthe sening is) and such deail about the loolcs,gestures, and experience of his characters that \ve cennorhelp believingthat the story he tells us mustbe rrue. Ig fagt it may be trug as is Truman Capore'snovel In Cold Bloodor NormanMailer'sThe EsecutioneTs Song.The fact that the story is true of coursedoesnot retievc the novelist of thc responsibilityof making the characters and cvcns convincing. f'Would a motherreally say thari" by second we ask, l_._":"9 "Would a child really thinh rhar?"and if the noveiisr hasdonc ,,yes." If hc his work well we cannothelpanswering, hasdonc hiswork badln on the otherhand,the reader feelsunconvinced the -c-v-elwhen writer presen$evenrshc actually witnesed in Iife. Whar hasgonewrong,in this case, is that thi writer mised or forgot to mendon something importantto the development of the scene. For insrance, if a fictional husbandand wife ffc rrguing binerly and the wife suddenlychanges her tactics,spealcing gcntln evcn lovinglS the reader c"nnot understand or believe the change unles someclue is providedasto the reason for it. The cluemay be an evenr, perhaps a noise in another part of thc house, that reminds her thai the ihildren arenearby;ir it may be a thought,perhaps the wife's reflecrion that this is how her motherusedto,argue with her father;or the clue may be a gesture, as when the wife, after something the husband says, turns and looksout the window, providinga pause that allows her to collectherself. When the rlafisr'sliork convinces us, all effects,evenrhe most subtlg bave explicit or impticit ceuses. This kind of documentadon, moment by moment authenticating detail,is the mainstaynor only of realisticfiction but of ail fiction. In other words, while verisimilarfiction may be described generally asfiction that penuades us of its authenticiry through real-worlddocumentarion, usingrealor thoroughlytifeme loJations and characters-real citiesor citieswe ierieve to be reat althoughtheir nameshave been changed, real-life characters.

24

NmES ON LTTERARY-AESTHETICTITEORY

and so forth-thc line'by-linc names, with actualor substituted work goesfar beyondthe acctnte namingof bulk of a realist's streetsand storesor eccuratedccription of peopleend neigb borhoods. He must Present'moment by rnomenq ooncrtc of how peoplebehavg drawn from a cerefulobservation images momenB'the cxact berween andhe mustrenderthe connections that' within an,t or turns of speech facial expresions, gesruret, from emotionto emotion,from beings giu"n s".o., mooJhuman one instantin time to the next. the techniqueof the writer of talc. Whereasthc C,ompare the tale writer chrnm realistarguc the readcrinto ecceptance, or lulls him into dropping obiections;that is, penuadc him to disbelief.Isak Dinesenbeginsone of her tales: "After suspend resolved Angelino Santasillia the deathof his masterLeonidas, that he would never egainsleep.Will the narrator be believcd Neverwhen he tells the readerthat Angelinokept this resolve? story this could tcll coulsc' realist, of No it is the case." theless, a charactcr that w sinceno amountof argumentwill convince really might stay rwake for weeks,months, years.The talc grantingthat the evenc writer simplywalkspastour obiections, winning our suspension but are incredible to recount he is about of the narrator's authority and of disbeliefby the confidence onc that premise, the impossible voice. Yet aftcr establishing case of Isak opensthe door to further improbabilities-in the of Juda+at the end the appearance Dinesen's tale,asit happens, of the narrative,countinghis silver in a smdl' dimly lit roonrhis story momentby mornentby dethe tale writer documents tails of exactly the kind realistsuse.The openinglinesslightly alter natural law, but granting the elteration,what follows is and ar leastpoeticallytrue thoroughlyprobable madeto seem by the writer's closeanentionto the naturelflow of moral cause with detailsdrawn from .nd.f."t, a flow minutelydocumented Angelino walks,telks' the sleepless life. As the story progresses, whole dap prs and thinks more and more slowly. Sometimes We'tclieve" andcndsof his sentences. the beginnings between

Basb Skills, Geme, anil Fiction as Dteon

z,

the narrativcnot iust because thc ulc voicc hascharmedrn but dsq and more basicallRbecause the chrracter'sgestures, hb preciselydescribed expresion,md the reactionof othes to hb oddity all seem to us exacdywhat they would be in this suange -c situation.The imagesare as sharp and accuretelyrendered .ny in Tolstoy's Chiklboodot Arna Konhn. The sueetsho wdks, the wcather,the city's soun& md smellsdl euthendcre tfg sleeplesman'sexistence. There is, adminedln one grat diffcrenccbetweenthe useof authenticeting detaii by a rialisr rnd the useof the sameby r tale writer. fhc realistmust tuthe.nucatg continuallS bombarding the readerwith proofs; the criter of dl * sunptifn penuadingus penly byihe b..oty or interest of his language,using authenticatingdetail morc m give vividnes to the tale's key momens. Thus, -qnringly, for example, oncethe writer of'a talehasconvinced us,panly by chernLpaftly by detail,that a cerain king hasr foul tempa, hc can makesuch bald satementsas: ,,The ldng was furious. He sent everyone homg locked rll the doors, rnd had chains wrapped tight around his castle." Nevertheles the differencc b one of degree. Neither the realistnor the writer of talescur gct by without documentation throughspecifc derail. LJj!:_*. rlthe yam. C,onsider the following, from Mark _ Tunin's "Baker'sBlueiayYarn " I fint begunto understand "Ie.l coriay language rectly, there was a litde incident happened Grr. S".o ago,the lastmanin this regionbut me movedrway. )rears There sunds his house-{ecn empry ever since; e log housc, with a plankroofjust oncbig room,andno mori rrc ceiling-nothing betweenthe rafters and the floor. Well, oneSundeymorningI wassiaing out herein front oj with my crg taking the sur\ and looking rt TI Tbjl thc bluehi\ andlisteningto the leeves rustlingsolon'ety in theuees,andthinking of the homeawayyonderin the sets,rhar I hadn't heardfrom in thireen years,when a

26

NOTES ON LTTBMRY-AE$THETIC THEORY

with .n aoornin his mouth,snd blucieylit on thrt housc, 'Hcllo, I rcckon I've stnrck something.' When hc se1n, spoke,the acorn droppd out of his mouth and rolled down thc roof, of counie,but hc didn't carei his mind vmsall on thc thing hc had struck. It was a knot-holein thc roof. He cockedhb hcadto onc sidq shut onc cyc 'possum looking and put thc othcr onc m the holc like r dovn e iug; thenheghncedup with his bright eycq gavc e wink or two with his wings-which signifiesgratificasap, 'It loola like a holc, it's tion, you undcrstand--and it il a hole!'" likc a hole-blamcdif I don'tbelieve located hasbccn out in thc wildernes too long Baker,wc undersmnd, and hasgone e little dory--or clse (more likely) he's pulling who reponshisstoqyasgospcl. narretor the leg of thc crcdulous Eithei way, no onebut the nerretorimagina for r momentthat the lic delightful b the what Bakeris sayingis rruc. What makes cabinwith the knotThe crediblc. make it Baker takes to pains and physicalfeaturcs-in histoqy r It holc in thc roof exists: has fact Bakercan point to it. Detailsconvinccus thet Bakcr really did sit looking at it: It wasa Sundaymorning;his cat waswith him; he wastooking at and listcningto specificthings' thinking specificthoughts.Thc blueiay rcally did speak-thc acorn is thc proof-and further dctails labor valiantly to pcrsuadcus that'blueiaysthink: thc cockedhcad,the onc closedeye, the 'Pos' vivid imageof the opcneyeprcsed to thc knot-holc "likc e sumlookingdown a iug." vivid detailis thc life blood of 6ction. In all thi malor genrcs' of disbeliefthrough naradve voicc, Verisimilitude,suspension or the wink that callsanentionto the yam-teller'slie may be thc outer strztey of a givenwork; but in dl maior genr6' thc inner stretegy is thc samc: The rcader is rcgularly presentedwith proofs-in thc form of cloeely obcervcddetails--that what is Beforewe turn to thc is really happening. saidto be happening briefl5 at a fcw look, of thh facg lct us technicalimplicatiorrs

BwicSkillsrGerre, md Ficrton a Drecn

,7

morc cxamples, sincethe point is onc of grcat importancc. Takc ashortscene from PeterTafor's "The FancyWoman." Georgc has brought Joaephinc, the "fancy woman" or prostinrtc hc lova, hometo meet the family. Josephine has been drinking and Georgeis determined to soberher up. As he plshedJosephinc onto the white, iumpy beast he musthavecaughta whilf of hcr breath.Sheknew that hc musthave!He washoldingthe reinsclose to thebit while sheuied ro arangc herselfin the flat saddle. Then he grasped her ankleand asked her, ,,Did you takea drink upstain?"Shelaughed, leaned forwardin her saddlc, and whispered: "Two.Two iiggen." Shewasn'tafraid of the hone now, but shcwasdizzy. "George, Iet me down," shc said faintly. Shc felt thc honc's flesh quiver under her leg and looked over hcr shoulder whenit stomped onerearhoof. George said,"Confound iq I'll sober you." He handed her the reins, stepped back,andslapped the hone on the flank "Hold on!" hecalled, andher horse cantered across thelawn. dghtln and her - Josiewasclutching the lcatherstraps ,,f couldkill faccwaselmost in the horsc's manc. him for t!ul'$e said,slicingout the wordswith a sharpbreattu God damnir! The horsewrs gellopingalonge &n road. Shesawnothingbut rheyellow din. The hoofscrumbled over r threc-plank woodenbridge,rnd sheheardGeorge's hone on rhe other sideof her. Sheturned her facet-hat wry andsawGeorge throughthc hairthat hungoverher cyes. He wassmiling. "You dirry basrard," shesaid.

Who candoubtthc scene? Taylor tclls us that the horse b 'Jo*pI" and provcit by aclooely observcd detail: George hol& thc reins-asonemustto controla iumpy horse whenonc b

28

NoTEs oN LIIEMRY.ADSTHETTC 1gDony

sunding on the ground-"cloce to the bit." That Josicb sitting on a real horse, and a iump)'ong is provedby further authenticating deuils: The horse'sflesh quivers 'under her leg," and when the writer telk us that Josephine "looked over her shoulder when it stomped one retr hoofr" we rre .t onceconvinced by both the horse's actionandthe woman's response. SinceJcic bdtzzy andpresumably not r goodrider, we erefully penuaded by th. detail telling us "hetr face was almost in the horseb mane,"by the panickywey in which shetdks to henelf, 'slicing out the words with e shaqpbreath," by the fact thag riding down the din road,she"sawnorhingbut the yellow dirg" by the "three-plankwoodenbridge" (in her alarmshelools closely), by the fact that shehean George's horsebeforeshesees it, and by the fact that, turning to look er hin\ she seesGeorge "tluough the hair that hungover her eyes."Examining the scene carefullS we discover tlut something like half of it is devotedto deuils that proveits acnrality. C.ompare a short passage from r comictale in ltalo Calvino'r (translated Cocnricornics from the ltalian by Williem Weaver). The nanabr, old Qfwfq, is recdling the days, in the Carboniferousperiod of the planet,when osseoug pulmonatefislr, including Qfwfq, movedup from the seaonto land. Our family, I mustsay,includinggandparents, wasdl up on the shore, paddingaboutasif we hadneverLnown how to do anything else.If it hednt been for the ob' stinaqy of our great-uncleN'ba N'ga, we would hrrre long sincelost dl contac with the aquaticworld. Yes,we hade great-uncle who wasa fish,on my peternal grandmotherb side,to be precise, of the Coclacanthus family of the Devonianperiod (the frah-wrter branch: who ere, for that metter, cousinsof the others-but I don't want to go into dl thesequctions of kinship,n+. body caneverfollow them anyhow). So asI wassaying, this great-uncle lived in certein muddy shdlowq lmong

BariioShills,Gerre, ml Fictiut a Dteon

29

the rootsofsomeprotoconifers, in that inl* of thc lagoon where dl our ancstors had beenborn. He nwer stirred from there: at any season of the yearall we hadrc do was pushourselves over the softer layersof vegetationuntil we could feel ourselves sinking into the dampnes,and therebelow,a few palms'lengttsfrom the edge, we could seethe column of litde bubbleshe sent up, breathing heavily thc way old folks do, or the little cloud of mud scraped up by hissharpsnougalwaysrummaging around, moreout of habit than out of the needto hunt for anything. Pardy we believe, or forget to disbelieve, what Calvinotells us because of the charm of old Qfwfq's voice; and pardy we'rc convincedby vivid detail. I will not labor the point-the fishanimels "paddingebout" on shore,the vivid picturing of greatuncleN'ba N'ga'shome(the muddyshallows among the rootsof protoconifen), the vivid image of the fish-animelspushing themselves "over the softer layen of vegetation until we could feel ounelvessinking into rhe dampness," the specificiry and 'h few pdms' lengtls," the coleppropriatenas of the measure umn of liale bubblc, the great-uncle's habit of "breathingheavily the way old folks dq" the "little cloud of mud scraped up by his sharpsnout,alwaysrummagingaround,more out of habit thenout of the needto hunt for anything." C,onsider, finally, the piling up of authenticating deails in Ivrn Bunin's"The Gendemrnfrom SanFranciscor" e nore conventionallynanated,serious tale.The passage presnts .n ocan liner crossing the Adantic. On the second andthird night therewasagaine bdlthis time in mid-ocern, during the furiousstormswecping overtheoceuq whichroared like a funeral masrndrolled up mountainousseas fringed with mourningsilveryfoam. The Devil" who from the rocks of Gibraltar, thc stony

30

NOTES ON LTTEMRY-AESTHETIC THEORY

getcway of rwo worlitls,watched the ship vanish into from behindthc night andstorm,could herdly distinguish ship. Thc Devil 6ery cya of the snowthe innumerable wes as huge as a clifi, but thc ship was cven bigger, a giant. . . . The blizzardbatmany-storied, many-stacked tcrcd the ship's rigging end its broad-ncckcdstacls, firm, majesticwhitenedwith snow, but it remaincd amidst I snowy deck, rnd tcrible. On its uppermost thc cozy,dimly up in loncliness whirlwind thercloomed pondcrthc vessel's only half awake, lightedcabin, where, bearingthe scmous pilot reignedovcr its entire mass, and idol. He heardthe wailing moans blmcc of e pagan by the storm, of the siren,choked thc furiousscreeching of that which wasbehindthc wall and but the nearness to him, which in the last accountwasincomprehcnsiblc by the thoughtof thc removcd his fcars.He wasreassured which now andthenwasfilled with largc,armored cabin, and with thc dry crcaking rumblingsounds mysterious rrounda manwith of blucfircs,flaringup andcxploding catchingthc incagcrly was who a metallicheadpicce, of distinct voicesof thc veselsthat hailcdhim, hundrcds milcsrway.... Onc cansccat r glanccthet thc detailsarc symbolic,identifying by thc pride of modcrn thc ship rs r kind of hell constructed mrn and morc tcrrible than thc powcr of thc Dcvil. But my point at thc momcntis only this: that herc too, as cverywhcre in good fiction, it's physicaldctail that pulls us into thc story' makes usbclieveor forget not to bclicvcor (in thc yrrn) acccpt the lie cvcnrs we laughat it. as wc rcad, wc db' If we carcfully inspcct our cxperiencc for of physicaldctail is that it creetes coverthrt the importance use kind of dream,a rich andvivid play in thc mind. Wc rcedn fcw words at thc bcginningof thc book or thc panicular stoqy, sccingnot wordson a pagcbut a rnd suddcnlywc find ourselvcs

Baic Skilb,Gmre,anilFictiona Dretu

3r

tnin moving through Rusiq an old ltalian qying, or r frrnr housebatteredby rain. Wc read on--dream on-not pasively but actively,worrying aboutthc choiccsthe characters haveto makq listening in panic for somesound behind the fictional door, orulting in charactcrs'succeses, bemoaning their failures. In great fiction, the dreamengagcs us hean and soul; wc not only respondto imaginery things-+ights, sounds,smclls-as though they were real, wc rcspond to fictional problcmsas though they were real: Wc sympathize, rhink, and iudge. Wc act oug vicariously,the uials of thc charactcrs and lcarn from thc feiluresandsuccesses of panicular modcsof rctionr paniculer attitudes,opinions,aseftions,and beliefscxactly aswc leam from life. Thus thc valueof greatfiction, wc bcgin to suspect, is not justthrt it entcnains usor distracsusfrom our troubles, not our knowledge of pcopleand places, but iust that it broadens rlso that it helpsus to know what wc believc,rcinforcesrhosc qualitiesthrt arc noblestin us,lcadsus to feel uneesy aboutour faultsandlimitations. This is not the placeto pursucthat suspicion-thatis, the placeto work out in detailrheargument that thc ultimare value of fiction is its morality, though the subiectis one we musr rcturn te-but it is r goodplace ro norea few tcchnical implicationsof chcfact that, whateverthe genremay be, ficdon doesin work by crcatinga drcamin the reader's mind.Wc mry obsenre, first, that if thc cffcct of thc dreamis to be powerful, thc dream mustprobrbly bc vivid andcontinuous--uividbecausc if wc arc not quitc clear about what it is that we're dreaming,who and whcrc the characters are,what it is that they're doing or trying to do and whn our emotions andjudgmen$mustbe confuscd, disipatcd,or blocked;md continuous because a repeatcdly interruptedflow of action mustnccesserily havclcssforce than rn action direcdy carriedthrough from its beginningto is conclusion.There may be exceptions to this general rule-we will consider that posibility later-but insofar as the generalrule is pcnuasivcit suggesa that oneof the chief mistakes r writer can

,2

TIrEonv NOIESON TJTERARY-,IESTIIETIC

mind mbe distrecte4cveo srekeisto rllow or force thc rcader's from the fictiond dran momentarily, Irt us be sure we hsve the principle clear. Thc rniter e scene-let IE srly . scenein which rwo rattlesnakes presnts are locked in monel combet.He mekesthe scenevivid in thc the reederto "drem" the rerder'smind; that 11he oncourages cvent with cnornons clarity, by pracnting as meny concrete detailsas po"ibL. He shorvqwith as much poaic force es hc hover, iaws wide' slowly swayin& cen muster,how the heads sink in; how the tails switch and how the teeth urd then suike; lasfugropefor a hold,poundup drst clouds;how the two snekes *rike and misq the rwo ratda roaring like hiss,occasionally vividnes; to meke the noto$. By detail the writer achieves scenecontinuous,he ukes painsto avoid enything that might to, say,the disnact the readerfrom the imageof fighting snakes of thc cheracer the is or image presented which in the trtanner break writer cannot the not to say that cniter. Thrs is of course conservationist to someothr-for instencgthe from the scene nuhing toward the snakc in his ieep. Though cheractenmd locale change the dreamis still running like e movie in the teader'smind. The rvriter distractsthe reader-$reals the filnr' inuusion or egoistic slip of technique if you will-when by somc the story about thinking reader to stop he dlows or forcesthe else. something (stop"seeingt' thestor|) andthink ebout Somewriters-John Banb for insancoqrake e point of interruptingthe fictionaldreamfrom time to timg or evendenyiog mr readerthe chanceto cnter the fictional dram that his of fiction hasled him to expct.We will briefly cxexpcrieacc and vdue of suchfiaion later.For now, it b the pu{posc rmine cnoughto seythat suchwriten erenot writing fiction at dl" but eomethingelx,maafiaiot Th.y give ttrc readeran erperiencc of fction asirs point of deprrthc usud experiencc drat asumes on their nug and whatevereffecttheir work mey havcdepends u8 conscious violationof dreusuelfictionalefrect.Whet interrests

Baic Skills, Gexrer ord Fi6{ton os Drecn

tt

in their novelsb th.t th9'' .rG not novelsbuq instcad $tistic oommcnts 0n rft. WCve comcr longwayfrom ouropningquction, "If therc arc no rules,or nonewonh his anentio& whereis the beginning writer to b"gio?' Amongother things,you mry impatiendyob. of rulcs: Don't icct, we've raiscdthe specterof e grert moress try to write without the basicskills of compositioqdon't tty to write "whrt you know," choose e gnre;creater tind of drcem in thc reader'smin( and rvoid like the plaguedl thrt might briefly distractfrom that drcenr---c notion whereinr multinrdc of rulesareimplied. But nothingin aUthis, I paticntly enswe& hasanythingto do with aesthetic law or givesruleson how to write. Thrt literanrc fdls into genresis rirply an observetionfrom naturg com' parableto Adam'sob,servation that the animalsneednames. If one is to write, it helpsto know what writing is. And the fect that all threc of thc maiorgenres haveonecommonelemenq the fiaiond dream,is anotherobservation, nothing more. We ere speaking,temember, only of realistic narretives,ales, and yarns-that is, fiction'sprimary formrso thrt in listing waysin which the reader can be distracted from the fictiond drcam,asI will in Pen Two, I amin fect dealingonly with thingpto wetch out for when suiving for the effeca of raditiond fiction. My premisc of course is that beforeonecanworlr well with metafiction, one needs somcundentendingof how the primary forms work Let us turn rgrin, theq to that openingquestion:Wherc shouldonebegin? I heve said that e good enswer,but not an ideal one, b "\Mritc the kind of story you know and like best"; in other words, choose r gcnrc end tr)r to write in it. Sincewe're living in an agevery rich in genres.-+ince a given snrdentmay havc encount6red almostanything, from taleslike Isdr Dinesen's to Neu Yo*er redistic fiction, from surred, plotlessfictions-

34

NOTDS ON LITERARY-AESfITEfIC THEOR]

to philosophiczlly cnriched and in-question-rnd-answer-form of somethinglikc thc dramaticallyintensifiedprce rcndcring;s to the writet Maroelcomics-such instructions visionin Captahr in way, thc writer ic may producealmostanything.Set off this stuc to cnioy himself,first ri{fling through genrcs,discovering how manyandhow complexthey rre' then-tonguc bctwccnhis hasthc Thc approach tccth-knocking off hisbrilliant example. has' hc what frcedom of reminding thc student advantage of of cncouraging are,and thc advantagc how vrst the poesibilities him to find his own uniquepath. sccms to me not idealis thrt, cxthe approach The reason the writer's timc. It case, ir wastes ccpt in the cxtraordine{F inscrucs him to do somethinghc cannot rcalistically bc cxpectcdto do well-end hereI mean"well" in thc alwap urgent way in morc gcntlcmanly not thc morc casual, ardstt sensc, which uredo thingBbadly or well in other univcrsity Programg Let me cxplain.Truc anists,whatcvcr smiling faccsthey may show you, arc obsesive,driven peoplc-whethcr drivcn by somemania or drivcn by somehigh, noblc vision nced not prcsentlyconcernus.Anyone who hasworkedboth asartist and asprofessor canrcll you, I think, that he worls very differently in his two styles.No one is more careful,more scrupulously vision of thc ideal, thrn e honcst,more devotedto his personal trying to write a book aboutthe Gilgttttesh,Hc good professor may writc far into the night, he may evoid parties,hc may fecl of guilt abouthavingspenttoo little timc with his family. pangs his work is no more likc an aftist'swork than the Ncvcrthelcss, is like that of an athleteconten& accountant of e first-class work faculties of the mind more uses He ing for e championship. easilyrvailableto us; hc has,on all sidesof him, ste1n,checks, rules of procedurethat guide and securehim. Hc's I safeties, on sunlit in thc world. He belongs mansurcof wherehc stands walkways, in ivied halls. With the artist' not so. No critical study,howcverbrilliant, is the fiercepsychologicdbatdce novel qudities that makc. true artist-nearly the same ir. Thc qualities

Basb SkilkrGexrcr ord Filrtion asDrean

,5

thet makc r tnre ethlete-makc it importryrt thrt tbc snrdcnt writer ncverbc prcvcntcdfrom working esscriouslyu hc knows how to. In univenity cotuseswe do exerciscs. Term papers, quizzeqfinal cxaminetions are not meantfor publication.Wc movc through I coursc on Dostocrrykyor Poc iui wc movc through e mildly good cocktail parrf, picking up thc good bits of food or conversation, bcaringwith thc rest,goinghomcwhcn it comesto seemthe reasonablc thing to do. A6 ar thosemo. mens whenit feelsmostlikc art-when we fcel mostalive,most tlcrt, mo6ttriumphrnt-is lcsslike a cocktail parry then a tank full ofshrrls. Everythings for kceps, norhing'sjust for cxercisc. (Roben Froct said, "I ncvcr write cxerciscs, but somctimes I write pocmswhich feil and then I call rhem cxercises.")A courscin crcativc writing shouldbc likc writing itsclf; cverything required should bc, at least potentially, usable,publishable: for kcep. "A mighty uill.'' Hary Jrmcssaid,"that's dl thcre is!" Let no onc discourage or undermincthat mighty wilL I would bcgin, then, with somethingred-smaller than a shon story, tale,yarn, sketclr-and something primary, not secondary (not parody,for exrmple, bur thc rhing itself). I would begin with someone of thoseneccssary parts of larger formq somesinglc clcment thag if brilliantly done, might nrtunlly becomethe uiggcr of r larger work-{omc smdl cxcrciscin tcchniquc,if you likc, as long as it's rcmembered that we do not really meanit asan excrcisc but mcanit esa possible beginning of somemagnificenrwork of arr. A one-page pasagc of dcscriptior\ for example;dacription keyed to someparticular gcnrc-sincc dacription in r short stoqydoesnot work in thc s:rmc wey dacription works in thc ueditiond tale.And I would makethc chief concernof this small cxcrciscthe writer's discovery of the fall meming of 6ction'selements. Having written onc superbdescriptivepessage, the writer should know things nbout descriptionrhat he'll ncvcr nccd to think about again Working clcmenr by clcmcntthroughthc neccsarypara of fiction, he shouldmakc thc cscntial tcchniques secondnanuc, so

?6

TITE0RY !{orDs oN LITEnAnY-AEsTllErrc

that he c.n use thsn widr incrcesingdexterity md subdety' until at lest,asif effonlesly, he can constructittgtn.ry worlds --huge thoughs made up of concrete deails'--eo rich rnd al simple,that we ere estounded, end so awesomely "orplo, by great an we're dwap astounded This mianq of coursg that he must lerrn to seefiction's great critip: c elemensasonly a writer dos, or en occasional vdid kind of still thc fundamentalunits of an ancient but cdled thought.Homer'skind of thought;what I havesometimes "concretephilosophy"' We're not ready iust yet to tqllr about what that kind of thought entailg but we can mrke r beginning might work. in description how an exercise by describing simply to serves that description To the laymanit may seem idee some us giving are happening, tell us wherethings Perhatr with their them of whet the charactenare like by identifying or providing uswith propsthat may later tip orer surroundings, Good dacription doesfar more: lt is or burn down or explode. reachingdown into his unconscious of writer's means of the one his fiction must rsk, and to what questions clu$ mind, finding is symbolic description Good with luck, hintsaboutthe answers. by it because, but not becarsethe writer plants symbolsin still largely mpworkrng in the proper way, he forcessymbols teriousto him up into his consciorsmind wherg litde by litde he cen work with them and finally as his fiaion progresses' put this anotherway, the organizedand them. To understand intelligent fictional &eam that will eventuallyfill the reader'l mnd begiw asa tugely mystuious ilremr in tbe witef s minil. revising,the writer of writing rnd endless Through the process makes rvailablc the order the reader sees-Discovering the are for the writer one the meaning andcommunicating meaning e barn, then. One desingleact. One doesnot simply describe in somepanicular mood' scribesa barn as senby someone the writer's exPeri' barn<r way the can becrusconly in that lies deepat is hb encc of brrns combined with whatever feeli4g*-be tricked into mumblingits secrers.

Baic SkillsrGeme, oil Fiaionoshectn

,7

Consider the following re r posible exercirein description: Dccribe a barn asscenby a manwhosesonhasius beenkilled in r wer. Do not mention the sor\ or nar, or death.Do not mentionthe manwho doesthe ceeing.(The exercise shouldrun to aboutonetyped page.)If the writer worla har4 andif he has the nlent to be e writer, thc result of his wort should be r powerful and disturbing im"ge, r faithful dacription of soms aPPerntl)t real barn but onc fronr which the reederge$ e sense of the father'semotion;though cxactly what thot emotionb hc mr)r not be able to pin down (In an actual piece of fiction, we would of course be told what the emotionis-telling irporunt ctoric by tly implication b r specic of frigidity. Bw tnowing the emotion, we shouldget from the descripdon no lest powerfuf an effect ) No amountof intellecaul snrdycan d*ermine for the writer whet detailshe should include. ff the de rcription b to be effective,he rnust choosehis boards,$rew, prgeon nnnure, and rope* thc rhythms of his sartenceqhb angleof vision,by feelingand intuition. And one of the things he will discover, inevitably,b that the ir.go of deathand loss thrt cometo him arenot necesarilythosewe rnight expeceThc heck mind leapsinstandy to imagc of, for instance, darknesq heevinesq decay.But thosemay not be at all the kindsof images that drift into the mind that hasemptieditself of ell but the desireto "tell the uuth"; that is, to ger the feeling dom in concretedetails.In everythinghe writa-dacnptioq didogue the recountingof aaions--thi writer doesthe same ttring. inA ro the writer gathers pnrt--+till only pan--of the materiebvith which he does histhinking. At this point the readercanno doubt gues what drc renraintng pertsare.Obviouslyone doesnot think in exacdythe sarre ways,or aboutexacdythe same kindsof thingc in e short storyr r slg andr yern; and reflectionon thrt fact leeds to the furhcr observation thag asWallaceStevens put ig "a change of stylc b I changeof subiect" It was once a fairly common rrnong writers and literary critics thrt whet fiction ought to do

38

THEoRY NorEs oN LTTEnARY-AESTHEf,IC

cxPrss is tell the uuth aboutthings,or, asPoesayssomewhere' of is kind our intuitions of rerlity. Viewed in this way, fiction a But we can seethat for comingto understanding. instrument if that view is to be defended. to be solved thereareproblems of exactimitaThe realistsaysto us: "Show me, by a Process girl when shc falls it's for a thineen-year-old like tion, what arms, smugin thc folds his painfully, faintingly in love." And he dismayus. conviction th* he can do iust that. But questions or long, Shall we tell the truth in shon, clipped $entcnces smooth,gracefulones?Shall we tell it using short vowels and or long vowelsand soft consonenB?+causc hard consonans Doesfiction, in everything. choices we make may change thc Is fact, haveanythingwhateverto do with truth? it posible that nothing but itselfinstrument,6ction, studies this complicated its own processesl A commonanslperet the presenttime b that that is thc his whole life trying to work writer spends qucstionthe serious he trusts;that is, the only kind of thinking by meens of the out let that answcrstand we must For the moment, fictional prmess. -with only this reservation:Great fiction can makeus laugh or cry, in much the way that life can, and it gves us at least thc powerful illusion that when we do so we're doing pretty thingswe do whenwe laughat Unclc Herman's muchthe same fokes,or cry at funerels.Somehowthe cndlesslyrecombining elemensthat makeup worla of fiction havctheir roos hooked, it seemginto the unive$e, or at leastinto thc heartsof human us that it's r beings.Somehowthe fictional dream persuades clear,sharp,edited versionof the dreemall around us. Whator withdraw everour doubts,we pick up booksat train stations, into our studiesand write them; and the world-or so wc imagine.+omeselivc.

3 Interest andTiuth

Anything we reedfor pleasurc we readbecause it interas us. One would think, since this is so, that the fint questionany young writer would ask himself, when heb rrying to decidc what to write, would be "lVhar canI think of that'sinterestingl" Oddly enough,that is not e very usualfirsr question;in fact, when one points out ro young wrirers that it might be, they often react with suqprise. To someexrenr,bad teachingis to blame,encouraging us to rise beyond,and forget, our most immediate,most childish pleasures--+olor in painting, melody in musig story in fiction-and learn to take pleasurein things more abstract and complex. Those sophisticated pleasures arc real enough and can be intense, something but mey havegonc wrong whenthey cometo be the first pleasures we seek. To read or write well, we mu$ steer betweentwo cxtremeviews of aesthetic interesr;the overemphasis of thingpimmediatelyplersurable(exciting plot, vivid characterization, fascinatingetmosphere)and exclusive concernwith that which is secondarily but at timesmorelestinglypleasurable, the fusing artistic vision. Though fu cannot be said of all reachers of lireraturg it is cornmonto 6nd teachers indifferent to the kinds of poetqyand fiction thet go most directly for thosevalueswe asociatewith 39

40

TIIEORI NOTES ON LTTEBARY-AESTHETTC

rirptr entertainment-popuhr tyrics, dnrgsole paperbecks' bc mobbery' but ilny in somecases andso forth. The reNson probably i*t * often the ceuseb tlrc sensitivertader's too boring s.mcnss frequent experienccof disappointment--+hc in the scriptsof televisbn Westgrrq cop found at is extreme shows,and sinrationcqnedic. Driven ofi by too mrrchthat b mcrely cwmerciakfrcn shoddyimitrtion of ruthentic origi' o.lity in the realmof the popular-we feil to noticc that popu lar songwriters like StevieWonder and RendyNewmrn' m say crn be dedicatd energttic Poctcm9rc nothing of the Beades, tnre'confcr interating than many of the weery rophimicateg mrs, md nndy rordemicswc ncounterin drc "litdc magr' zineq" rnd thet drugttorc fiaion can often hrvc more to offer Thc rcuh of nrch than fction thought to bc of r higher cless. preiudicr or ignorancr is that litenture coulles ry-gulertyfq ture writcrs les appealing-et leeston ttre immediete serrsrnl level, but cometimc on deeper levels r well-thrn Isaac Asimon &muel R. Deleney, Walter M. Miller' Jr.' Roger writers; a ?*lzmy, or the Suugnsky brotherq science-fiction Forsyth; Frcderict rnd like lc &n6 writers eventluiller John tbe Houail or the creatorsof thc arly Spiilerilm comics ignorethrillers' Duck.lntheory it may be proper that teachers sciencefiaion, and the comic bools. No onc wans C.oleridge from the currhulum by a duck "tnppcd in a world he pushed nevermade!"But whenwe beginto list the contemponry "seriHoqtnil end literanuc coursq' ots" writers who 6ll highschool bad. the Dack canlook not ell that is one of the reaThe snobbery or limited rangeof teachers of immediatc sonswe forga to think aboutinterestin the sense appeal;but enothercluse may be more basic.The busines of g{ucationis to give the studentboth usefulinfonnetionend life the other not; cnhancingexperiencgone largely measurable, and sinci thc lifc-enhancingvaluc of . coursein litcrature b ditficult to measuresincq moreover'many peoplcin a position haveno real cxperiencl programs on educational to put pressure

lnterestrndTnttb

4r

in or feeling for the errFir is often tempung to treet lifeenhancement courses rs courses in useful information, putting them on the same"obiective' level ascounis in civics,gomF try, or elementaryphysia. So it comesabout thst bools erc taught (officidly, at least) not because they grve ioy, thc incompareblyrich experience we ask and expectof all true arg but becausg asa curriculum commfutee mighr put it, they "illustratc maior thernesin &nericxn literaturer" or "prescnt r clearly smtedtrint of view and can thus servcasa vehiclefor euchctrriculum obiectivc as (r) demonstrating en awerensr of thc ruthor's purpose, (z) readingcriticalln rnd (l) identilying organizationdpencrnsin literary selections usedto support r poinr of view." One cannotexactly sry that srrc{rteachingb pernicious,butto treet grcer worla of literarure in drb uny seems I linle like arguingfor preservation of dolphirq whgleq c{rimpt andgorillessolelyon the gmundsof ecological belance. At dl leveh not iust in the highschools (esthe ebovemight suggest),novels,short storieq and poenn have for yearsbeen taught not asqperiencrs thet can delight and enliventhe soul but asthingp that te good for u* like viramin C The whole idee of the close critical ,n lfb of literary worln-the idcs emphasized by the "New Girics" of the thinies and fonic-hrs had the eccidental sideeffect of leadingto the notion that the chief virtue of good poetr'' end fiction is insuuctional.If wc look et the famousNew Criticel enthologies designed to teach rn"llois (for in$ance, Undnntndkg Fiction nd tlnilaxouting Poetty, by CleanthBrools and Roben PennWerren), n'e qrnnot help noticing that subdn no doubt unwiningln the rw thors suggest that what makes a pieceof literature"good" is thc writer's thoroughrnd orderly explorationof ideas,hh full de velopmentof the imptcationsof his theme.What theseeuthors suggest is in imporant wryn nuc, though ill-considered boob ""grinst interpretation"(asonc of themis entitled) havedriven close enalpis from many classroorr: Howerrer dazzling and vivid the chare$ers,howcverstarding the action, no piecc of

42

THDORT ON LTTERARY-AF.STHEflC NOTES

fiction canbe of lasdngintcrstif iG thoughtb confined,simplemindcd,or plain wrong. On thc other hand,rcadingfiction or poctry without regardfor thc delight h can givc-its imrnediatc intercst-can mutilatethe crpcricnccof reading.It b not inciplap prcscnt fascinatingch.ractct! dental that Shakcspcare's To writo fiction without rcgerd cngrgcdin suspnsefulactions. for immcdiateiffcrcst, puqposclyctrocing thc nrost colorlcs pocsiblc,e plot cdculatcd to drivc away thc poor cheracters slob intercstcdin sceingsomcthinghappen,and suppresingdl end varicty-to writg that s, esif fiction wcrc tcxnrnl richncss that thc much too scriousto bc cnfoycd-is to raiscsuqpicion to value and is naturq ert's truc writcr b as inscnsitivcto humanity,,s r stoncin r fermcr'sficld. But what givesa work of fiction acsthcticintcrat? For thc momentla us ignorc fiction's flashyyoung cousinmetafiction, sinccmuch of what wc sly hcrc wc must takc back when wc turtr to mcnfiction. Nothing in the world is inhercndy interesting-thtt it' h to all mediatelyintcresting,and intcrating in the samedegree, humanbcingt.And nothing can bc madeto be of increst to thc readerthet was not first of vital concem to thc writr. Each writer's prciudiccs,tasteqbackground,and expriencc tcnd to limit thc kinds of characterqactions,and scttingshc can honcdy carc about,sinceby thc nature of our monality wc calc about what wc know rnd might posrbly lose (or haverlready what we crrc abougand fecl lost), dislikethat which thrcatens indiffercnt toward that which has no visiblc bcuing on our safety or thc safetyof thc pcoplcand things wc lova Thus no two writers gct acsthcticintcrest fronr cxactly thc samcme" sclcctcd tcrials. Mark Twain' saddlcdwith r cast of charactcrs by Hcnry Jamcc would bc quick to maneuvcrthcm ell into tcchnique+echniquc thet wclls. Yct all writcrg givcn rdequete communiafics..+an stir our intercst in thcir sPccialsubicct mllttcr, sinceat hcan dl fiction trcetq dircctly or indirectly' thc samcthing: our lovc for pcoplc and thc worl4 our aspiratiors

IntaenandTrwh

+7

cnd fean. The particular characterqactions,and seaingsarr merelyinstances, on theuniversal variations theme. If this is so-it may be usefulto notice in pasing-then thc writer who denies that humanbeingshavefree will (the writer who rcally denies it, not jokingly or ironically pretends to deny it) is one who can write nothing of interest.Aside from a gro. tsquerythet must soon grow repetirious,he cannot endow characten,places, and eventswith real interest, he can because find no real interestin them in the fint place.Suippedof frec will-robbed of all capaciryto fight for thosethingsthey aqpirc to andavoidthosethingpthey fear-human beings to be of ccasc anything more than scientific and sentimental interest.For thc writer who vicws his characters ashelpless biologicalorganisms, mereunits in a mindlas socialstructure,or cogsin a mechanistic universe,whatever valuesthose charecters may hold mrxt necessarily be illusions, sinccnoneof the characteni cen do anything aboutthem, and thc usualinterplay of valueagainst vdue that makes for an interestingcxplorationof themcmustherebc a cynicalandacademic exercisc. If it is true that no two writers get aesthetic interest from oractly the samcmaterials, yet true that all writers, given adequate technique,can stir our interest in their specialzubject matter-sincc all humanbeingphave the samcroot cxperience (we'reborn,we suffer,we die,to put it grimly), so that all wc needfor our sympathyto be roused is that the writer communicatewith power and convictionthe similaritic in his characten' cxpcrience and our own-then it mustfollow that thc first busi" nes of the writer must bc to makeus seeand feel vividly what his characters secand feel. However odd, howeverwildly unfamiliar the fictional world--odd as hog-farmingto e fourtb generation Parisiandesigner, or Wall Srreetto an unemployed tuba playcr-we musr be drawn into the characten'world es if we were born to it. To saythis is to takc,admittedln an extreme pmition. Thcrc rrc limis to rhc cxrentto which peopleof oneculture can imag-

41

THEORY NgtDs oN LTTERARY-AESTTIETIC

of peoplefrom another,end I the expericnce inativdy embrece statement of the argumentI'm offering would bc more cautious that the writer should make his characten' world sensually that knowing in advance evailable to a wide rengeof readers, for meny readen (Tibetans, perhap), hb characters'xPeriSorrc writen ofrer e still encewill be beyond comprehension. one'schrmcten xmake itt to suJficient nemowerview, thet of periurcevivid for only thet smallgroup readenwhoeehackOnly a wrircr from ground is similer to thrt of the characters. somegrsat culturd center like Parisor New York crn rfford such a position.The man from Wyoming, if hc crilrot corlln to New YorL, is unlikely to get pub municatehis experience limiu his audienccoo narrowly L writer who lished. So the likely to seemparochid, if not {rogent' to tlrac resdcn not to improvetheir *rtus by eccming or desperate born in hir "ity to havelived there.But everywritcr mts makehb own choice. The basicprinciple stendsin rny crse' et lerst so hng rs f,ction containschrractersat dl: The writer must cnablerr to seeand feel vividly whrt his cher.cten sce rnd feel; that is' u directly and intensely rs posible' enebleus to experience How can experience. thoogh vicariorslynwhat hb characters the writer bestdo thb? Somesf the erswer shouldby now be obviots. The writer on the must of necesity write in a style that falls somewhere continuumrunningfrom obiectiveto subieaive;in other words, from the discursive,esayist's style in which everything b to the poetic stylc in spelledout as scientificdly as possible, everything (or practicallynothing) is explained, which nothing or, to useHenry James'ternr" "rendered."The esap is evoked, ist's style is by netue slow-movingand laborious,more wide then deep.It tends toward abstractionand precisionwithout any $vo much power, as we seeinstandy when we comPare style wc onediscursivqonepoetic.ln the essayist's largc was doornay in the man might write, for instance, "The littlc e stooP had to ill et case-+olrrge thet he rnd apparendy

lnterex rndTruth

45

and draw in his elbours." The poetic style sm run harderrt its effecs: "He filled the doorway,awkwerdasa horse." Both styles, needlcs to s:ry,can be of use.One builds is world up slowly and completely, as Tolstoy does in Arns Karenina, where very few metaphors or similesappearithe other lights up is imagrnaryworld by lightning flashes. In contemporaryfiction the essayist's syle is to someexrentout of fashionat the momenqor, rather,is usedalmostexclusively for purposes of irony md humor,sinceits laboredpacecan easilybe madeto reflect pompousness or ennui.But literary fashionneverneedbe taken very seriously.Stylo are born in human anitudes,and since Homer's time the total range of possiblehuman attitudeshas probablynot changed much. Whereverthe writert sryle falls on the continuumrunning from objectiveto subjective, whar countsin conventiondfiction must be the vividnes and continuiry of the fictiond dreamthe wordssetoff in the reader's mind. The writer's characters must standbeforeus with a wonderful clarity, suchcontinuous clarity that nothing they do suikesus as improbablebehaviorfor evenwhen the characterb actionis, assome iust that character, times happens, something that cameasa sulpriseto the writer himself. We must understand, and the writer before us must undentand,morethan we knoat aboutthe character; otherwire neitherthe writer nor the readerafter him could feel confident of the character's behaviorwhen the character acs freely. So it is that Trollope discovers to his astonishment, or so he tells us, that Mrs. Eustace stole her own diamonds. Though her action wasnot in his originalplan, his deep,inruitive knowledgeof the character, developed over dme,tells him instandy,the moment he getshis first clue, thar the act is indeedone that would fow inevitably and surely out of her being. How is this possiblet How cnn e writer-and after him the reader-have this surr &nowledge of some persondirythat literally does not exist? Beginwith the crucial observation herethat, xceptascreetures of the imagination, chrracers in fiaion do not exist It ic

46

THEORY NOTES ON LITEMRT-AESTHETTC

truc thrt Mn. Eustaccmay h basodon, say, Trollop's Aunt Maudc.But exceptin the writing of a biography (and, strialy from not eventhere), a writer cannottakc a character spcaking, in the character's lifc. Every slightestchangethc writer makes must have subde repercusions.I backgroundand experience would havc beenif my fathcr had I not the same person lm Trollope's Aunt Maudecan bccnrictr, or had ownedelephants. no longer remain perfectly herself once she'smarried to Mr. in waystoo com' characters'lives change Subtle details Eustace. mind to grasp,though wc nevertheles plcx for the conscious but creatcscharacter: graspthcm. Thus plot not only changes bclicve and, simulrcally what wc By our actionswe discover both to others.And seninginfluences trneously,revealourselves what onc chmcter and plot: Onc cannotdo in a thunderstorm slips, or, from homedocson r hot day in Jordan.(One'scamel sicknes, refusesto budge; so the asasin gocsuncaught,the into war.) As in the plunged is shot,the world is again Prcsident on every minuscule, however has an effect, everyatom universe at any and Space sothat to pinchthe fabricof Time otheratomo in of it, so 6cdon thc wholc lcngthandbreadth point is to shakc cvery elcmenthas cffect on cvcry other' so that to changea namefrom Janeto Cynthia is to makc the fictional character's groundshudder underher feet. that to makcussceand feel vividly what his Thus it appeers world as seeand feel-to draw usinto the characters' characters more than simply if we were born to it-thc writer must do and authenticate explain andthensomchow makeup characters and bcards, thcm (giving them the right kinds of motorcycles and iargon). He must shapesimulcxactly the right memories creativemoment) his characters' taneously(in an expanding to the others;he connected plot, and setting,eechinextricably must makehis whole world in a shgle, coherentgesture'es a a pot; or, asColeridgeputs it, he mustcopn with potter maks his6nite mind,theproces of the infinite "I AM.' We arenow in a positionto look at the problcmof aesthetic

Interest anilTrutb

+'7

interest in r new light. Firsq rnd least important, wc're in o position to give tentetivc answenito thosei,innovative fictionisq" as who feel impatientwith maditional $ey cdl rhemselveq cxpectationsof character and plot. Character, these writers sometimes claim, is a pan of thc traditional novel'sunnecessery b'aggagc andought to bc discarded. Thc novel,they.rgo*-.nd they would saythc same of shonerkinds of fiction<nce served purposs w c:rn now pcrceivcto bc nonessential to its naturc. For instance,in an agc when uavel was travail, whur photographsand movieswere nor yet invented,and sociologicai studies were unheardof, it was the novelist who told us what life was like in Venice or New Orleans.He described the architecturg climatg and vegetation,told us of the history and sociology of the placc;in short, madeus feel asif wc'd beentherc. Noy *^: go booksand picnrrepostT-n therc, or ga spccialized caral thc novelisr told us about character,rclating -Similarll people'sanitudesand actionsto the custorns and climate from which they spring,or delving into the mpteries now demyntified by psychology and neurblogy. By rhc old, now oum;ded theory,they glpleir\ fiction w:rs I means of discovcringor revealinghow thingshappen in rhe world. We reedof a womanin Chicagowho thrcw hcr father our rhe window of her sixth-floor epertmenr. "How in the world could sucha teriblc thing have comeaboutl" we exclaim, andthc novelist's business is to show oc:t? by step,what happcned. That theory of fiction was e4ploded the day Poewrote "Thc Caskof Amontillado,',a stoqy that hasan end but no beginning or middlc;hence is *"".s t a flrt refutation of Aristotle's th-corythat what is central to ficdgl ir energeio;that is, .,rhc actualizarionof the potential which exiss in characterand situation." poe frees lGfka to write: "One day Gregor Samsa awoke to discoverthat he had bcenchanged_into-a largecockroach."Who knowshow or whyl cares? By the selectionand arrangement of the materials {!9 of his fiction, the writer glvesns not thi truth about rhe wortd and how thingscomeaboutbut an imageof himself,,.a ponrait

48

rollsoN

LnDRART-ADsrItErrcrHEorI

of the anist"--or prhetr nothing morc then m interestingcoc' struction,anobiectfor our snrdyandamusement This view, now cornmo&hasimportant virnrc. It ocourthe fiaiond rgc the writer to think in new weys, broadening into r wander to were If l,ois lane end Supermao erperience. and how sceneby Henry Jarnecwhat would they think of it would they afiect itl The answerdoc not manerit snnot properly be calledcorrcct or incorrectit is merelyinteresting. If the stateof Califomir were to sink into the sea,how would in Brooklyn? Agein, if plot is no longer daily life be changed imporant (sinceits iustificationend ctntral interestb its reve lation of the potentid in characterand situation), why should aswe read,that we're "getfiction haveprofluencH)ur sensq, ting somewhere"lIf the pornait of the arti* b all that really counts,why not an anist who simply chas with us, Pl")tsvith wen insultsus,creatingnot an actionwe cenfollow nsrperhaps its to endbut r small,highly flavoredimiation of Eternity? Thc longer we think alongtheselineq the more interating the eer' If the ertilt's revelationof himselfir become. thetic possibilities ser words and phrases, hb style-not iott hit style in choooing (or desuoying tencerhythmsand ways of building paragraphs the paragraph)'but the whole ideaof thc phrue, the sentence, rlso his style in choosingdetails from redity or dream; ele' anil seaing-what happn* in tenrs mcns, that rs,of character of restheticinteresgif the writer ofrers not his own materials usthe imageof a brillirnt Thus Borges grves else's? but someone modernwriter whose$ert opusis, word for word, C*rvantes' Don Quhote, and Dondd Banhelme,in his short story "Pandacription that in gual,' borrort (and fmmotes) e landscape Tibet. but with with Paraguay has do not to frct Theseare of coursethe argumens raisedagainstconvtF in metafiction None of tional fiction by pcoplemoreinterested fiction will hol4 and lookconventional the argumensagainst ing dosely at conventionelfiction'r defensewill help us soe clcarly whgt thc interat.nd "uuth" in ctnventiond fiction rrc.

IntnenmdTnab

49

Once we havc f,ction's nature clear, we c:m bettcr rpprecietc the specialinterestof metefiction,a subicct to which we will turn in the next chapter. The traditionalistanswer to the "innovrtive Ectionfot's" general line of argumantmight go like this: Innovativc fictions of thc kind iust discusederenot inherendywrong-heeded, mcrcly unserious. Whatcvcr interest or value they hrvc they dcrivc from their contrestwith "traditiond"-thar ic, "conventiond" ot 'normal"-fiction. So long asconventiondfiction remrinsedequate and wonhwhilg innovative fictions are litere{f strmt$ They havea kind of interest,asintellectualtoys, but they engageusonly for the moment.Though traditionalscrious fiction may alsobe plan sinceit deeplyinvolvesuswith the uoublc of chancters who do not in fact cxisq the play in serioustraditionel fiction bearson life, not io.t As we play rt compas. "tt. sion, weepingfor Litdc Nell or Ophelir, wc cxcrciscfacultic wc know to be vitally imponent in rcel life. If the asembly of made-up materials in a fiction creets a portrait of the artisg the imponanceof the portrait is not that it tells us whet the rrtist looks like but that ir providesu with a focuq an aperrure,i medium (as in e s6ance)for secingthings hyond and more imponant than the anist. In the anistb recreationof thc world we are enebled to seethe world. Granted,no two aniss revecl to ts exacdythe samcworl4 iust asno two windows do; md granted,moreover,since aniss are humanand therefore lir ited, some dedicated and seriors artists may bc windocs smudged by din, othersmay diston like blisteredand warpcd pnneq still others may be stainedglas. But ttre world they frameis the world thar is really our rherc (or in hcre Insofers humannatureis everywhere the samgit make$ no difrerencc). A powerful pan of our interestaswe readgrert literrture b our scnse that we're "onto something."And pen of our borcdom when we read bools in which thc vision of life secrmpehrt'mindedis oursense that we arenot. Aristode'sideaof the energeic aaion is not rcally refuted by

5O

NOTES ON LUERARY-AESTHETIC THEORY

PoCs "C,esk of Amontillado" or Kafta's "Metamorphosiq' the theory in e though thoocworks may lcad rs to understand ncw rre)t, a way Aristotlc neverthought of, working ashc did but one to which hc from thc practice of Greck tragedians, might without too great an cffon adapthimself.Poc end Kefka whoocpotentirl is to bc ecnrbcgin not with cxtcrior situations work, but with situatiorsthat are' of thc in thc progress rlizcd interior. litcrally and in thc other expressionistically' in onc casc initial situationn OeilipasRer is r plaguc Wherer Sophocles' in Thcbcs rnd thc king's dark history, as yet unknown to thc king hirnsclf,Poc'sinitial situationis almostcntircly e pychu (whether for revengp hunger logicalshtc,the ccntralchuecter's or not thc hungcr is cven iustified thc readercannot tell), and Kafka's initial situation is a pychological state exPrcssioni*ically uansformed:Where the realist would san "Onc woke up to the realizationthrt he was likc day Gregor Samsa hcightens or intensifia reality by l cockroech,"the expressionist turning the mctaphorto fact. In placeof the clasiczl writcr's clcar distinctionberweenthe outsideworld and thc insidc on thc othcr-the world-"situetion," on onc hand,t'character," realiry asinterand inner two modcm writers sccoutr rceliry pcnctmtingrThc world is whateverwe feel it to be,so that thc situetion chamctcr must deal with is partly character.Eithcr of is initial way, thc unfolding of the story is the actualization potential. Two ccntrrl tenc$, for the uaditional point of vicw, rrq notion that true literary an is "the rcptif,rst, thc C-oleridgian tion in the finitc mind of the infinite'I AM"'-thc idce'that ie' that, like God openinghis fist, the writer cteatscvcrything at their acdongand their world, eachclcmcnt oncc,his charaffers, dcpcndcnton the others-and, second'the concomitrnt notion rrsin good fiction b our that en imponant pan of what interests gensc, .s wc read,that the writer's imitation of rcality's Proces3 ("the ineluctablemodality of thc visible," as StephenDcddrs puts it) is accuratc;that is, our fceling that thc work, cvenif it

Interest rnilTratb

5r

contrins fabulour elemencn b in rcnrc dccp way "truc to lifc.' Thc obvioucqucstionir: How can the writer pocsibly do so much rt oncc? Thc answeris that hc doesand hc docsn'c Hc can thinh consciously, of only a few things ar r time; but thc proccss by which heworks eventually lcadshim to hisgoel.To rnyonc who thinls aboutit czrcfully, thb must at fint sceme rathcr rtrangc $etemcnt: "The proces by which he worla cventually lca& him to his goal"-es if thc proccss had sornc kind of magicin it, comedacmonicwill of its orvn. Indeed,somcwritcrs-not the lcrst of thcm Homer-havc taken that point of vicw, speaking without epologyof Muscsas,in somescmc,actualbeings,and of "epic song"and "mcmory" (not quitc in our sensc) asforcc grcetcr than and ecparetc from the poct. Wc often hcar cven modcrn writers spcakof thcir work at somchowortsidc thcir control, informcd by e spirit that, whcn they rcad their writing later, thcy clnnot identify c having come from themselves. I imagincevcry good writer heshrd this cxpcrience. It testifiesto thc remarkable subtlcy of fiction ase modeof rhought. The fictionalproccss b the writer'r way of thinking, r qpecial caseof the symbolicproccss by mcans of which wc do all our thinking. Though it's only an analogy,end in someways mb, leading, we might saythet sheelemcnts of fiction areto a writer what numben erc to a mathematician, thc main diffcrcncc bcing that we handlefictional elements more intuitivcly than cvcn the subtlcstmathematicians handlc numbers.As Hobbes said,"We cennotthink aboutthingsbut only aboutthc name of thinp"; in othcr words,to build up a complicated argument we need abstractions. If wc wish to think usefully about wildlifc preservation, wc must abstractthe dying white rhinocero! at our feet to dyrng whitc rhinoceroscs in gcncral,wc muil secthc (another relationship abstnction)bcrwcen dying whitc rhinoceroses and dlng tigers,ctc., and risc, finally, to thc abstraction wcy, e writer consciously "dying wildlifc." In the sarne or urr consciously ab*rectsthe clements of fiction.

t2

NOTES ON LITERARY-AESTHETIC TITEORY

of fiction I meanall of thc discrae panicles By thc elements is built, particlesthat might be removed une story of which from one story and ptacedin rnother; for example, damaged, particlesof the action,"event ideas"suchrs kidnapping'pursuit lovedone,t murder,los of identiry, andso on; or of the elusive suchasobesityend each paniclesthet go to makeup character, of the things obesitymay imply, or stingines, or lethargy; or In isolapaniclesthat go to makeup setting rnd atmosphere. in meaning; tion, eachelementhasrelatively limited iuxtaposition to one enother, the elementsbecomemore significent, of a kind-trigher units of poetic thought forming abstractions which elements, AII the armrre madeup of such fundamental we find repeatedin painting rfter painting, symphony efter are symphony,arrangedrnd built up (as complex molecules built up from atoms)in an infinite variety of wap. From paintof the mountain (one element) ing we might take the example juxtaposition but haver standard and the tree (another)that in against variablefunction: The maiesticmountainis silhouened to e singlg equally isolatedtrec in thc th. rky and compared and divinein connotaforeground,the oneremote,unchanging, We and humanized. tion, the other accesible,ever-changing, in is clasical form of elemensexpressed find this juxtaposition of the late worlr in several in Titian, Pousin, and othermasterci of 19oz-19o6 paintings of Cezanne-theMont-Sainte-Victoire -we find the traditional fuxtapositioningeniouslyvaried, the uee mlnteriouslydominatingthe mountainand ueated in such at a way (swirling bruslsrokes, vagueoutlinc) that it seems leastasmysticalasthe mountain;or the tree rnd the mountain that the eccesso identified,by color and frantic brushstrokes, ideal' seemto and the or emotion sible and the remote. humen merge; andsofonh. Though no one can srrywhat the numberis, the numberof that exisris finite. like the numberof wordsin fictional elements the English language. Like the ree and the mountainin our example from painting, or like words in the English language

Interex andTnnh

t,

dre elemensof fiction may meanonething in oneplacg another in enother;th.y slip and slide and occasionallyoverlap; bm they havemeaning-or, et eny ratg meeningdomains.+nd ro do their standard,increasinglycomplex iuxtapositions. Good write$ usethem asskillfully andcomfortably,andsometimes ar as plumbersand roofers uselanguage. unconsciously, No new elements are likely to be discovered; this is what we mean,ot whenwe saythat "literatureis exhausted." oughtto mean, What writen do discoveris new combinations. The searchfor new combinationsis both guided by and one with the fictionrl Process. Perhap the logicd fint *ep in the fictional proces b thc writer's conscious or intuitive recognitionof the netureof narretive, and his acceptance of the shackles imposed by his decision to tell e story (instead of, say,to write a philosophy.book or paint a picture). By definition-and of aestheticnecesity---a story containsprofluence, a requirementbestsetisfied by e se. quence of causally relatedevents, a sequence that qan end in only oneof wo ways: in resolution, when no funher eventcen take place (the murdererhasbeencaught and hrnged,the diemond has been found and restoredto its olvner, the elusive hdy hasbeencapturedand married), or in logical exhaustionn our recognitionthat we've reached the stageof infinite repetition; moreevensmight follow, perhap from now till Kingdom but they will all expres the samething-for examplg C,ome, the character's entrapment in empry ritual or someconsistently wrong response to the pressures of his environment. Resolution is of course the classical and usuallymoresatisfyingconclusion; logical exhaustion satisfies us intellectually but ofren not emotionally, since it's more pleasing ro see things definitely achieved or thwaned than to be shownwhy they can neverbe either achieved or thwarted.Both achievemenr and failure give importanceto the thing sought;we csn feel aboutit aswe feel about values. Logical exhaustion usually revealsthat the charrcter'ssupposed exercise of freewill wasillusory.

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THEORT NotEs oN LITEMRY-AESTTIETIC

It rmght be objectedhere that no lew requiresan to be then shows why "pleasing."A story that raisesexpectations, can bc asilluminating, nor denied, they canneitherbe satisfied and as interestingmoment by moment,as eny other kind of story, thoughthe endingmay annoyus.The troublg from thc traditionalistpoint of view, is this. First, the revelationthat the of free will was illusory raisessuspicions, character's exercise honaty which may or may not be iustified,aboutthe author's and artisticraponsibility.It may be that the writer wasassurto his conclusion by the inescapable prised and disappointed yet we cennothelpwonderaswe have been; fictional'argument in his ing how much real interesthe felr from the beginning has used he conclusion that suggests characters andevents: The uses them rather than caredaboutthem, much as a preacher point. In rousing andstrawmento drive homesome old stories is our suspiandevents*such aboutthe cheracters our concern cion,right or wrong-he hassetus up, treatingusnot asequals but as poor dumb muleswho must be holleredand whipped we suspect the writer of a kind of frigidinto wisdom. Second, rre care out earlier, ity.By thenatureof our mortality,I pointed dislikcthat which aboutwhetwe know andmightposibly lose, what we careabout,and feel indifferenttoward that threatens on our safetyor the safetyof what bearing which hasno visible we we love.Though do not readfiction primarily in order to 6nd ruleson how to live or, indeed,to find anythingthat is in the ourselves engage directly useful,we do sympathetically Readinga pieceof strugglethat produces the fictionalevents. up nowhere-no win, no los; life asa treadmill fiction that ends -is like discovering, after we haverun our heartsout against forgot to switchthe clock,that the timekeeper the timekeeper's suchfictioncanordinarilyproduce clockon.I'he only emotions thoughvalid and andthose emotions, areweariness anddespair, (finally) of the universe, the nature by cveniustified perhaps arc les usefulto the conductof our livesthan arethe emotions we exercise in otherkindsof fiction.Not evenAristotlcwould

Interest sndTrutb

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arguethat fiction ougbt to be cathartic; he saysonly that zuch fiction is most satisfying.But certainly more is involved than simplcpleasure or displeasure. At leastin comparison with thc resolved ending (Aristotle would havesaidif the question had comeup), the endingin logicalexhaustion is morallyrepugnant. Wc have said that by definition and aestheticnecessiryI story containsprofluence, and that the conventional kind of profluence-thoughother kinds are possible-is a crusally rclatedsequence of events. This is the root interestof all conventional narrative.Because he is intellectuallyand emotionally involved-that is, interested-the readeris led by succesivg seemingly inevitable steps, with no falsesteps, and no necessary steps mising, from an unstable initial situationto its relatively stableoutcome. It seems a pity that it shouldbe necesaryto arguea point so obvious, and I will not, ar any length; to instruct the readerthat he shouldquit when he gets bored, or instruct the wrirer that he shouldrry nor to be boring, seems absurd. Nevertheless, curenr fictional theory and the practicc of somefashionable writers makeat leasr somediscussion of thc matterworthwhile. A basiccharacteristic of all good art, then-all man-made works that ere eesthetically interesdngand lasting-is e concordof ends andmeans, or form andfunction,Thesinequanon of narrative, sofar asform is concerned, is that it takes time.We cannotreada whole novel in an instant,so to be coherent,to work as a unified expericnce necesarilyand not iust accidentally temporal,narradvemust show someprofluenceof development.What the logical progress of an argumentis to nonfiction, event-sequence is to fiction. Pager, evenif it's a pageof description, raisesquestions, suspicions, and expectations; thc mind castsforward to later pages, wonderingwhat will come about and how. It is this castingforward that draws us fron paragraph to paragraph and chapterto chapter. At leastin con. ventionalfiction, the momentwe stop caring where the story will go next, the writer has failed, and we stop reading.Thc

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shofter the fiction, needlesto sry, the lessthe nced for plc profluence.A story of threc or four pagsmey still interest A.nd of coursenot all though it haspractically no movement. fiction needmove at the samepace.Runnersof the hundredwey runne$ of the marayard dashdo not take off in the same novel would of a thousend-page thon do. If the openingpeges serveequally well es the openingpagesof r shon $oryt thc is wrong. (This is not quite likelihoodis that the novel-opening a firm rule, admittedly. A long novel may begin with greet stride. But urgency,then graduallysettle into its long-distance b a signalto his reader'r the writer's timing in his openingpages expecmtions.) In any case,any narradvemore than e few prges long b doomedto failure if it doesnot st up and satisfyplot exPectrtions. Plotting, then-however childish and elementaryit may or philosophers, with the work of surgeons, seem in comparison nuclear physicists-must be the first and foremostconcern of of eventswithout the writer. He cannotwork out his sequence are to be or where at leastsomenotion of who the characters the actionis to takeplace,andin practicehe will neverdesigna imply. To saythat notion of what is elements plot without some not to sey thxt it b plot must be the writer's first concernis necesarily the first thing that dawns on him, setting off his prolect.The writer'sfirst ideafor thestory-what Henry Jama callsthe "germ"-may not be en eventbut an interestingcharacter,setting,or theme.But whrteverthe origin of the story idea,the writer hasno story until he hasfigured out a plot that it. Though characer b the will effciently and elegentlyexpress actionwith no meenand though coreof greatfiction, emotional can haveno lastingePPd' ing beyondits own brute existence plot is-or must sooneror later become-the focts of every goodwriter'splan. Thc writer works out plot in oneof threewap: by borrowing some uaditionalplot or an ectionfrom red life (the method Doetoernky,end many of the Greek tragedianqShakespcare,

IwerenotdTmb

t?

other writerg ancientmd modern); by worting hb way bect from his $ory's climax;or by groping his way forc/xd from an initid situation.Sinceusudly one doesnot work out plot dl at one, but broods over it, mentally trying dtemativeg rting notegcarryingthe ideein the backof one'smind asonercadsor doesone's laundry,workingand reworkingit for daysor monthl or, sometimeq years,one may in pmcticework both backward and forward or even in dl three of the posible wap simultaneously. Whateverh"pp* in lif*a curiors fact one comc across in one'sreading (why ir b that pit vipen can sesin thc derk), s snatch of conversation, somthingfrom thc ncmr. peper$ a fight with one's landlord,--all this becomes possiblc materialfor the shapingof the plcA or for cheracers,sning, md themeas they may influencethe ploe In e later chaper ("Ploaing"), we will examine in detailhow by eachof the tlua methods I've mentioned above-and by other methodsleil likely to produceeft-{he writer builds up his story. For the moment,more generalobservations and an abuzct -dyrit of one kind of ploning will serva iust Tlre wrirer who beginswith e treditionalsrory or sorncection drawl from life haspan of his work donefor him already. He knowswhat happened an4 in genenl, why. The mainwork Ieft to him is that of fig*ing out whar pan of the story (if not the whole) he wans to tell, what the most efficient vay of telling it b, and why it is that it interestshirn Saythe story that hascaughthisattentionb that of Helen of Troy. The mph is largeand complexmd comc down to rs in meny forrns,some of themcontradictory,if not mutudly excle, sivg someversions suictly fabulour-as when Helen's mothr, I*da, is rapedby Zcusin the guiseof I swan,or aswhen Parb vunds before the thneegoddese* auempting to choosebotween thenp-other versions suitablefor modernrealistictreetment.A givenwriter may find his intereststined by almostrny of the story'smaineventsTroy umsa rictr, cosrropolitan ciry; in its ruins, archeologiss found iadc, rulong other thing* ploving

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TtlEoRY NOTES ONLITEMRY-AESTHETTC

that Troian traders had contactsas far awey as China. Thc on the other hand, whom Helcn lcft when shc fled Achaians, with her Troian lover, Paris,were cowherds, from her husband raiders-from the Troian point of view crude bargoatherds, to saynothingof been, Helenmusthave How surprised barians. how Parisandhis fathcr thc king felt, when her peopledropped cverything,calledtogcther relativesfrom far and wide, left stonetowns, and cameafter her with r thcir lcan-tosand harsh, thousandships.That moment,her alarm at the news, might pulled their famous maker story. Again, whcn the Achaians of theTrojan hone,which the Troians trick, thepeace-offering that it wasloaded insidethc wallsof the city, unaw,uc dragged Helen is saidto havegoneout at night with Achaiansoldiers, and to havc called to the soldiersin the voicesof their wiveq hopingshecould trick them into revcalingthcmsclvc--but she That cvent, too, saidnothing to rhc Trolans of her suspicions. hasastrangeness that might makea goodstory. Thc writer may decideto treat both of thesccvens, pcrhape othen aswell, in a singlework; but to the extcntthat eachevcnt formsa narrativeclimax,hc thinksout thc two or morecventsas climacFor cachcpisode's narrativcunits,or episodes. seperatc up on his olvn extic cvent,he borrows from legendor makes in order to makethe climacticevent actly asmuchashc nccds (a) meaningful For instance: If wc ere (a) and (b) convincing. Helen's surpriseat the arrival of her relafully to understand to havemeaning; tives (if thc evcnt is in this primarf sense implications), and if we're nevermind the largerphilosophical (b) to bc convincedthet her relativesreally did comein such astounding numbers,the writer must somehow6nd I wa)r to are peoplcthc Achaians strangc showusclearly ( r ) what these likc that they'd rcactin suchI wey, (r) what the Troiansarc like, and espccially Paris,that he shouldmakcsucha blunder, her kinsmen's rsPonse. and (l) why Helen did not anticipate the writc All this, if the story is to bc vivid and suspenseful, not sccnesr by cnactcd mustfind twal ro showus dramatically,

lntnest tndTrutb

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authorialessa)'s or lengthy setspeeches by the characters. If thc is story to be eficient andelegant (in the sense thar mathemetical proofs are elegant), the writer must inuoduce no more background even$or major characters than strictly nece$ary (and,obviously, no less),and mustintroduce these materials in the smallest possible numberof scenes, eachscenc rhythmically proportionate to thosesurrounding, so rhat the paceis regular or, if appropriate, in regularacceleration. In other words,if it is posible to show in a singlescene--clearlyand powerfullyboth what the Achaians arelike andwhy Helenwill not edticipate their response to her flight with Paris,the efficientand writer doesnot usetwo or threescenes. elegant By scerc we meanhere all that is includedin an unbrokenflow of action from oneincidentin time to another(the scene at the breakfast table,the scene out by the chariottwo hourslater, the scene between Helenandthe priestin the temple, or wharever). Thc actionwithin a scene is "unbroken"in the sense that it does not includea maiortime lapse or a leapfrom onesettingto another -though the characters walk or ride from one may,of course, placeto anotherwithout breaking the scene, so to the camera, dollyingafter them.The actionwithin e scene speak, need not be "unbroken"in the sense that it includes no flashbacks or brief authorial interruptions for background is explanation. The scene not broken, in otherwords,whena character's mind drifts from surrounding present to some earlier scene, which is thenvividly set beforeus for the time the flashback lasa.The efrcient and writer makes cleganr eachscene bearasmuchasit canwithout clutter or crowding,andmoves by the smoothesrr swiftesttransitions possible from scene to scene. In additionto wuching the rhythm of hissceue-thetempo or pece-the writer pays close attention, in constructingthe to the relationship, scene, in eachof its elements, of emphasis and function.By emphasis we meanthe amountof time spent on a pardculardetail;by functionwe meanthe work doneby that detail within the scene and the story asa whole. Let us say

THEoRT NorDsoN LTTEMRY-AESTHETIc

behinda curtain to look for a loot point Helensteps thet at some she happensto overheara is there she because and brooch, Helen'ssteppingbehindthe function of Sincethe convenadon. the good writer gets curtain is relatively slight and mechanicd, (havingset up the her behindthe curtain asquickly aspossible inevitableand natlost brooch earlier,so that her action seems of the curteirLor unl). If he dwellsat lengthon the appearance emphasis moment's it, in the she steps behind as Helen'sgesture spot in the a dull to its function andbecomes is disproportionate sincethe tuthor's hoo-rah narrative,or annoyingly misleading larger out' leadsus to expectsome aboutHelen'sdisappearance comethanwe get the author bears in mind, conAll these considerations of events he constructshis sequence intuitively, or as sciously is to (Helen's his story plan If surprise). teadingto the climax is logically neces' he must rightly analyzewhet be successful, $ry to the climax. If he showsus what the Achaiansare like and what the Troians are like, but fails to realizethat he must how her kinsmenwill alsoshow us why Helen doesnot guess behave, the climaxwill lack inevitability and,thereforerporrvr. to Agdn, if the planof the story is to work, the writer's solutions the problemsinvolved in authenticatingthe climax must be her broochby throwing it at her credibleandapt. If Helenloses is a drunkard and Menelaos Menelaos, partly because husband, againsther will, she'sfalling in t lezy o$ and partly because, love with their guestParisand his fine city ways, the curtain but we arelikely to doubt explained, may be conveniently scene of his brother AgamemnorS the help with that Menelaos, even force that goesafter her. could organize the huge,stern-minded Thus in thinking about ploq the writer must alsothink about andits effecs. character He must think, at the sametime, about why it is that the story interestshim. Whether he is using a traditiond plog en he's madeup, no writer action dram from life, or something combinetion his story by pure whim or the mechanical chooses

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than of randomelemenc.For the good writer, nothing is easier makingup poasible stories. If pushed, he canspinthem out hour sequence of rfter hour, eachoneof themtheoreticallysound---a evens leadingto someclima& or, in longer narrativc, an epi" sodic sequence of climaxes.(Helen's surpriseand helplesnes might naorally leadto e second climx, her behaviorhlow the Troian horse.)But of the thirty plotshecanthink up in an hour, only one-if eventhat-will catch and hold his interest,make him want to write. How odd, a different writer might say,that of all the storicsone might tell about Helen, this writer has chosena uivial, psychological climax, Helen's srprisel What the writer's interestmeans is that the climactic eventhassruck some chord in him, onethet seems worth exploration.ICs by thc whole proces of fint planningthe fiction and then urriting itcleboratingchencte$ and detailsof sening, fi"ding the syle that seems appropriate to thc feeling,discovering unanticipated requiremensof the plot-that the writer finds out end corngtunicatesthe story's significance,intuited at the stan. He knows that his firs iob is to authenticate what I earlier celled the story'sFtimary meaning:Helen'ssuqprise. The surprise i:sr feeling, one thet snikes us as conclusive,an implied discoveq1'.But, like all conclusivefeelings,Helen's surprisesuggests somelrrger, secondmymeaning,not iust one person'sf""ling but r univenal humanfeeling,someaffirmationor recognition of a value.It is usually in this larger, secondalysense that we qpeak of the "meaning"of worls of an The lerger "meaning" of e story, we shouldpause herc to note, may or mey nor comefrom our ebstraction of or rhought about what I've calledabovea conclusive emotion.But it does dways come (at leastthis is true in every caseI can think of) from feeling.In the classic ca$e-esin rhe Helen srory we're in the proces of makingupit comes with the resolutionof irony; drat is, it comc at the momentthe characterknows what we lrnow and hevelrnown for somedme.KingLeu. Emna. Miildlennch.In our Helen story, if the writer hasdonc his wort

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THEoRY NorEs oN TJTEMRY-AESTHETIc

well, uc know whet the Achaians arelike and what the Troiars rrc likc, how the Achaian community, though et first glance crudeandbarbaric, hasa profoundsense of kin responsibiliry, a scnse of justiceandpropriery that it is willing to extendevento invited guests(Paris,when he gosto Menelaos' and first house mcetsHelen), and how the Trojan community,though vastly superior in its culture and sophisticadon, superior,too, in its cosmopolitanevolution beyond ethnocentriciT, has becomc morelly lax and has perhap come to expecta similar moral hxity in othcrs (so thar Paris doesnot anticipatethe Achaian raponsc); but thoughtrle know dl this, Helen,because something hasdistractedher attention--+ point we mustreturn todoesnot know until word comes that the Achaianshipshave bcen sightcd.In other kinds of story, the secondaqy or larger mcrning mey bc released in other ways.For example, it may be our fccling rbout the wholemovement of the storyr not the final cmotion of the character,that we abstractto an affirmationof vrlues (secondary meaning).In the naturalistmode-fiction likc Dreiscr's-the charecterfights fcrociously for something but is finrlly beaten forcc and endsin down by overwhelming sorrow or despair, to him. not fully awareof what hashappcned to someuniversalvalue, It is not the despairthat we ab,stract but the struggle.But howeverit may be achieved, in all great fictior\ primary emotion (our emotionaswc rcad,or the charactcrs'cmotions,or somccombinationof both) mrst sooneror later lift off from thc panicular and bc ransformed to en cf,prcsion of what is univenally good in humanlife-whet promotcshappiness for the individual rlonc and in sociery;in other words, somcstetement on value.In good fiction, this univenal stetcmcntb likely to bc too subtle,too loadedwith qualifications,to bc expressed in any way but thc story'sway; it may bc imposiblc, that is, to reduccto any rulc of behavioror generel thcsis.Wc andnstand thc value,undentandit with great prccision, but evcn the shrcwdestlitcrary critic may havc troublc formulatingit in words andthustelling usthe story's"m6sage.'

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It ir in this sense that thc "philocophy" in fiction h n'concrete philosophy": Ficdon's meaning(whet I havc called secondary meaning)is assubstantial, or groundedin the actual,esere thc clemensof which it is built. So it is thar fuistotle tells us that a dramaticaction, like life, can imply the metaphysical, so that as thc philosopherabstrectsfrom thc ectual to mcaphysical theory, thc literary critic or scnsitivc readcrcan abstract out the metaphysical implications of fictionalcvens;bur fiction'smcar ing canno morebecome, by itself,metaphysical rhana cow in r 6eldcanevolve into a Platonic idea. Perhaps rn analogymay bc of help herc.In orthodoxChristianiry the believeris told that all formal codes, eventhc shifting cods of situational erhics, aresupplanted by "the penon of Christ " "I am the Wzy," Christ sap, meaning, by onestandard interpretation, that if the believer will giveup hisheartandsoul to Chrl*, letting Chrisr'spcrsonaliry"entcr in" like a daemonic force, hc canthen act rightly in cvery situation,becattse in fact he is no longerthe agent;Chrisris-a divinity who can do no wrong. Thc believer's actionsflow nor from any theory of right and wrong but from what an obiectivcobserver-a sympathetic non-believer, say-would call an ingested metrphor: the life andpersonality of Christ.Long anddcvoutstudyof Christ's life and worls has givcn the belicvcr a model of behaviortoo subtlc and complex for vcrbal exprcssionbut ncvenheless truswonhy. In thc same way, fiction provides, at its best,trusrwonhy but inexpressiblc models.We ingesrmetephors of good,wordlasly learningto bchave morc likc Levin than like Anne (n Anna Knanina), morc likc thc transformed Emma (in JaneAusten's novel) than like the Ernmawe first meetin the book.This sub dg for the most pan wordlas knowledgcis thc "uuth" grclt fiction sceks out. We havc seid that Helcn's suqpriscat thc errival of thc Achaiansis to bc, in the fiction wc are making up, an implicd discoveqy from which sprinp, for thc rcader and perhapnfor

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Heler! someaffirmationor recognitionof a value.The quction we havenot quite answered is: How doesthe writer's working out of plot leadhim to Helen'sdiscoveryand his own discovery of what he meanslHaving analyzed what he must dramaticdly show to makehis climax (her surpriseand implied recognition) rneaningfuland convincing,the writer introducesfictional elemens eachof which carriesits burden of meaning.LiLe any good liar, the writer makes up the mostconvincingexplanatiorr he can think of for why the things that did not really h"pp.n might havehappened. He top with varioustheoriesof why the Achaians might havebehrvedasthey do-for examplgthe poosibility that, to. man,they are greedyfor the treasures of Troy and glad to we any ercuseto go after thcn\ or the posibiliry that they are movedto their action by the extraordinry cha' risna of Menelaos, but traditional) or the posibility (ab,surd that they arearoused to actionby Helen'sb."oty.Taken siogly, what none of thesepossibleexplanations will wash, because they sayaboutredity (what they "mean") doesnot suike us as true. Our experience of humanitymakes it hard for us to beliere (or thrn that many Achaians membersof any other group) could be so suongly motivatedby greed,though somemight so powerwe cannotbelievein charisma ioin in for that reason; ful it could movethat menykinp, eachof whom must hevehis own concen$ and troubles;and asfor Helen'sbeauty,we canr not help feelingthat no young woman'sbeautycan to that dGgrce excelthe beautyof all other young wome& including some who aresureto say,"Miklos, don't go! Think of the children!" wheo The Achaiancodeof honor,on the otherhand.--especially (which the combined with such lessermotivations as greed legend gives us in Agamemnon at his weaker momnts)' Menelaos' charisma, and Helen's beauty--+ffers persuasivc causc. By the same process, the writer fig*o out why the Trowhat what she do they do aod why Helen doesnot guess ians shouldhaveguesed. SinccHelen,in this story is thc centrd charactcr,her neturc

Interest otdTrwb

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rnd mcivetion will be of specidimporunce to dre convincingnes of the lie. One posible choice,it might seem et fnt glencc, is to make her an innocent victim. Shelteredand coddle4 brought up emongwomen,manied in her girlhood to mighty shehasno real knowledge Menelaos, of her hard-working,hardfighting Linsmen,their fanatical loyalry to one another, and their puritanical code.Though all thescqualitia might provc usefulto the writer, the decisionto makehcr a victim will bc disastrous. No fiction can havercd interestif thc central character is not an rgent struggling for hh or her own goalsbut e victirq zubiectto the will of others. (Failure to recognize that the centralcharacter mustacq not simply be actedupo+ is thc singlemost conrmonmistakein the fiction of beginnen.) We carehow thingptum out because czres--ourinterthe character coms from st empathy---and thoughwe may know morethan the character knon6, enticipatingdangenthe charactercannot see,rye irn{erstandand to somc degreesympathizewith the character's desirg approving what the character epprovcs (what the charactervdues), evenif wc sense that the charecter's idealis impracticalor insuficient. Thts though we cln see rt e glancethat CaptainAhab is a madman, we affrm his fudoushungerto know the rrurh, somuchsothat we find ourselves ceughtup, like the crew of thePequod, in hislunatic quest. And thus though we know in our bonesthat the theory of Ras. &olnikovis wrong, we sharehis sense of outrageat the iniusticc of things and becomeaccessories in his murder of thc cynical end cruel old pawnbrokeres.If we're bored by the debauched focal characters of the Marquisde Sade, on the other hand,thc reasonis that we find their veluesand goalsrepugnangtheir world view too supid (threatening? ) to hold our interest Helen, then, must bring her uouble on herself,through the activepunuit of somcgoal we believenot wrong-headed. The nobler the goal, the more interestingthe story. We need not elaboratc in detail here the posibilities-her wish, ass child of Zeugformorc intelligentandsophi*iertedcompen)r, hcr honor

66

THDoRY NorEs oN LITE*,tRy-AEsrIrETrc

rt the ethnocentricityof thc Grcekq her dsirc for gcater digandsoon. Whrteverthe writer'schoicc niry andindcpcndcnce, he mustthink out thc implicatiors of Helen, thc modvation for with thc differing communiry of hcr motive,its rclationship We may endits origins. of thc Trojansandthe Achaians, values of her motiveonly at thc moment fully rcalizcthc implications the climax*how (for cxamplc)hcr dcsircfor of recognition, communiry is caught in thecrosfire of conflicting indcpendcnce we mustbc shownclearly' value-but long beforethat moment not iusttold, what her drivingmotiveis.To be shown,we must in plot. Wc mustbe bc shownby action;the proof mustappeer Helcn'sidealandthe functional berwccn shownthe reladonship on the other,and this bclicfsof Troians,on oneside,Achaiam, actionof Helcn'smight elicit onc in plot. Some too mustappear carly in the story' enotherfrom Paris, rcectionfrom Menelaos, or somcthing character, in the of andsomething nature Helen's clucs asto why in the natureof that carly cvent,shouldgivc us end pcrhap Menelaos and thc Achaians Hclen undercsdmates sccurirywith Parb and the Troians. hcr potential overcstimater we must Finally,if Hclcn'smotivcis to bc perfcctlyconvincing, plot. Shc might rebe shownits origins;and that too means mcmbcrfrom her carly childhood,for cxamplc,lnmc event now a slavc-an event nurse, oncee quecn, involvinga beloved character. Helen'sdefiantand indepenCent that hclpcdto shape proofsfor e'e4/ significant thc authenticating All thesccvcnts, elemcntof the story, the writcr must weavcir.to a smoothly plot. flowing,inevitable-seeming Havingdoncall this,the writer is not quiterr:thc endof his' uoubles.Evcry proof the writer thinks up in ,;upportof the will haveits own implicaions and excrt story'$Iargerelements is own subtlepressurc on the story.Thc old slavchc invcnted to do thc work required charactcr, if shc's in supponof Helen's charof hcr (motivateHelen), mustbc r vivid and intercsting why her influenceshould wc cannotunderstrnd acter;otherwisc bc so powerful. But once a vivid and intercstinl:characterhas

Interen andTmb

6l

bccninuoduced,he or shccrnnot rirply be droppcd,forgottcn Oncethe charactcr hcnceforward. is goncJrrngcd, lct ussaywe mis the chrracter; or, to put it anotherweyl we expcctthe character's rcturn, at leastin Helcnl memoqf. k will not bc suficicnt, thc writer will find, simply to mentionthc old slavc's namefrom time to time. fiough her work for thc srory is donc, shcmust comc brck, at lcastbricfy, end thc qucstionb: What h sheto do when shecomes back?Shc can't iust standthcrc. Forcedby the neccssiry of his srory ro bring hcr back and provide her with somcaction, howcver brief, thc writer is forccd to think up somcfurthcr meaning for thc chencrcr (it mey help to ask,in this case, how the slave's defiantindependence diffcn from Helen's).It is panly in this way that the fictionel proccr forcesthe writer to s.y morc thanhc thoughthc could;that ie, to makediscoverics. At somepoint thc wrirer stopsplanningand ssrts writing, flching out the skeleton that is his plan. Hcre too hc b partly in control of andpanly controlled by thc fictionalproccs. Again rnd again,in the process of writing, hc will find himsclf forccd to new discovcrics. He must crcatc,sffoke by stroke,powerfully convincingchrractcn and sertings; he must more and moreclearlydc6ne for himself what hisoverallthemcor idcais; and hc musrchomcend aesthetically iustify his genreand stylc. Charactcris crcatedpanly by an ascmbly of facts,including actions,panly by symbolic association. Thc first needsno commcnt. Menelaos is, san rathcr older than Hclen, a famous warrior, I poor rhetorician,e srern king but one eesilymovcd to teerc. Thcsearcsimply facts.Thc wrirer makes up or borrows from lcgcnd asmany of them as he necds, supportsthem with appropriatchabitsend gesturc, rnd showsin thc bchavior of othcr charactcrs whcn thcy dcal with Mcnclaoe that thc king b who andwhat he scems. But often our deepcst sensc of chrracrcr com6 from symbolicrsociation. Wc frcquently lcrrn about fictional characters rs wc identify pcoplc in thc game crllcd Smoke.or somctimcscdlcd Fsscnces.

68

NqrEs oN LrrtneRY-Ansrr{EtrcTHEoRY

In this gamethe player who is it thinh of somefamour de Gaulle,or living or dead,suchasGandhi,Charles personag Frank Sinatrq then tells the other players,"I em a deadAsiarq" t'I ame dead or whatever. ame living American,tt Europeanrt't'I by The playen, in order,try to gues the nameof the penonage are kind smoLe you?" of askingsuchguestions $ "What "Whet kind of weather ate you?" "\Mhat kind of animal are you?" enatomy?" And soon.The playerwho "Wbat part of the human b it arswen not in tenns of what the penonagemight have liked to smokgwhat wenher he might haveprefered, etc., but would Deif he were incarnatednot es t what the personage human being but :ls, sI, e certain Lind of smoke-<igareng Virginia Slims,White Owl, or cigar,pipe,or, morespecifically, the hince Alben pipe tobacco.As they ask their questions, a powerful sense of the penonalitythey're scekplayen develop ing, and when finally, on the basisof the information they'vc the resultis likely to the right guess, makes beengiven,someone the gamecannot bc relief. of Obviously be an orgasrnic sense on metaphoricintuition. played with the intellect; it depends Yet anyonewho playsthe gamewith goodplayen will discover whosenameis the personage that describe that the metaphors a remarkable prechion. cumulatively, have, et least beingsought by symbolicrssocirtioncan be In fiction, characterization infinitely more precisethan it can ever be in the geme,Partly (in the final draft) the metaphors are cerefully considbecause we ere dealing with a consistently ered, and panly because goodplayer.The writer may usemeaphor direcdy, aswhen he tells us Parisis like a dapper,slighdy foolish fox, or he may work for symbolicesociationin subtlerwa1n.He may placer his nacharacterin the weatherthat metaphoricallyexprsss ffq so that unwittingly we make e connectionbetweenthe gloomof Menelaos andthe gloomof the weetherat his back.Or the writer may subdy incline us to identify Helen's character with the elegandy wroughtknife with which shecarves. the writer doesnot ordinerily In feshing out his characters,

IaterexodTnab

69

think out every implicetionof everyimagehe introduccsat thc time he introducc it. He writes by feel, inruitively, imagining the scene vividly end copying dom its mostsignificantderails, teeping the fictional dream alivg sometimeswriting in r thoughdess white heatof "inspiratioq" dawing on his unconcciouqttusting his instincts,hopingthat when he looksback at it later, in cool obiectivity, the scene will work. So he procee& th"ooghthe story, eventby event,chrracterby cheracter. Each time he sits down for anotherday's work, he may read over what he'sdong makingminor revisions andgetting a run on thc pessege wherehe sopped.Different wrirershavedifferent wep of working, but the likelihoodis that the writer's chief concern, at this stage is with achievinga toally convincing, efrcient, rnd elegantaction.With somcexceptions, the deails he brings in hebringsin for thrt purpoee, nonedeeper. But et somepoint, perhaps when he'sfinishedhis ftst draft, the writer beginsto work in enotherway. He beginsto brood over what he'swrinen, readingit over andover, patientlp endlesly, leaing his mind wander, sometimes to Picaso or the Great $ramid, sometimes to the posible philosophicel implicetions of Menelaos'hp (r detail he introduced by impulse bccause it seemed righ$. Readingin this suzngeway lines he hasknown by hean for weels, he discovers odd tics his unconrcioushassentup to him, perheps curiow accidentdrepetitions of imagery: The brooch Helen threw at Menelaoc the writer has dacribed, he discovers, with the samephrasehe usedin describing, muchlater, the sealon the me$ege for help sent to ttreTrojans'dlies.Why? hewonden.Jusrasdreams havemeaning, whether or not w cen penetretethe meaning, the uniter assumes that the accidents in his writing may havesignifcance. He uies vrriow possibilitia; for irstance, the posibility that Helen'swish for independence is panly self-delusion. The ideo grows on hirn He readsthrough the stoqy againand becomes increasingly convinced. He makc tiny alterations.Helen's characterdeepens and flowers. In response, Menelac slighdy

70

NOTES ON LTf,EMRY-AESTTIEf,IC THEORY

with the petience changes; Slowly, painstakingly, so doesParis. from men of equalgeniusbut les a Beethoven that separates divine stubbornness, the great writer builds thc large, rockfirm thoughtthat is hisfiction. What heppensin the writcr's developmentof characters and setting.Thc happens alsoin his development of atmospherc featureof the citiesof megaliths andwallsthat form the salient walkways andthc top antithetical to the flowered the Achaians, in their more more alarming stern, Icsstowcrs of llium, gro$, as which he uses solidity with eachrevision. Menelaos'scepter, I can, on daemonic force. takes of the 6ctior\ Since somcwhere neerthe end of his planning idea or the writer hasknown pretty clearly what the general theme of the work is to be. By theme here we mean not "message"-e word no good writer likes appliedto his workof debates but thc general subiect,asthe themcof an evening may bc World-Wide Inflation.Sinceearly on, it hasbeenclear that in our Helenstorythethemchashadto do with community (Anotherwriter, makingdifferentchoices andindividual values. about plot and character,might wcll haveemerged with a difon oneside, fcrent theme, suchasLife venusArt-the Achaians asboth wifc theTroianson theother,with Helenin the crossfire and lover, both keeper of the householdgoods and fanatical artist when she worla et her loom---or the writer might have organizedthe story in terms of Body and Soul.) Givcn his choiceof communityand individualvaluesas his theme,the writer sharpens rnd clarifieshis ideas,or finds out exactly what it is that he must say, testing his beliefs againstrealiry as the story represensit, by examiningevery elementin the story for ia possibleimplicationswith regard to his theme. He thinks eboutMenelaos'scepter, for example. It occursto him that the sceptermight be e legecy from Menelaoe' father, hencea q'mbol of, amongother thinp, tradition or continuity (the detail might not comup if the themewere Life and Art); and once thb hasoccurredto him he may be led to wonder if tradition is

Intnest rndTruth

lr

viewed in the sameway or in different ways by the Achaians and the Trojans,and,if the latter,whetherParismight alsobe given someappropriate symbol,and if so, what? And precisely what does this symbolimply? The thought of tradition brought down from fathersto sons-a thought reinforcedby the inevitable prominencc father,in the stoqy's of old King Priam,Paris's later segments-maylead him to museon Helen's lincagc,half human,half divine.Grantedthat the writer would havc difficulry believing in the literal rape of Helen'smotherby Z.uC what might thc symbolicdoubleheritage What legitmean? imacy can be found for thc metaphor? Finalln the writer must6nd for hisstory whrt seem to him the mostappropriate genreandstyle.Herc too hischoices havc implications.In origin, the story of Helen is of coursccpic-e deadform.What happens i( throwingczutionto the winds,thc writer decides to reviveit? As practiced by Homer,the epicwas e quecrson of serious yarn: The poet tells, often, of impossiblc no bones thingsandmakes aboutthe fact of their imposibility; yct he doesnot, like the yarn-spinner, wink at us, encouraging us to enioy the lie for the cunningand wit of the liar. Neither doeshe,Iike a talenarretor, makea point of distancing hisstoqy in timc and spacgor of penuadingus by tone and atmoephcrc that we shouldsuspend disbelief. When humanbeingsarc involvcd (Achilles'talkinghorses warninghim of his death),thc poet spcaks seriously. We must readthe eventascxpresionistic truth, as when Gregor Samsa woke up and discovered himsclf changed to a cockroach. When the godsare involved,the poet mey speak in a way morc troublesome to our modernmind-sct For Homer and his eudience, the godsare simpln somehow, outsideforcesthat can daemonically cnter or otherwiseact on humanbeinp, influencingtheir lives. (Someof Homer's gods have ueditional nameslike Zeus;othershave nameslikc C,onfusion.) Sincethc way in which the godswork can nevcr bc hnown, Homcr makes up humanlike behavior for them,sometimesapologizcs by comedyfor thc anifice, yet meens what he

?2

TIIDOBT NOrEt| Ot{ TJTERART'-ADSTHEM

eys. When divine wisdomgivc wey to someother forug it b ct rf Hera hasput Zers to slap by r sexual seduaion The rcnt b comic, the effect penly t"agic; and to makethingpmore confusing, thce same divine artificescanfeel soraowwc repccg not at dl the comic wailing of clowns.Thoogh on refection wc mty understand Homer'smethodand recorumrct the ancientmindset,I think wc must sey thet we simply qrnnot tbink likc thaa To revive the 9pic, thc modernwriter must commit himself to irony and a deuchd self-consciors obieaivity foreign to thc odgind epic sryle. He cznnot writc an epic but only an cerirst parody that worts chiefly asr snrdy of the anistic minil or asr Gomment on an by an. Perhap thb prrodic revival of the genrr might work for the uniter who haschmen to treat thc Heleo stoqy as a fictional explorationof Life versr Arg but if thc nrriter's themc is privatc and commturity vducs, drc lcvivel of cpic form seems fruidess. What happens if he choces to tell thc sto{y as l tele?Thc inherent dig.ty and solemnityof the form would obviorsly bc srdtableto the content of the story, and at first glancethc mr' tedelssefii easilyadaptablc to the tale'sbesicrules The setdng of e tale b customarilyremotc in eirhr time or spaceor both and is presented with a mixftre of vaguenesand gencraliryon hand one and with meticulouslycxact deteil on the other. Thc vdter's carein supplyingexactdetail encouregs credencqand the remotenesqtogaher with thc vegucnss end genemlity, tendsto preventthe readerfrom consideringthe reality or utrrediry of the setting.The landscape of e tde b of a kind likely to inspire the rEader's wonder-lonely moors,sunny meadouq, wild mountains, dark forests,desolatc seecoests-and both netural and man-madefeaturesof the sening are frcquendy of great eg9 suggesting a past chargedwith traditions and vdues that impose thernselves on the will of the cherecters Tde characters ere designed to be convincingwithout mg. gestingcomparison with real people.They behave in recogniz" ably human wa1n, but they may be superneturalbeingq anrl

IntercstnilTruh

?,

evenwhen they scemto bc in mostrspccts like ordinary mco and women,they tend to be e little larger than life and may possess extraordinarypowers.Uke the settingsin the tale, the charactersusually have a certain remotenss. Thry may bc counts,king:, knighs, rich merchants, peasams, cobblers. Often they are entirely evil or entirely good (the superlative is conr mon in the tale-"the richesg" 'the fairesq' "the oldest" "the wlsst'). Although characters mey be comple4 the derailsof their complexityare often blurred, asif by time Only the significant aspecsareretainedin the narrator'smemory,and often the narrator,it is clear,hasthe stor)rat second hand,perhaps by rncient oral tradition. The characten'actions-the plot of thc ule-may or may not obey the laun of cause and efrectoprrr tive in the actud world, but evenwhen they do nog they sem netural becanse of their psychological or poetic truth. The re, dity of the world of the tale,in other wordq is that of e moral universa What ought to happen, posible or not, doa happeo. For the Helen story wete beenworking oug much in the genrcof the tale seems promising.The supernatural elenrensin the Helen tradition fit naturdly with sle prcsentarion, thorgh the esential gothicismof the genre might incline us to tneet Greek godsandgoddeses asrather liLe witches;the uaditionel effect of the story's main characters, all larger than life, ilsap proprirte for the genre;and tte tele's cllstomary errphasis on oldnes and tradition might nanually qpring intercring ideas and developments not guessed in advance by thc writer. Yet we notice certainproblems that may in the end prove insurmountrble. The principle of eusality in a sle is prychologicd end mordly upresionistig or poetic: It shouldnor b the Achaians who cometo fill Helenwith sqprise--forcesoutsideher-but r necessery doom arising from her own pnycholog:f, somcsup. presed truth that ct last risesto take revenge.If we say that Helen left her peoplefrom vanity, as thc "fairest of rll thc Achaians,"then the claimsof a tale versionof the Helen srory might be somethinglite this: She is told thrt e thoussnd

7+

THE0RY ONLTTERARY-AESTHSnC NOTES

Achaian shipshave beensighted,and when shc flies out' ter' rified, to look, shesces thet they arc all filled with armedwomcn who look cxactly likc herself.The posibilities in this ere Perthe writer to work back hapsintcrestingand might encoumge from the climax to fill in the logical necesitiesof this dilferent but herewe encounterthe secondlargeproblemin conclusion; prcscnting thestoryof Hclcn asa tale. Though it's pardy I mattr of the individual writer's intuitoo tion and taste,it may scemthat thc new cnding clashes noticcrbly with the Grcck story as wc know it. Indeed, the rather fierccly with our wholc tonc of thc talc genre clashes fcelingsabout Greeceand Troy. Though thc war hrwcen thc two took placelong agoand in a far-awaycountry, it doesnot fcel to us remotc in timc and space.One might conceivably rrritc e talc in which QueenFlizabethand King Hcnry (any onc might posibly King Hcnry) havepartsrs minor characters; or onc might writc e writc r talc aboutNapolconendJoeephinei ulc including Charlemagno-rs&lvino docsin Thc Nonesistent Knight (not a purc talc but a gencrichybrid). But Grcck uadition secms somehow too full of sunlightandsharpimagcry' too chargcd with Homeric immediacy,to rccommodatcthc would bc to pcrhaps, solutionn moodof e talc. Thc only possiblc changc thc localc and all thc charactcrs'nemes,placing thc anival of thc mysrcriousships off thc coast of, sry' ancient Norway. How thc stoqywould work set asx yern wc neednot clab, orate. Wc sce et once that r yarn-spinnu would havc to be inuoduccd; and someimplied reasonfor his spinning of thc yrrn; rnd iustification would have to be found for tclling so xrc not impmsiblg scriousr story comically. Such adaptations though thc proicct mey seemunpromising.Thc yarn-spinncr in tclling thc might bc, for once,an old woman,andher purposc hcr heroine,a sory might bc subdy fcminist. Making Helen shrcwd woman who at cvery turn comically ouwvitshcr malc t'supcriorc," shccscapcto frccdom.Here,if not sooncr'thc yern

Intercst otilTrutb

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might go derk, becominga generichybrid (yarn crossed with realisticstory): Helen'sultimatefailure,tonally conflicting with all that went before,might give, howeversubtly, an angry,revolutionarytone to the conclusion. The reader's indignationat the unhappyendingmight be madeto release the meaning<r, in this casc,implied message-thatwomen,howeverthey may strugglcandwhatever are alweysbeaten in the their brilliance, cnd by malechauvinism, a conditionthat ought not to prevail. If all thisweredonein too obvious a fashion, the story would of lightnes of course be boring;but for the writer with sufficient touch and a gift for authentichumor, thc yarn hybrid might havce gooddealof subtletyandinterest, everydetailserving ia feminist therelative theme, powerof menandwomen. Findly, the story might bc told more or lessrealisticalln as Gidc treas Greek legendin his novella"Theseus."The story's supcrnatural elements, if not suppresedentireln would in this case be carefully playeddown, treatedasgivensand quickly left behind for the story's main action, already realistic in namre. Sincethe plot wc've worked out is inhercntly one suitablefor rcalisticprescntation, we needsayno more. Thc last maior element that rnay modify the fictional thought is style. In true yarn and tale presentation, style is a givcn. If the story is presented in the form of a realisticnovel, novella,or short story, or in somehybrid crossof realismand somethingelse,the writer's choice of sryle becomes a serious consideration. We neednot spell out all the variouspossibilitia of stylisticchoice(to do sowould be impossible in any case); it will bc enoughsimply to suggst that eachchoicehasimplications. Thc writer must decidewhat point of view he will tsg what dictionlevel,what "voice,"whatpsychic-distance rangc. If hc hasHelen tell the story in the fim person,he hasthc probIem, at once, of establishing the information Helen herself mises (the natureof the Achaians and the Trojans). In any Iong fiction, Henry James remarked, useof the firsr-penonpoint of view is barbaric.James may go roo far, but his point is worrh

16

NorEsoN LTTERARY-AESTHETICrHEoRI

min4 locts First penon locls ns in one character's considering. us to one kind of diction throughout,locks out posibilities of and so fonh. What going deeplyinto variouscharacters'minds, calledthe 'third-person-limitedpoint of view," or b somaimcs 'third person for r drawbacks hassomeof the same zubiective," long pieceof 6ction. (This point of view is esentially the same rs first personexcept that each "I" is changedto "she" or point of view, "Helen.") The traditionalthird-penon-omniscient of narrator (a persona in which the story is told by an unnamed the euthor) who can dip into the mind and thoughtsof any primerily on no more than two or characer, though he focuses threc, givc the writer greatestrange and freedom.When he pleases, this narrator cen speekin his own voice,filling in necyet when background or offering obiectiveobservations; essaqy would be intrusive, he the sceneis intenseand his presence can write in the third-penon-limitedpoint of view, vanishing A relatedpoint of view for the momentfrom our consciousnes. b that of the essayist-narrator, much like the uaditional omniccientnarratorexceptthat he (or she) hasa definite voice and definite opinions,which may or mey not be reliable.This narretor mey be vinually a characterin the story, having e n:rme and somedistant reletionshipto the peopleand eventshe devoice. ecribes, or may be simply a particularizedbut unnamed The choice of point of view will largely determinedl other ehoices with regerdto style-wlger, colloquial,or formal dicand so on. of sentences, speed tion, the lengthand characteristic obviouslnis the extentto which What the writer mustconsider, on the point of view, and dl that follows from it, comments cherrcteq ections,and ideas.Volgo diction in the telling of r white-hotirony, probably the Helenstory would clearlycreate dl but unmanageable. C,olloquialdiction and relatively short onceelewould havethe instanteffect of humanizing sentsnces vrted characters rnd evens. Highly formal diction and all that nerrator might seem goesalongwith the traditional omniscient of the sory but h ly for dre seriousnes ir"di"t

brwestotdTrutb

77

can easily backfre, providing not suitable pomp but mere pompousnss. And somechoices in point of view, rs well asin other sryli*ic elementgmay have more direct bearingon the therneth,rn would others.For instancg the "town" point of view, in $hich the voice in the story is someunnamed ryokesman for dl the community-among the most famou cxamples b Faulkner's"A Rosefor Emily"-+night havethe immediatc c.ffectof foregroundingthe story's conuolling idea,conflictiag communityvalues versus personal vdues.

We hevelookedenoughat the fictional proces to seehow thc conventionaluniter's choiceq from such large choicesas sub i."t, plotr character,setdng, and theme to choicesebout the rrnelles daail of $yle can.ll h"lp him discoverwhat it is he wants to say.We haveseenthat the process is at every stage both intuitive and intellectual The u/riter chooses his subiect beeuse it appeals to him--a matter of feeling$ut in develop hg rq ft* in his pla+ then in his writing, he continudly dependsboth on intellectualfaculties,suchas critical absraction and musing and on intuitionJis geoeralseose of how the world works, his impulses and feelings.Having conrc this far, we cln get better perspective on our original quctionr rbout aesthetic interestandtruth in conventional fiction. Both for the writer and for the careful reader after him, cverythingthat happens in r well-constructed story, from major events to the mosttrifling turn of phrase, ie a ma$erof acthetic interest Sincr the writer haschosenevery elementwith carg and hasrevisedand rqpeetedly re-revised in an rttempt to rcadr something like aesthaicperfection,eveqyelement wc encountr is worth savoring. Evely character is sufrciendyvivid aodintcrestingfor hisfunction; eve{yscene is iust long enougb itst rich enough; every metaphor is polished; no symbol sands om crudely from is nntrix of events,yet no resonrnce gocscrrrF plaely unhear4 too dyly mufled by the literal Though we

78

THEORY ONLmRART-AESII|EnC IrroTDs

rtad the work againand againand agin, wc ctn nsvcl sccmto get to the boaom of it. Natunlly suchsubtlery-a story containingsucha trcasury et somccost.To work so beautifully, of pleasures-isachieved as it cannotwork quickly or simply asdoesa comicbook. (Thc grcetcr thc subtlety,the greatcrthe sacrificc.)It is for this reason that the readerwho lovcsgrcat fiction is willing to Put uP asslowasthat of Mann's "Deathin Venice,"an with rn opening tedious to thoscwho readnothingbut opcningthat might seem not mcanthat the scrious Houaril the Duck. This clearlydoes to andintcllcctual writcr shouldmaker point of beingtiresome drive awry dolts.If he respecsthe teader,if he honestlyconwould likc to read,the writer will choosc sidenwhat he himself charecters and the mostimmediately andpowerfullyintercsting evcntshe can think of. Hc will go for, asthcy say,dramaturgy. No two writers, as wc've recognizcd,will think of quitc thc to and eventswhen thcy look for what appcals semccharacrcrs writersenjoy stories them.Some of the cnd of thc world; some prcfcr fascinatingtea parties.But if thc writer writes only of what honatly intercstshim, and if he thinks of his work not ti.ply es thoughtful exploration"as it should be, but also as he cannotfail to have,at leastfor somegroup of cntertainment, andlastingintercst. serious, dcvotedreaders, both immediate we arelikely to sayof If thc writer's work is fully succcssful, it, without thinking too carefully what it is that we mean,that the work is "true." We are in a position to seenow that our may wcll bc accuratc.We iudgment, however unconsidered, havc scen that even such r relatively trivial decision as the in strikchoiccof diction level canalter the storyt implications to ing ways.Thosewho claim that ficdon hasno rclationship we that if use short They point out truth makc much of this. wc get a totally sentences, short vowels,and hard consonants, thanwc do if wc uselong sendifferenteffect,on any subiect, No one tcnces,long vowels, and nasalor liquid consonents.

InterestEnilTrcth

79

would deny that this is truc. But what necdsto bc noticcd b that thc good writcr makeseach choicc he makcsbccarsc it seems to him appropriate. A fictionalclemcntcrn bc appropriateor not by only oneof two standards: It is appropriatc to thc work asen .n obiect without refcrenccto realiry, or it is ap propriatc eswe test it egainstour sensc of thc actual.It secms doubtful that art's clements cen cvu be eppropriatconly to onc another.Thc colors in e painting without rccognizablc imagc may be seid to be appropriateonly to one anorher,but it is humanemotionthat iudgcs,tcsting against itsclf. As for fiction, in any casc,it scems fair to erguc thag sincc no narrativc bcyond r cercrin length can hold interest without somc such profluenccas e causalrelation of cvcnts (by either rcal-world logic, comic mockJogc or poctic logic), no namativccxcept. very shortonc cencscap rcd-world relevancc Our comparison of thc work and realiry is rutomatic and instantancous. To say that a srylc feelsappropriate to e subicctis to san then, that wc belicvcit in somcway hclp usto sccthc subjcctuuly. Fiction sceksout truth. Granted, it scela a poctic kind of mrth, univcrsalsnot casily uanslatablcinto moral codc. But pan of our interest as we read is in lcarning how thc world worla; how thc conflictswe sharcwith thc writer rnd all othcr human bcings can bc resolved,if at dl; what valucswc can alfrm and,in gencrel,what thc moral risla erc.Thc writcr who cen't distinguish truth from a pcanut-buttcrsandwichcan ncvcr write goodfiction. What hc afFrms wc denn throwing awayhis book in indignation;or if hc affirmsnorhing,not cvcn orr on. nes in sador comic helplessnes, and insistsrhat hc's pcrfectty right to do so, we confutc him by cloeinghb book. Somcbad men write good bools, adminedly,bur thc reason is that when thcy rc writing they'rc bcner mcn than when they bcat their wiva and childrcn. When hc wrircq the manof impctuous bad character hastimc to rcconsidcr. Thc fictional proccss hclpnhim sey what hc might nor havcsaidthat same night in thc tavcrn

8o

rnDoRr NorEItoN LIIERARY-ADSrIIETIc

Good men,on the other hand,neednot necesarily write good bools. Good-heartednesand sincerity rre no substitute for rigorouspursuitof the fictiond process. rhetoric is meantto deny the fact None of this high-minded that fiction is a kind of play. The cniter worls out what he thinls asmuchfor the ioy of it asfor any other reasonYet the remarle{ nc and earnesmes. It b sometimes play hasis uses by enemies of fiction but by peoplewho love ig that whereas and politicianswork for progres$ the writer of fiction scientists rcstatswhat hasd*qo beenknownoftdiog new expresion for familiar truths, edaptingto the age truths that mey seem outmoded.It is true thag in ueating human ernotion, with which wc're all familiar, thc cniter discovers nothin& merely clarifies for the moment,and that in aeating what Faulkner czlled 'the eternalverities," the writer ueats nothing unhearil of, sincepeoplchave beennaming and struggling m organize of yeers.It may their livesaroundeternalveritiesfor thousands even be uue thet many good writers feel indifferent to their work oncethey've finishedit. When they've chechedthtoogh thc galleyproofs,they mey neverlook againat the labor they've that an produccs devotedso muchtime to. But the fact remains the most imponent progrsscivilization knoun. Restatingold truths and adaptingthem to ttre ago eppl)nngthem in ways they were neverbeforeapplied,stirring up emotionby the inherentpower of narrative,visud image or musig artiss crack future. The age-oldidea of the door to the mordly necssar'' human agnity comesto rpply even to the indigeng even to now recendyevento women Thts is sleveq evento immigrants, not to s8y th6t great writing is propaganile. But becaruethe a require fictiond procss selects thosefit for it, end because ment of that proces is strong cmpatheticemotioq it turns out that the true writer's fundamentdconcern-his reasonfor fiodiog r zubiect interestingin the first place-is likely to be in the world humane.Hc seesinirsdce or misunderstanding rrormd hin, rnd he cunnotkeepit out of his story. It nsy bc

Interen otdTrutb

8r

true that he writes prinopally for the love of writing, and that in the heet of creationhe caresas much about the convincing dacription of Helen's face as he doesrbout the verities hcr story bringsto focts, but the mre literary anist is e far cry from who creete"toy fictior5" goodor bed--TV entertrinments those to tekethe perrsioner's mind off hris disrndexistencg self-regar& ing aathetic jokes,po6hsuper-realism, where emotionb ruld out and ideais thought fiction, or pomogr& , or nostalgia "olge phy. The true writer's ioy in the fictional procss is his pleasre in discovering, he can trusg what he bclievcssnd c.n by means effirm for dl time. When the lasttrump plays,he will be list* ing, criticizing, fgudng out the propr psychic distance.h shouldbe added,for honesty's sekg that the true literary rrti* andthemanorwoman whomakc "myfiction" maybethesamc prsonin different moods. Even on the subjectof high scriour. ness, we mustbeware of reckles high seriorsness.

4
Metafiction,Deconstruction,

andJazzing Around
wc'vc becn Not all fiction, old or new,worksby the principles cxaminingso far; in frct, though the thcory wc'vc bcentracing out hasbcenthe dominantthcory of fiction sincethe scvcntcenth ccnmry or so, mostof the lircrature of humanityworks by othersctsof principlcs.Thi lliad hasno "charactcrs," at lcast humanbcings. Tla not in the modernsensc-rounded, complcx Diaine Comedy and Beouulf have,at leastin thc fuistotelian scnsc, no "plot"-no causallyrelatedscqucncc of cvcns. And mmy greatworkg from the Gilgamesh to Pmadise Losr-if not Pound's Ccntor-proceed not by rcndercd rctiors, as Hcnqy would haveevents proceed, but by sct speeches. James in narrative method Changes rcfect changesin thc way humanbeinp see-or think they ought to scc-the world. In a suongly authoritarian age,an agein which kings and counsellors arc revered es innately bener than ordinary men and womeq pcople fiction asa vehicle By tendto see of instruction. rncans of fiction, thingsthe authorities know to bc true arcsugercoatedand passed down to thosefor whom the truth is not so visible. It is hard to speakfairly of authoritrrian age, both becruse spirit rnd thcy're naturally repugnant to the democratic because they arc forever watching from the wings, hoping to 8z

MaafctionrDeconstrwtion, enilImkS Arowd

83

*ize thc stageagain.But Jomeof thc greatest literaturc in the world comcs out of sucheges, and we needto understand how that litcrerureworksto undcrstand how our own worksandwhy our own, too,is fatedto suffcrconstant changc. Authoritrrian literaturc tcnds to work by thc allcgorical method,or rt leestgcts ia profluencefrom abtract logic (rhc dcvelopment of en rrgumentfrom eto b to c), not by nngeia. Takc thc greatcstwork of thb rypc in English (or, rather, arr cicnt English), Beauulf. The namativeis presentedin threc lergc scctions. In thc first, I monstcrcallcd Grendel persecutc the Danish peoplc until r hcroic fricnd from enother tribe, Bcowulf, kills the monstcr;in thc second secion, the monsrer's motherattacks the Danc, hopingto evenge her monsrrous son's death, rnd Beowulf kills hcr roo; end in the third section, Bcowulf, now an old, old man rnd king of the Geatishnatiorb fights a dmgon rnd dics himself in the rct of killing it. Thc sccond scction-Bcowulf and Grendel's mothcrloceeds crusally from the fint, but only by accident; end thc third scction-Beowulf and the dragon-hes no ceusalroos in the first or sccond sections. It is not because Beowulf killed Grcndct and his damthat he mustnow kill the dragon.Many yearshavc pased,and so far eswc can tell thc dragonnevermet Grendel or his mother. The principle of profluence in BeouruIf is abstract,not dnmatic, Grendelis idcntified in the poemasa symbol of unreson, onewho wersageinst ell order end lovcschaos. Grcndel, in otherwords,leprescnts r total malfunctionof oneof the three parts of thc Platonic tripanite soul (cf. Plato's Republic), the intellecnal. Grendel'sdamrcpresensa total malfunctionof the sccondpan of thc tripartitc soul, the irascible (the part thag like a good watchdogor soldier,shouldfight for right against wrong). And the dragonrcpreentsr total malfunctionof the third parg the concapiscatt (th2t is, thc part that dealswith thing: phpical, suchasfood, wcalth, comfon). Thc comingof Grcndcl'sdamin thc sccondscctionof thc pocmsccms causally

84

rItEoRx llcrrEs oN LTTEnrRY-AEsI?EIIc

related m the death of Grendel, but in fact this is nc the principle of selectionthe poet was using; othenpisehe could way of btingng in the dragon.Causalhavefound somecausal a Porn him; he wassheping ity *as ti.ply not what interested the relationshipbetween that would illustratg or demonstrate, the soul'sthreeparts,showingthemat their bestin Beowulf and frmiliar with the poem Readers at their worst in the monsters. but ths will realizethat the pot wasdoing much morebesides; whole ingeniousstrucffe works by the principle lve been pointing ouq not dramatization(in Aristotle's sense)but dlo. The poetwhotruty dramr' or demonstration. goricelexpressio+ chainq cannot tizes a conflicg carefully exploringcausal-event he gets there.For be until story will be surewhat the end of his For dlegorisg on ttp the hirn, fiaion b a means of discovery. e not exclusively, other hand,fiction is largeln though perhaps knows. means of expresingwhat the writer already to be r dernonstration A literary work neednot be allegorical from scen ratherthan an exploration. Any narrativethat moves exigencies to the not according to scene to episode and episode ir of causeand effect but accordingto someebtract scheme novel which conlikely to be a demonstration. The picaresque ventiondly follows someherofrom onesocid seaingto anotlrer the folly of eachsocialcontext, ie and another,demonsuating & and instructionalesPilgrinls Ptogress. esentially asabstract of e fictional biographymey proceedacs novel in the shape doign. ln Dntiil cording to the requiremensof someab,stract randomly, seemto progress episodes Coppnfield, for instance, like real life, until onenoticesthe controlling concernwith love in other wordq for their md marriage. Dickenschooses events, At Dickens'point in relevance to an ebstractcentral quesdon. of the novel,it is hard to tell whether we att the development dealingmainly with explorationor mainly with demonstration (Obviorsly both areinvolved.) ln someDickensnove\ swh as A TaIe of Tuo Cities,we sens pretty suongly the prercherly to exploration;in otherg cmethod,demonsuation esopposed

MaafutionrDeconstruction, and Iming Aroaul

85

pcclatty lrtc novels lfte Grcat Erpectdions, we mey feel thc nro impulsa warring in the writer's mind. asone thing or anotherwould servc Gtdoguing nerretives no usefulpurpose at the moment.What countshereis the general observation that fiction hasfor centuries existedoB I continuum mnning berweenauthoritarianand existentid. Gnain books,like the lliail, servedtheir original audience as,in cffect, tru*wonhy hittory, lawbook,evenbible; others, like Apollonioc Rhodioo'lrgonmtica,show only comicor ironic respecfor the traditions and accepted pettems of their culture and seemto offer no answers, only difficult questions. One kind of narrativg the kind I describe aseuthorirerian, is sometimes saidto look at its sto:y line "spatially," eachof its elemenscxisting for thc sakeof e predetermined "end" or conclusionThis is rlmost inevitably the kind of fiction producedby a writer who composc his narrative by working beckward from the climax, end in practiceany well-madestory may be suspected of havingbeen built this way, sincein the final draft, we canbe sure,the writer will haveintroducedwhateverpreparationhis ending needchoweverexistentially he may in fact haverrrived at his ending. For some contemporaryreadersand critics, e nerrative that seems to them spatially conceivedis morally distresing. This may be no more than r personalquirk of thce reades and critics affected;but the quirk doeshavesomeroor in reality: Metaphpics rnd uniustified notions of human cenainty had more than a litde to do with the holocaust and Americanfirebombinp, not to mention atomic bombinp, napdrq and the rest. It is perhaps largely for this reason that we haveseen since World War II, all overthe world, a riseof non-profuent fiction (actionsleadingnowherg as in the plap of SamuelBeckett) rnd unendedfiction (rs in John Fowles' The fuench LieunenfsWonm). C,riticswho havefocusedtheir ettentionon unconventiond r,ectntfiction haveuseda variety of termsto identify it, mostof tbem apparendyinterchangerble-"fabulatioq" "post-modern-

86

THEoRY Norns oN LITEMRY-AESTHETIc

fictiorq" rnd so fonh. To ism,tt ttmetafictionr"t'deconstructive get e clear sense of the kinds of interestend truth avaibble in fiction asit is presentlypracticed,it will be uscunconventional For our Prsent ful to bcginby clerring up the critical languagc. end "fabuladiscusion,let usscrapthc terms"post-modcrnism" scts up only r veguc entithesis tionr" since "post-modcrnism" meaning only, in effecgmorelike ltalo Glvino to l'modcrnism," to mean than like Saul Bcllow, and sincc "fabulation" seems critics generally u nothingbut "unconventional." "Mem6ctionr" fiction that, both term. It means usethe word, is r moreprecise convenseen' investigates fiction.fu we have in stylcandthcmc, theworld; and, for examining tionalfictioncanbe aninstrumcnt it can malfunction.Like a instrument, like any humanlydcvised us of thingsthat it can persuadc faulty microscope or telescope, the conventionallove-story ending ate not true. For example, as we find it in JaneAustencan subtly penuadcthe careless reader(thoughJancAustenneverintendcdit) that for every womanthereis some oneperfectman.Needlcs to sey,the morc powerful a literary conventionbecomes-the more frcqucntly peoplc write books in careful or shabbyimitation of Janc Austen's-the more perversethe convention'simpact. Human beingscan hardly movewithout modelsfor their behavior,and from thc begi*ing of time, in all probabiliry, wc havcknown no greeter purveyor of modelsthan story-telling. hrt it this writer way: Saythat, at e ceftaintime in e certaincountry, some whose hero e imitating he someone admires--creates lerhaps motto has The is never explain." life moao "Never complain, putone might consider r cenainring to it; it's the kind of thing ting up on the wall in the bathroomof one'schildren. In one lifelike situationafter another, we seethis herobcaringup undcr advenity, scornedfor things he is not gurlry of, laughedat for things he would be praisedfor if the whole truth werc known. thrilling book), wc seeour hero Again and again(in this same, giving orden he secredywisheshe didn't needto glve, making hecrnnot xplain painful decisions that, for cenainlofty rersons,

Maafction,Deconstruction, tnd IwkS Aroand 87

to his friends end loved onc. The effect on the readerof this lonely,lofry herocould be veqf $ear indeed-but nor neccssarily healthy.If suchheroes occur in very manyplap and novcl$ if the appeal of such a characterbecomc widespread, then democracy,even common decency,is undermined.We havc becntaughtto admire, submitto, or behave like thc well-meaning Nazi officer, the business-world tyrant, or rhe moral fanatic. Nothing in the world hasgreaterpower to enslave than docs fiction. Oneway of undermining fiction'sharmfuleffects is thc writing of metafiction: a story that callsattention to its methods end the reader shows what is happening to him ashe reads. In rhis kind of fiction,needles to say,the law of the "vivid andcontinuousdream"is no longeroperative; on the contrary,the breala in the dream are as imponant as the dream. Thb gencral methodis far from ne% though for reasons I've suggestcd it is cspeciallypopular at the moment.In the Argonauticr" Apolloniosrepeatedly ierks the readerawakewith someseemingly misuse perverse of epic tradition, or with someunexpeced, slighdy frigid joke, or somesceminglyneedless, ponderous But when we've finishedthe poem,we can nevcr comment. againlook with the same innocentadmiration at the mechismo of Homer's cpics, or praisethe warrior's shamcculture abovc the civilizedman's guilt culrure.We find a gentleruseof metafictional techniques in Sternc'sTris*cn Shtnfu or Fielding's Ton lones.In recentfiction, worksthat call insistcnt attention to their anifice are everywhere-loncsco,Beckctt, Barth, BarBorges, thelme, Fowles, Glvino, Gass, andsoon. It is usefulto disdnguish between metafiction and fictional deconstruction, thoughtechnically the the laccr term cncloses former.All metafiaions arcdeconstructions; not all deconstructionsaremetafictions. No commoncontemporery criticzl rerm raises hackles morc quickly than the term "deconstructior\" and rightly so, sincc thosc who usethe term almostalweyssoundwildly confuscd.

88

NOTES ON LITERARY'AESTHETTCTIIEORY

Probably the uuth is that they .re not so much confusedas hamsuungby wonhip of Heidegger.At any ratg behind the lie certain more dazzlingcloud of language deconsuuctionists' carriesvalueswith ig facts: that language or lessindisputable as we spak and would valueswe do not recognize sometimes in what we sayi to if we noticed their presence not subscribe That and that art (music,painting,literatute, etc.) is language. language carriesvaluesis obvious.Again and againthis book of the writer as"he," though many of the bestwriten I speaks read or havetaught in writing clasesare female.English' have It is also,asthe is covenly malechauvinist. Iike mostlanguages, novelistHarold Brodkey poins oug covertly Christian.Nearly carry r traceof Neoph all our mostresonant wordsandimages tonic Christianity.Evensoinnocenta word as"friend" hasovertones. In feudal times it meant one's lord and protector; in timesit meantthe oppositcof "fiend." We can of Anglo-Saxon incourseread a book about friends without ever consciously of the word; but wherethe friendship voking the undercurrents we erealmost surto in this storywe'rereading, growsintense, imaga of light or warmth,flower or gardenimagery' encounter hunger,sacrifice, blood,and so on. The veqyform of the story, orderly its beginning,middle, and end, is likely to hint at r Christian metaphysic. apert, or Deconstruction is the practiceof aking language taking works of art apart, to discovertheir unacknowledged may or mey not inner workings.Whatevervaluethis approach of corr haveesliterary criticisrg it is one of the mrin methods fictcmporary (and sometimaancient) fiction. Deconstructive from is to revisionist history in that it tells the story tion parallel the other sideor from somequeeranglethat cass doubt on the generally acceptedvdues handeddown by legend.Whereas by directly celling attentionto fictionb metafictiondeconstructs uicks, deconstructive fiction retellsthe story in sucha way that the old versionloses credit. Shakapeue'sHnnla canbe soeneg r work of this kind. In the revengetragediesShakcparc'r

MaafictionrDeoonstntction, cnd lmkg

Aromd

89

sudience wasfamiliar wirh, someghostor friend or other ploe devicelaln on the herothe burdenof avenging somecrime.Thc genre fu by nature righteousand self-confidengauthoritariao: There is no doubt that vengeance is the hero'sduty, and our pleasure aswe watch is in seeing irsticc donq howeverpainful the experience. Shakespeare's Hamla deconstructs ell this. Despite Horatio's certainty, we becomeincreasinglydoubdul of the ghost'sauthoriry asthe play progresses, so that we become more and moreconcerned with Hamlet'stestsof peopleand of himself;and evenif we choose to believethat the ghost'sstoqy wastmg we become increaingly unclearaboutwhetherHamlet would be right to kill the king who usurpedhis father'o throne-at any rarer Claudiusbecomes lessand lessthe stock villain, and Hamleg as he proceeds through the play, becomes moreandmoreguilty himself. Except for the earliestliterature we know about-the Akkadian Gilgtnesh, cenain parts of the Bible, and the epicsof Homer--all great literature has,to somextent, a deconstnrctive impulse.Thts is of courseonly natural: If the busines of the first man is to crqlte, the business of the secondis at least partly to corec. Throughout the history of Western civilizrtion, we encountera few greatmomensof creation-momentg when the deconstructive impulseseems relatively slight-and r greatmenysuetches of time that seem mainly devotedro taking the machineryapan and putting it togetheragan in somenew wrong way" Though the Beowulf-poetwes deconstructing old paganlegends of heroic derring-do,his main impulseseems to havebeencoastructive:the creationof a myth that would fise dl that wasbestin the old paganand the new Chdstienvision Dante,too, wr$ mainly constructivgfusingthe clasical and the modernby mearsof a new truth-principle what might bc deccribed(not quite fairly) ase form of emotivism:"Truth is thet which one c:m $y without shamebefore Bearrice."And one might mentionothersuchmoments, mostreccntly the advcntof Jama Joyce.

go

firDORt ON LTTERARY-AESTTIETIC NOTES

fic intcrct in metafictionrnd thc interestin dcconstruaivc form) differ in fiction (when the lastis not castin metafictional obviousways.Thc appcalof mctafictionmry be almostentircly intcllcctual.If we laugh,wc do not do so heartily' aswhen wc laugh at or with an intercsting lifelikc character;wc laugh thinly, with e fecling of slight supcriority, aswe hugh at wiso' cracksor "wit.' If we gdeve,we grievc likc philosophen not like peoplc who havc lost loved onc. Mainly, wc think. Wc deviccc his useof unexpected think aboutthe writer'sallusions, his cffrontery in breakingthc rules.Other forms of decongrcetcr achieve that is"--can struction-other than metafictionel, story from Beowulf retellingthe cmotional power.For example, the point of view of thc monsterGrendel,onc getsnot only tragwhatevcrcmotional cfrcctcen be wrung out of Grendel's readcrmay feel in grief the cxpericnccd cdy, but alsowhatever sceingthc grand old forms of Western civilization rcvealedas and tyrannical,and prob' rather shoddy,ccrtainly manipulative ablypocticlicsin thc 6rst place. fiction is that dcconstructive Nonc of this is mcantto suggcst better than metafction, or vicc versaror that cither of theseis bcttcr or worscthan conventionel fiction. That cachhasits valadherents, ucsis evidentfrom the fact that eachhasis earncst what they hint that rcady kill et the faintcst somcof thcm to lovc is not lovcduniversally. is useless And onc of thc What wc cnioy wc cnioy; dispute Wc may go along thingt human bcings mostcnjoy is discovery. for ycars without cvcr noticing that thc third-person-limited sappy.And then onc dey in metaficpoint of vicw is cssentially laid all its foolishness tion onesccs thet point of view mocked, showsus, barc,and onelaughs with delight.Thc metafictionist point of view forces for instance, that thc third-person-limited the writer into phony suspense. Say a story bcgins with this cvcnt: A man nemedAlex Strugatskyis taking his Saturday morning ballet classwhen his mistres, the wife of thc local in to standwatching.Alex is distrescdChief of Policc,comes

Maafction,Deconstruction, andlrnkg Around gr

he doesnot want their afiair known, lest the police chicf shoot him; but alsohe doesnot want to be impolite, because his mis. tres, Gencvieve Rochelle,is a beaury.lf we start off this story in rhc sensible omniscient point of view,asChekhov would,we cen get the imponant facts in right away and get on ro what's really interesting,such as: What will Alex do? Do his fellow dancers noticel And so on. In thc omniscient point of view onc might write: Onc Saturday morningwhen Alex Strugetsky wastaking his dancingclas, he happencd to look over, while. balancing on his toes,and seehis mistress, Genevieve Rochelle, wife of the local Chief of Police,standing in the doorway.Good grief, thoughtStrugatsky, blushing, lookingaroundin horror at the faces of his fellow dancers-mostly middle-aged womenwho had comethere to work off fat. Notice what happenswhcn the writer limits himself to the thoughtsof thc centralcharacter, mendoning nothing not directly present in thc character's mind. It wesa Saturday morninglike any other,the middlefat womenof hisdancing aged class laboring rround him, the piano punching out uh-azc, uh-nlo, the teacher floating through the motions,sour-pused,when suddenln unsteadily brlancingon his toes,Alex Strugatsky lookedover et the brightly lit doorwayand saw-her! Hc swunghishead studyingcachfat linle facein around, rurn,but sofar no onehadnoticed. Would theyrecognizc hcr if they saw her there?Probablythey would. Hc imagined himselfcrying out, "No, please! please!" and being shotin thehead. Needles to say, there is r place-in comedy-for such silly hpteria. But it's odd to think how serious all thosewriters of the

92

TI{EoRY ONLTIERARY-AESTHETTC NOTES

drinic and forties were who usedthis point of view--+hesamc pcgple whq in movie$ usedsolemnvoice-over.Or agai+ the this point of may showus,by cunningly misusing metefictionist nercisists of rs all. Alex view, how third penon limited makes has gotten away from his dance clas rnd b sitting with in her cer: Genevieve He did not mind, he thought, her slow wry of drawing the cigarenefrom is packor evenher long hesitation on the dasb gropingly for the matches beforeshereached it all, and the but the archedeyebrowthat accompenied to see throughthe windshield way sheneverevenglanced felt inexcusrble! He waswatching-those were if anyone himselfsheping a frown andcaughthimself,then covered his mouthwith one hand,Iestthe frown sneakback. part and of everylinle gcture on Genevieve's All this analyzing Alex's own would be, in real life, the mark of e man deeply the writer hasno other pamnoid.In our fiction it occursbecause way of sayingwhat happens exceptby somehow putting it into Alex'shead. could It might be arguedthat a cleverwriter of metefictions makefun, if he wisheqof any of the standardpoints of view. that any human That is true andnot true. It is probablythe case activir,y can legitimately bc made fun of, and that a clever metafictionl* could make us leugh et the noblest devicc of is seDostoevsky or Mann But the smartwriter of metafictions leaive aboutwhat he pokc fun at, end pert of our interestas from our recognitionthat the folly hc rre readhis work comes pointsout is significant;that rq it ls not only silly, oncewe look wront at it closeln bm it is in somesense prverse:It pushes vrlues. fiction cnn be described Theoretically all non-conventional rc cither metafiction or deconstruaive fiction or both but know 6et much of what we radn or rcaedyintuitively-we

MaafwtionrDeconstnrction, od IwkS

Arumd

g,

lereon stegeor on the screen,is nefuher. It has no theoqy,h makes no grandchiss ht inst iazzingaround. One of the bestthings nanative can do b iazz rround. The Marx Brothers,W. C. Fiekls,BusterKeaton,old-time Saturday morningcartoons(not the new,cheap ones),certaingreatfakeprofound movia lfte Tbe Magicim and Lr Sttada. There can be no point in makingup an aesthetic theory for iazzng around, but if somefool were to do it, he would find it hard to avoidat leestthe following basicprincipls. When r writer is iazzing aroun4 he may not feel a powerful needto createconsisteng profound,well-roundedcharacters. In facg he might stan with m elderly Jew crynngon a bus and transformhim without notice to r boy of eleverl then to. spsrroq then to the Queenof Poland.All the ordinary, decent-heaned readerwill askis that the transformationbe astonishing end interestingand thrt thc story in some way appear keepusreeding.Or the to makesense, writer may usee castof clown character-eagerly heroic nitwits like the Keptone Cops,or fiendishdaemonic plotten with hails full of suaw, like the Marx Brothersstealinge pianq etc. Where plot is concerned, anythingcan happen that wantsto, so long asit holdsinterest;end seaingmay change aswhimsicdly asit did from panelto panelin the Krczy Kot comics.l^?tirng aroundmay cover enything from parody to whimseyto heavy European surrealism. Unfornrnately,it is whet most beginning criters do mostof the time; that is, they snrt with somecharacer for whom they feel someson of afrection-an electricgurtar player,say+nd they dacribe him playing his guiter in his roonr,andthen they askthemselves, "Now what can I male happen?" Something drearyoccursto thenr-the guitar pleyert mommetecomesin-and they write it down. The roonunetes srnokesomepot. They go to e pany. They meet. girl with r large white wolf. And so on. All of which is to say: lu^ng aroundis the hardest kind of fiction in the world. When r writer b g-d at ig the world is his-whatb the cxpresion1---oytefi

gt+

NOTES ON LTTERIIRY-AESTIIETIC THEORY

Y* in the end, alas,thc world's greeterpraiscwill go to thc drudgewho writes eboutmoreor lcs lifclike pcoplc serviceeble who, laboring through cnergeicplos, find thcir destinicsand stir usto affirmation. Metafction, deconstructivc fictiono and iazzlingeround all hevcthis much in commonwith convcntionalfiction: They dl delight us, or, esNabokov uscdto insisg "chrrm." lilhctfier I givcn work is boisterous, like a circuq or quietly clcganglikc e Iikc en unpleasant drcamcomcdivc, or srilboat,or disorienting, frssomcthingelsc, all good fiction has rnomcnt-by-momcnt It cinetion.It hasauthoriry and at lcest4 touch of suangencss. 6ction, conventiond drenr usin. In the cascof what I've cslled it's easyto describcthc basisof our rnraction. For unconvcnwhcn tionel fiction, that b not so.Mlntcry is is soul.Somctimcs wc loot closely et rn unconyentionel piccc of fiaion, wc dir of gcnrc-crossingcover thar in fact it's a simpleachievcmcnt for instrnce, thc folktclc and thc early Hollywood murdcr mystery-but we may bc discoveringmore thrn thc writcr carekncw. As wc'vc seen, fiction takesimmenscly conventional ful plrnning if it's to bc redly good, and maafiction end deconstructivc fiaion take similar ctrc, luz.ng around takes e spccial geniug in which thc ability to plan plap hardly any p.rt It rcquiresincxhaustible imagination(think of thc work of $tanlcy Elkin, for instancc) and thc fiulte to know when thc magic isn't quite good enough.Thc two gftg onc crtreordinarily childlikc, the other highly sophisticatcdand manug rlmost ncvershowup in onc person. thcy showup Occasionally in twq asin Gilben and Sullivarqand the two fight likc devils.

II
NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

Lommon Errors

nr-

Thc mostimponantsinglenotion in the theory of fiction I have outlined--+entially the uzditional theoqyof our civilization's Iiterature-is that of thc vivid and continuors fictional &earn According to this notion, the writer ses up e dramatizcd action in which we aregiven the signals that makeus "see"the secingr characters, rnd evens; that rs,he doesnot tell ts aboutthcm in ebntracttcrmq like m essayist, but givcsus images that rppeal to our serus-preferablydl of therq not iust thc visud senscso that we seem to movc emongthe charactcrs, leanwith drem qgeinst thc fictional wdh testethe fictional gazpachqsrnellthc f,ctionel hyacinttu. In bsd or unsatisfying fictioq this fictiond dreamis interruptedfrom timc to time by somemistake or son' sciousploy on the pan of thc anist Wc ere abrupdy snapd out of thc drearqforcedto think of the writer or the uniting. It b rs if r playwright were to nm our on stege,intenupting hb cheraaers,to remind rs that he haswrinen all this I asr nc sgFg that r novelistc:urnotnoticcably trcet his characters s puppetsin e stage-sct worl4 sinccpuppea and r stagpscr .tt alsothingswe censccrnd to sorn cxtentcrnpathize with. Evar thc mct'obicctivC'6ction, asRobcrt Louis Stcvcnson ca[ed il, isstill 6ction,still dremetizrtion 97

98

PRocEstl oN THEFICTIoNAL NotrEs

If thc principlc of vividnes and continuity i clcar, we can tcchnical implications. tum to somc too fcw daaih to will not bc vivid if the writcr grves A scenc will it bc vivid if neither imaginadon; stir endguidcthc rcader's thc Imguagcthc writer uscsis abstractinsteadof concretc.If thc writer says"creaturcs"instcadof "sntkcs," if in en eftemPt Latinatctcrmslikc "hoetilc to imprcss uswith fancy talk hc uses instead of sharpAngloSaxonwords likc "thrlsh," maneuvcrs" sand of the desert's "coilr" "spitr" "hiss,"and"writher" if instead abodc,"the of thc snakc' "inhospitable and rocks he speaks up on hismenrcadcrwill hardlyknow what pictureto confure dctail and ab,suaction Thesetwo faults,insufficient tal screen. is concrete detail,arc common-in fact wherc what is needed writing. Anothcr is the failurc to dl but uqiversal-in ametcru filtering of thc run straightat the image;that is, thc nccdless Thc amateur image through some observingconsciousnes. the fightingin among writcs: "Tuming, shcnoticedtwo snakes thc rocks, snakes rmong two [n rocl6." C,ompare: "Sheturned. canof course bc further inr' wcrc fighting." (Thc improvement werc 6ghting" is morc rbstract proved.Thc phrase "two snakes striking at erch whipped and lashed, than, say, "two snakes othcr"; andverbswith auxiliaries["wcrc fighting"] arc ncvct ts sharp in focus as verbs without auxiliarics,since the formcr the lattcr [e.9.,"fought"l sugindicatcindefinite time,whercas no laws are gcst e given instant.) Gcnerally speaking-+hough absolutein fiction-vividness urges that elmost cvcry occrrrenccof suchphrases as "shenoticcd" and "shesad' be sup of the thingseen. in favorof directpresentation prcsscd implications of the continuity principle-thc Thc technical from the image idca thrt thc reader shouldneverbc distracted work of beginning the be so briefly. In or scenHannot trcated comskills of English writcrs, especially thoseweakin the basic readcr pocition,thc usualmistakcis that the writer disuactsthc canspeak of course, by clumsyor incorect wdting. Characters, as clumsily as thcy likc; thc writer's iob is simply to imitatc

CotmtonEnut

99

drem rccurately. But the ctrnderd third-pcnon nerrator c.n nevcr miss.If thc narratorclip into faulty syntax,the reader's mind trcla rway from thc fighting snekes to thc problem of figunng out what thc scntence mcens. Thc distracrionis dmoor cenainto bc emotional rs wcll as intcllccual,sinccthc rcrder hascvcry right to fcel thrt thc writcr'r busincsis to cry whet hc means clcarly. In good fiction, the rerdcr ncver hrs to go back ovcr I scntence iust to find out what ir says.Hc may read r sentencc twicc becausc hc likcs it, or hcausc, through no frult of thc author, his mind briefly wandercd,musing,pcrhaps, on thc largcrimplications of the scene; but if it's rhc ruthor'gcarelesnessthat mekcshim rcad rwicc, hc hasa right to fcel that the authorhasviolatcdthc fundamental contractin dl fiction: that the writcr will derl honcstly and rcsponsiblywith the rcader.(This, it shouldbc mentioncd, docsnot rule out uscof thc so-called unreliablenanator, sincethe unreliablenrrrator is r charactcr insidcthc 6ction.) Clumsy writing is en cvcn morc cornmonmistakein thc work of .mateurs, thoughit showsup cvcnin the work of veqy good writcrs. Some of the morc frcquent forms of clumsywriting shouldpcrhaps bc mendoncd hcre, sinccfauls of this kind arc r good"dedmorc scrious than thc amateur mry imagina They alicnatcthc expcrienced readcr,or et very leastmakc it hard for him to conccntreteon thc fictional dream,rnd thcy undercut the writer's authoriry. Whcre lumps and infelicitia occur in fiction, the sensitive rcadershrinkseway r little, aswc do whcn anintcresting convcrsationalist pickshisnose. Thc mostobviousforms of clumsincss, rcally failurcsin the basicskills, includc such mistakes as inappropriateor cxcesive use of thc pasivc voice, inappropriatc usc of inroductoqy containinginfinitc vcrbs,shifts in diaion lcvel or the phrascs rcgular uscof disuactingdiaion, lack of ecntcncc varicry, lrck focuq faulry rhythm, accidental of scntencc rhyme, ncedless explanrdorl rnd crrclcssshifts in psychic distance.Let us run through thcseonc by onc,

IOO

NOTES ON ITIE FICTIONAL PROCESS

Except in stock loctrtions,such as "You were paid yesteror "The proiect wasabanweredefeatedr" dan" "The Germans doned," the pasive voice is virtually useles in fiction except when usedfor comic effect, as when the writer mimics some instituor quotessome way of speaking fool's slightly pompous more ditional directive.The ectivevoice is almostinvariably (passive) to "I rect andvivid: "Your parrot bit me" esopposed may depend wasbitten by your parrot." (The choicein this case might A timid soul'fearfulof giving offense on characterization. by construction.)In e story presented well chooe the passive narretor-an obfectiveand largely the conventional omniscient formal namative voice like, say,Tolstoy's-the pasimpersonal eive voice is rlmost ceftain to offend and distract.Needles to san the writer must iudge every caseindividuallS and the reelly g*d writer rnay get e\ray with fust about anything.But it must be clear that when the writer makesuseof the pasivc for what he does. heknowshe'sdoingit andhasgoodreason ere so com$ntences beginningwith infnite-verb phrases mon in badwriting that oneis wiseto treet them asgoilty *ril proven innocent-sentences,that is, that begin with such phrases as"Looking up dowly from her sewing,Marthasaid. . ." or 'Carrying the duck in his left hand,Henry . . ." In really regularlyleadto shifa in badwriting, suchintroductory phrases temporalfocus or to plain illogic. The bad writer tells us, for instance:"Firing the hired man and burning down his shac\ impliesthat the action Eloisedrove into town." (The sentence of 6ring the hired mrn and burning down his shact and the Or the badwriter ectionof driving into town aresimultrneous.) tells rs, "Quickly turning from the bulkhead, Gptain Figg But spokeslowly and carefully." (Illogicel; that is, impoesible.) focus is involve4 the of temporal evenif no illogic or confusion makc useof infinite-verbphrases too frequentor inappropriate the writer snnot aboutbecause bd writing. Generallyit comes The writer think of r wey to vary the length of his sentences. 'She slipped off thc lools at the tenible thing he'r written:

Cownon Enmt
gertr. Shenrned o John Shesmiledat hb cnrbarrosnrcnf and in r dcperete ettempt to gc rid of the dully thudding mbieca md verbs hc revisesto 'She slipped off the ganr. Turning to Johq shesmiledat his embanessment." The goal, vadety, may be admirable, sentnoe but there are better ways One can get rid of the thudding subjeca and verbs by rsing cumpoundpredicates: "Sheslippedoff the ganer and turned to 'She phrases: John"; by inuoducing qualifiersand appooitional rather, yanked--off the ganer, a fraye{ mournful slipped---or, pink onc long pastis prime, gray elasticpeekingout past the (etc.); or by finding someappre ruffes, indifferently obacene" priate subordinate clause, perhaprs: "When she had slippedoff dre gener, sheturned to John"+ solutionthat getsrid of the thudding by lowering (hastening)the stres of the first "sha" (Comparethe rwo rhythms: "She slippedoff the gerter. ShG tumed to John" and "When shehad slippedoff the ganer, she arned to John.") All this is not to deny, of counrc,thet the introductory infinite-verbphrase cenbe an excellent thing in its place Properly use4 it momenurily slows dom the action, gives it r considered, weighted quelfty that can heightenthe tensionof an important scene.It works well, for instance,in gimationslike these 'Slowly mising the rifle banel . . ." or "Gazingoff at the woods,giving her no answer.. ." Usedindis. criminateln the introductory infinite-verbphrase chop the action into fits md starts and loseswhst effectivenesit uright have had, properly set. Diaion problemsare usuallysymptomatic of defectsin the c{raracter or education of the writer. Both diction shiftsand the steady use of inappropriatediction suggsteither deepdown bed uste or the awkwardness that comesof inexperience and timidiry. Therc seems litde or no hopefor the adult writer who producessntences like these: "Her cheeh were thick and snroothrnd held a healthy natural red color. The heavy lines under then4 her iowls, extended ro the inrersection of her lips rnd geveherr thick-lippedfrown mostof the time." The phrase

to2

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

"Her chcekswere thick and smooth" is normal English, but "[Her cheeks]held r healthynamral red color" b clcvate4 pseudo-poetic. The word "held" faintly hints at personification of "cheeks,"and "healthy natural red color" is clunky, stilted similar mistakcs slightly bookish.The sccondsentencc contains Thc dictionlevelof "extendcd to thc intcncctionof her lid'b high and formal, in ferociousconflict with the end of the scntencg which plunga to thc colloquial"mo'stof thc time." There steadilycle' may be slightly more hopefor the writer who uses vated diction--sentenccsthat pomp along likc thcsc: "Thc uniquesmell of urine and saltwatergrcetcd him as hc stcppcd through the hatchway.Hc surveyed the arcafor an opcnsink or showerstall but, finding nong had to wait in linc.' ("Had to writ in line" b of coursca suddendiction drop.) Thc writing herc hasmost of the usualqualiticsof falsely clcvateddiction: ab,stract language ("unique smelf'), clich6 personification ("[the smell] greetedhim"), Latinatelanguage whcre simplc Anglo-Saxonwould bc prcfcrable ("survcyed the area' for "looked around"), and so fonh. If a writer with difficultia likc thcc sticksto thc relatively ."ry kinds of fiction-thc rcrlistic story and thc yarn asopposcd to the tale-Jrc cen gct rid of hb problemssimply. He can learn by diligcrrcc to cradicatedl tracesof fancy talk from his vocabulary, usingdirect, colloquial speechin reall*ic storiesand in yarns imitating the conventional backwater narretive voicc (thc rurel Southerncr,thc crafty old farmer of New England,or whatever).Scrious trleq which by conventionrequirc elevated, almoststatcly tonc, ere likely to prove forever beyondthis writer's msrns,sinccno onc can writc in thc high style if hc cannottell real high stylc from fakc. It's e limitation no writer shouldhappily eccept,asa few phrucsfrom Melvilleshould remindus: Thc moming wes one pcculiar to thrt coast.Everything was mutc and calnr, cverything grey. The seq thooghundulated into long roodsof swclls,seemed fixed,

Comtnon Enms

rot

and umssleeked at the surfacelike waved lead that hss cooledandsetin thc smcltcr's mould.Thc sky seemed r grey mantle.Flights of troubled grcy fowf kith and ldn with flighs of troubled grey vepoursemongwhich they were mixcd, skimmedlow and fitfully over the water, beforc storms.Shadows asswallowsover meadows prcdeepcr shadows scnt,foreshadowing to come. of Isak Dinesen's Or loolcat an example wc of thc talc's tnditional high stylc: The big house stoodasfirmly rootedin the soil of Denhuts, and wasasfaithfully dlied to muk asthe pcasants' hcr four winds and her changingsersons, to her animd lifq treessnd flowcrs. Only its intercse lay in e higher plane.Within the domain of the limc uees it was no longerco\ils,goats,and pigs on which the mindsand thc talk ran, but honesand dogs.Thc wild fauna,the gamc of theland,that the peasant shookhisfist at whenhesaw it on his young greenrye or in his ripening wheat fiel4 to the residents of the country houses were the mainpursuit andthe ioy of existencc. The writing in thc sky solemnlyproclaimedconti* uence,e worldly immonaliry. The grcat countr)r houscs had hcld their ground through many generetions. Thc familicswho livcd in thcm reveredthe put as they honourcd themselvcs, for thc history of Dcnmark wrs thcir own history. The high stylc, like Bach,is not for everyonq but thc frct thrt amateurs so regularly fall into grotesquc imitation of it suggcsa that it strika someresponsivc chord in us.By readingcarefully and cxtensivelnby writing constantlyand gettingthe bestcriti. cismavailable to him, the writer who beginswith no fceling for dictioncaneventually overcome hisproblems. &ntence variety is discusedin most frcshmancomposition

to4

PRO@tts ON-IIIE I'ICTIONAL NOTES

boob and necdnot be treated.t lcogdt here;it will h cnough to mention one or rwo of tlrc problearsthrt most frequendy plaguecreativevniters. Whet the young writer ncedsto do, of coursefis study sentencs, consciouslyxperimentwith therq sincehe crn soefor himselfwhat the ditr"*rlty rc and cen soc for himself when he has beatenit: Where vuity b lacking, scntencs dl run to the sameLngtb quqf over ud over the boring structura Subiectsame old rhythms,and hevethe same vcrb, subject-verb, zubfect-verbobiec-t subiect-vcrb. What thc den writer learnsas he beginsto experiment is that the crre can be wone then the direase. I've mentionedalreadythe tsudly ill-fated introduction of en opening infnite-verb phrase. Another bad cure is the sentence awkwardly stretched out by r 'that'or'which" clause. For example, from the couclr, "Lerping he seized the revolverfrom the boolshelf thet stoodbehindthe armchair,"or, "She turned, shrieking,throwing up her arrr in teror et the sight of the gorilla that had arived that morning from Africq which hadformerly beenits home."What happm in suchsentences, obviously,is that they tend to trail ofr, losc in energy.It may help to look at the metterthis way: Scntences English tend to fdl into meaningunis or s).ntactb slon-for instancgsuchpattemsas
12,

verb,obiect subiect,

subjcct verb'modifier. by highIn the so-cdledperiodicsentence, highly recommended or imponant thing schoolEnglishteacherqthe most interesting in the sentence is pushcdinto the final sloq as in 'Down the river, rolling and bellowing, cameMahl's cow." Thc neturll but it b superioriryof thc periodicsentencrcanbe exaggJeratd a fect that an anticlimecticending cen nrin an othcrwisepcrfectly good sntencgend rlmoct invrriebly+lsepi in comic

ComnonEnmt

ro5

writingthe'tlnt" or \'hich" clausc (Il teeds m enticlimrx. NewYorker"supcr-realisr" fictior4thb styll*ic fatnes msybe rvimre.) Often the search for vui*y leads to another problerrn thc overloading of sentences andthe los of focw Looh $ thsc sentnc6: Gulf were veqy "The darl watersof thc Persian peaceful as the pinkishglow of pre-dawn light turnedthe gray cloudsto shades horizon's of orchidend lavendcr. The cleer,coolair breezed acrosthe dec}sof the munrnoth whitc shipasit moved almoot silendy ttroogh rhew$er." [n a somc whatfranticattempr to gergusro, thewritcr prcla hissentenoe like a Japanese commuter uain. Perhap1 greetwriter migln get awaywith this (in prose fiction DylanThomas rnd [.ewrenceDurrell haveuied it), but it seeme not too lilely. As r rule,if a sntence hasthrecqfntaticslor, rs in
The manwalkeddown the road ---e writer may loadoneortwo of the slos with modifiergbut if the sentence is to havefocur-that is, if the readeris to be able to make out someclerr image,not iust a iumblc-the writer cannot cram dl three synuctic sloa wirh daails. So, for irr sumce,the writer may load doum dot r end lervc the ottrcn moreor lcs dong thru:
I

The old maq stooped, bent almostdoubleunderhis load of tin pans, yet smilingwith a sort of maniecal goodcheer rnd chaneringto himselfin what seemed to be Slavonian, 2t wdked slowly down theroad. Or hemry loadup slot z:

The old manwdked slowln lifting his feet cuefulln rometimcs ticking oncshoe foru'ardin whatlooked like

T06

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESII

l dencc,then slammingdown ths foot beforc the solc could flop looscagain grinning whcn it workcd, muttcdown thc road. ing to himself,making no real progrss loadson both slots Or thc writcr may risk piling high precarious for instance: r andr;
I

Thc old man,stooped, bent dmost doublcunder his load of tin pans, yct smilingwith a son of maniacdgood checr to be Slavonian, rnd chsttcringto himselfin whar scemed 2 kickwalkcd slowln lifting his fcet carcfulln sometimcs ing onc shoeforward in what looked like r dance,then slamming down the foot bcfore thc solecould flop loose with himself,but ag;ain, grinningwhenit worked,pleased mrking no rcal progrcss down the road. If what chiefly intercstshim is litcraqy stunts (end such thingp rrc not all bad, though they can deract from fiction's scriousnes), the writer can oonchslot 3 iust e lialc, changingit in thc scntence aboveto somcthinglike "thc b*py, crooked road." is onc of thc chief This sort of playing around with scntenccs e no writer can niake pleasure; ncveftheless, things that writing is hclp but rccognize that cventuallyenough enough. Rcadcrsscnsitiveto thc virnra of good fiction can bc distracted from the fictional dreamby zubtler kinds of mistakcs Onc of thcsc is faulty rhythm. M*y writers, including somc of the poetic effecrs femousoncg writc with no consciousnes rvailrblc thtoogh proscrhythm. They put thc wine on thc tablg put the cigarctte in thc ashtray,paint in the lovcrs, sta'rt thc clock ticking, ell with no thought of whether the scntences shouldbc fast or slow, light-heartedor solemnwith wedged-in now of thc intentionah I am not spcaking iuxtapccd stresscs, arhythmic writer, thc kind who ncver allows himselfr passegc

CsrmonEnors

rc7

that stands out asrhythmically beautiful but on thc other hand nevermakes us stumblcor danccfor our footing likc r calf on icc. In realisticfiction, suchwriters erueren important part of the writer's businesis to imitatc the way real peoplespeak; and sincc in lifc people do not generally speak in finc poetic rhythms,thc controlling na$ator,who mustthreadthe rhythms in with the rhythms of the charactcrs, of his speech is wisc to keep his rhythms unnoticeable; wise, that is, to steer as far as posiblc from thc rhythms of bardic or incantatorywrfucn likc JrmesJoycc,ThomasWolfc, or Willirm Faulkncr.To choose thc bardicvoicc is automatically to takc e slight stepback from realisrqto movefrom the casuallyspokento the intoned,from the reelistic story toward the tale. Both thc intcntiondly arhythmic writer-John Updikcis an example-and thewriter, likc mlnelf, who would sacrificca character's earsfor melodic efrcct, can bc counted on not to distract the readerfrom his dreamby clunky rhythms.The writer who simply nevcrthinlc about rhythm is almostcenain to do so. The readermay suddenly bc stoppcdcold by a line in accidentd doggerel: t , | -, No onc was looking whcn Tarkington's gun went olf, | | - | -| killing James Hamisandmaiming hiswife.r The writcr thusunintendonally a form of qprungvcrsc produccs -that is, iammcd strcscs one after enother-whcn what he needs, to reflect the moment's rush, is lighter rhythms,anapsts or dacryls. For cxample, hemay write:
tlttl 'Stop, thicf!" Bones Danks crie ,tttl soulstopthat man,please?"

. "Stlp!c"'nt roi,. go'oa

Needles to sey,the writer who doespay attcntion to rhythm can alsofind wap of disuacting thc readerfrom thc fiaiond 'For cxplanetion of drcmeuicd mukingp, pp.rjr5r. see

IO8

NOTEISOlf fiTE FICTIONAL PROCESII

d$en, mainly by overdoingthinghtht is, by letting hb qo get in the way of his meterials-but this we neednot speat of now, sincewe will necdto look later at Innginus' principle of f"ediqf. -enother initant is rcciilental rhyme as in the scntncc 'When the rig blew,everythingwent flying sky-higtr-me too." both rhymeNotice here that the rhyme is offersive because that is, the voict wordsrttblew" end t'toor" aresuesedpositions; omes down hard on drem.The rhyme ir not offensivgto most cars,if the uniter can get one of the rhymes out of stresed pcrtion: "The rig blew sky-higtr"and ever;'thingwent flyingto me too." In this versionthe word "blew" givesaway stress '*y-high" endthe toward background "blew-too" rhymedrops cffect. Now, however,we have r new stresed rhyme-'tkyfor rhymein prose)-en<l high" and"flying" (well, closeenough we noticean odd thing: It sounds OK. If we malp the soundg we perhap comeup with this: aying to undersandthe reasonn rhyme'tky-higtr," with a hoveringstrer First, the rwo-element (seeanalfis below), b resolved by a femininerhyme (a word ending with an unstresedryllable) followed by a phrasa "nn too,'that funaions asa pull-away;the resultis that the rhynrewith the rhyme bese word'flying" his lighdy in comparison 'sky-higb" the voicehurrying on to the pull-away. 'The rig blew sky-higb and everything went flying-me too." Second, the phrase "me too" faindy recdls dre unstrcsed 'bkybase"blern"' and at the sametime rhythmically recdls hbb" *ittt the rcuh that the 'bky-higtr-fying" rhyme b around one last tirr' dighdy muted.[.et us turn the sentence this time suppressing "blew": 'The rig went flying, and everything shot sky-higtr-+nc 'shot" wc seH)r; too.' If we mentally substitute "bled' for rather, hear-at once that it won't do+n extremely heavy, owkwardrhymeof the kind certainto distractthe reader;that rs, for a momentto wonder makehim stop thinking of the images what'sgonewrong vith dto uniterb brain On the othcr han4

Conmon Enmt

tog

with 'shot" dre "fiying-+ky-high" rhymc seenr ecceptabh The sentence's tndtnte openingQoosely iambic) eccelerates to is allegromid-section("flying andeverything"), andtheo su& denly the sentence opnsout like e huga slow firework, witb rpeatd iarnmedstressto bdance the quicknes earlier md the "sky-high" rhlmre rising lite a ctown. This kind of poetic effect in fiction distracs only in .n acceprsble way. Thc rcadcr may peuse andrcad the sentence nricg savoringthe wry sound echoes sensqbut if he hasrurned for r momentfrom the 6ctiond dreamit is only in the way we paulesometimes to admirc the tcchniqueof an animd trainer-the flourish with which he lowen his headinto the faws of the crocodile--after which r'c tlrow ourselves backinto watchingthe act Writers veqysureof their technical mastery-tou-ile-fmca uniters-may meke . tind of gameof seeing how far they cango winking andleering et the reader,before brealdngthe fictional illusiou On th.t, morelater. Needles explanationand explanationwhere drane elonc would be sufficientare other irritants. In amateurficdon these problems may show up in crude forms,but experienced writen can makemistakes of the same basickinds.The amateur writer tells us, for insunce,that Mrs. Wu is a crabby old womanand that one reason explains is Mrs. Wu's trouble with sciatica. All of this information could and should have been conveyed through dialogueand action We shouldhaveseenher kicking the cat out of the wen rubbing her hip, yelling out the window et Mr. Chang,who's parkedhis truck on her curb. We should hearher on the telephone, complaining to her sonin SanDiego. Experienced writers can makethe same mistake-usually,if not invariabln out of a too greet fondnes on the wrirer's pert for the mellifluous tones of hisown voice.He maywrite: Detective Gerald B. Gaine was veIF drunk. Sining that morningin the parted truck, he couldn't tell realiry --or, rt eny rrte, what and I call rediry-from the 1aou

I IO

NO(ES ON THE FICTTONAL PROCESII

producedby his deliriumtremcns. shadows andphantoms His scnse of rcspnsibiliry, his courage,his nobility of hcan, his nativc chivalry, dl thesewcre askeen asevcr; but hiscye for mundane uuth wasnot what it might hevc and thinking bccn.And sq bclievinghe saw something, he thrcw dovm the himsclfcdled upon for heroicection, botde,snatched out hisrcvolver,ran into the housc whcrc th. grl had iust gonc, and once againprovcd himself a fool. it, canbe a delighdul thing, but no Voice, oncea writer mesters smart writer depends on voicc alonc to sail him past all cvib. with thc dnrnken detccCompareanotherversionof the scene tivc, this timc dramatized, not explained: Wherc thesnake A roar 6llcd carne from he did not sce. his mind, the sky fashedwhitg and asif thc doorway to the underworldhad opened, r foot therelay thc snake, across, It moved maybethirty feet long, grecnish-golden. quickln grecefully across the streetin front of him and over the ctrrb towrrd thc porch wherc a momcnt ago Elainc Gla.s had stood. It had largc black cyes; in is raised, rcalcs, glints of violet rnd vermillion.Hatchet-head tongueflicking, it movedwith thc assurencc of r familiar visitorup the sidewalk toward thc step. With a yelp, without thinking, Gainc thrcw dovm thc helfbonlc, pushed opcnthe door of hisside,half-jumpcd, fell from thc tmck, and ran aroundthe front Hc drew his pistol ashe ran. The studens on the porch snatched thcir things from the step end prch-floor and iumpcd beck. The tail of the cnormoussnakcwrs disappcaring throughthc door.Now it wasgonc.Hc ren after it, lvaving the pistol,running so fast he could hardly kccp from frlling. philocophicd novcb whcrc Though we run acrosscxceptions, holdsintercst,the temptationto cxplain b onc thgt cxplanation

Cottnon Enors

ttt

should almct alwrp bc resistcd.A good writer can get snything at all ecros ttuough action and dialogue,rnd if hc czn think of no powerful reason to do othcrwisc,hc shouldprobably lcavccxplanation to his rcviewersand critics. The writcr should cspecially avoid commenton what his characters are fccling, or ct vcq'r lcastshouldbc surc he undcrsnndsthc commonobiection summcd up in the old saw'Show, don't tcll." Thc reason, of course,is that set bcside thc complcx thought achicvcd by drama,explanation is thin grucl, henccboring. A woman,say, dccidesto lcave homc. fu readen,we warch her dl morning, study and think abouthcr gcsturcqher muneringghcr feelingr about thc ncighbon and thc wcethff. After our crpricncg which can bc intcnscif thc writcr h a good one,wc kzott why the charactcrleaves whcn finally shc walks out thc door. Wc know in r way almosttoo subtlefor words,which is the reason that thc writcr's eftcmpt to cxplain,if hc'sso foolish asto makc the attempt,makcs usyawn andsctthc book dowrr. Greles shifs in psychicdistancc can alsobc distncting. By prychic distancc wc meenthe distance the readerfcelsbetwcen himselfand the even$ in the story. C,omparc the following examples, thc frst meantto cstablish grcat psychic distance, the next meantto cstablish slighrly les, and so on until in thc last cxample, psychicdisrance, theoreticdly at lcast,is nil. r. It waswinter of the year 1853. A largemensteppd outofr doorway. r. HenryJ. Warburton hadncvcr muchcaredfor snowstoflns. 3. Henry hatedsnountorms. damnsnowstorms. 4 God how hc hatedrhcsc Snow. Undcr your collar, down insidc your shocq 5. freczing and plugging up your miscrablcsoul . . . When psychicdistance is greagwc look at the scencasif from far awry--our usualpoition in thc traditional talg remotc in time and space, formd in prcscntation(cxampler rbovc would

Itt

NOTES OX $TE TICTTONAL PROCESS

.ppcer onty in a taleh asdisancegrowsshortcr-c drc camcrl the normd ground of the nr, if you wil!,-we approach aoUies prn (r md f) and shortsto{f or realisticnovel (r fuugh S). Io g*d f,ction, shifs in pqychic distancerre carefully cm" uolled. At the beginningof the stoqy,in the usualcasqwe find the witer using either long or mediumshots Hc movc in I of high intensity, drrvs back for trensitions' liale for scenes movesin still closer for the story'r climax. (Variations of all kinds are poesible, of coursg and the subdecniter is likely m uscpsychicdistancgashe rnight any other fictional device,to He man for instancgkeepa wholestor'' rt get odd new effests. setting,grving an eerig rather icy efrectif one psychic-distance efrect that dre settingis like that in examplel, en overheated only grat skill can keep from mush or sentimenality if the sating is like thet in example f. The point is that pychic disconventionally,must be cotlwhether not it is used uncg or uolled.) A pieceof fiction conaining suddenand inexpliceble shifs in psychicdistrncelooh amateurand tendsto drive the reedereway.For instance:"M."y Borden hatedwoodpcckers. Iord, shethought, they'll drive me crazy! The young wofiran hed never known any personally,but Mary knew what shc liked." Clumsywriting of the kindslve beendi*using crnnot hclp distmcting the reader from the dream and thus ruining or eeriorsly impairing the 6ction. I've limited myself to thc mct commonkinds,or thosethat haveprovedmost commonin my editor of boolc as a writing teacherand sometime cxperience Among very bad vriten evn worse and literary megpzines fauls appear--*wo or three spring immediatelyto mind anil in an actionout of geningthe events mey aswell be mentioned: and certainperof detailg insenion order, cloddishlyawkunard sistentodditiesof imitadon or spelling ffieuh to eccountfos erc?t by a theoqyof activity by the Devil. The first of these of I refer ti.ply to the presentetion rhould needno explenadon. r scriesof rtions where by somenre{ts the write,r'-pethrp

Comnon Enmt

tt,

bccause his mind b focuscdon something clse-gts ercnr out of sequencg forcing the rcederto go back and straightenthern out; or, to put it anotherwry, wherc the writer momurtarily ruspends meaningin his sentence(almoet.l*)o r bed idea), forcing thc readerto nm on faith for several words,hopingthat out of seeming chaossomesense will emerge. Two cxample* First: "Turning, <lribblinglow ashe went in for his shot,he was ruddenly knockcd flrt by one of the cheerleaders, who hed ruhcd onto the court in hcr exciternent rnd so hrd gonenin hb wry." A scntence like this one can be fobbedoff on the reade,r occasionally-thoughthe sharpreaderwill notice and obiectbut if such things happenoften the authority of dre writcr is scriouslyunderminedand, more to the point, the drcam losc powerandcoherence. lf wc rre to see. perfectly focused dream imegc wc mustbe giventhe signals oneby one,in order,sothrt cverythinghappens with smoothlogicdity, perfect inevitability. The only exception(and evenherethe writer shouldbe surehb cxceptionis fustified) is the scene in which the character's disorientation-and the reader's-is meantto be an imponant pert of the effect. Bad writers use this exceptioni$ en excuseto introducevoices out of nowhere, aswhen we hevea young man walking down the road,whistling happily, no onc in sight, and then we encounter the words (new paragraph):"'\Match yoursclf, Boon!"'Followed by (ncw pamgraph):"Boon turnedin alarm,looking dl eroundin panic." This kind of thing is conr mon in fictiorL of coursg and my disapproval will not do much to discourage writers from continuingto useit. Nevenhelesg if thc theory of fiction asa dreamin the reader's mind is correcq the surprise breakinto the calmof things ("Watch yourself') is r mi*ake, or enyway a lapsefrom absolute, perfectly foc'used clarity. Compare: from somewhere, "Suddenly, a voiceshoutc4 'Wetch yourself, Boon!"' But theseare delicatemauers,md eveqywriter will havchisown opinionon iust how far he ought to go in punuit of the idealof clarity. fu far asI'm concerned, if the writer hasat leastseriouslythugbt aboutthe problemrnd

rr4

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

of keepingcvcnt 4 in front of the advantagcs fully understrnds and clear as falling cvcnt D and all thc cvent chainsassensible hc crn-and should-do whatevcrfeelsbestto him. dominocs, of JohnHawkcs? Who knowswhet'sgoingon in theearlynovels And ya few writers haveevcr creatcdmore powerful and cohcrentdrems. Prrctically nothing nccdbc said,cither, aboutthc cloddishly so awkward inscrtion of dctails.One thinks of thoscmoments, fiction, when the writer findshinr' commonin evenprofcssional sclf struggling (asif for the first time) with the age-oldproblem the looksof hiscentralchanctcr. (Shc of smoothly introducing on a her facc in a clockface,happens happens pasta miror, sees friend who gushes about how she usedto look as oppocedto how shelooksnow; or the writer, throwing in the towel, iust writing teecher tells us,rnd the hell with it.) Any experienced can givc tips on how to slip things in with the dexteriry of a from the forcing cardsinto the handof his assistant magician but really all that needs to be said--or ought to be audience, said-is this: What the honestwritcr doc, when he's finished r rough draft, is go over it and over it, time after time, rcfusing to let anythingstayif it looksawkward,phony,or forccd.Clurninto neatly insencd sily inscrtcddetailsmusteitherbe revised out of the fiction. or they must be revised details odditicsof As for the third of the rmateursinsI mentioned, saidthe bencr.I meanthingslilc, the less imitadonor spelling, in dialogue,"um, uh . . ."-*ometimes usedby good writers in waysthat don't standout and distractfrom the fictional drcrm, in waysthat makethc rcadertear but usuallyusedby emateurs one can avoid his hair. fu long asone hasa neretot available, funnyJooking dialogueby simply saying,for example, "Carlos thenfor an slightln '[ don'tknow.'" (No need said, stammcring likc "um" or r "d-d-d-don't.")And thenthereareodd qpellings 'Yca" for wherebyfootballplayers "Yeah" or "Yeh," spellings ("Yeaverily"). like Jcsus or drugpushcrs startsounding writing belongundcr thc hcadclumsy kinds of of these All

Cutnon Enon

rr5

ing "Learningthe BasicSkills" end rre mettcrsso obviousto thc rcadcr or wrfuer that they seemat fint glancc to cxpericnced havcno placein a book for serious writers. The reasons they do belongerc, first, that the bcst writen do not alwap (or even often) comc from the wcll-educatedupper middle clas--aft's ceuldronis only on rerc occrsions gold or silver-and, sccond, thrt clumsy crrors of the kind I've been treating help show clearly what we meanwhen we spcakof "things that disract the rcader's mind from thc fictional dreem,"endnothing in whrt I'm sayingis morc fundamental then the conceptof the uninterrupted fictionaldream. Let us turn now to three feults far graverthan mereclumsincs$-not faults of techniquebut faults of soul: scnrimentality, frigrdity, rnd mannerism, Faults of soul, I'vc said; but I don't mean those words as a Calvinist would. Faula of soul, like faula of technique,can bc corrected.In fact the main work a writing teacherdoes,and the meinwork the writer mustdo for himself,is bring about changein thc writer's basiccharacter, hclping to makehim that "rrue Poet," as Milton said,without whom therecanbc no truc Poem. Sentimentality, in all its forms, is the attempt to ger some cffcct without providing due cause.(I take it for grantedthat the rcaderunderstands the differenccbetweensentiment in fiction, that is, emotionor feeling, andsmtimentality, emotionor feeling that rings false,usuallybecause achieved by someform of cheating or eraggeration. Without sentimenr, fiction is wonhIess.SentimentalitSon the other hand,can makemushof the finest characte$,acdons, and ideas.)The theory of fiction asr vivid, uninterrupteddreem in the reader'smind logically requircsan asenion that legitimatecause in fiction canbe of only onekind: drama; that is, character in rction. Onceit is dramatically atablishedthat r character is wonhy of our sympathyand lovc, the story-teller hascveqyright (eventhe obligation,somc would say) to give shaqp focusto our grief at the misfortunes of that characterby means of powerful, appropriaterhetoric. (If

I 16

PROCESII ONTIIE TICTTONAL NO|rES

plain statcthc emotionalmoment has been well cstablished, Think of Chekhov.)The rault b mentsmaybe iust asefrective. But if the story-tellertries not sentimentality. ruong sentiment, of somecharacter to makeus bu$t into terrs at the misfornrnes to stock resPonsc we hardly know; if the story-teller appeals (our love of C'od or countqf, our prty for the downtrodder\ warm feelingsall decentpeoplehavefor children the presumed end smallanimals);if he tries to makeus cry by cheapmelodrama"telling us the victim that we hardly know is all innoall vile black-heanednes; cuce andgoodnesandthe oppressor or if he uies to win us over not by the detailedrnd authenticated virnres of the unfornrnatebut by rhetorical cliches,by pareone-sentence sentences, breathless or by superdramatic graptu ("Then she saw the gun")-sentences of the kind of lateby frvored by porno andthriller writers, andincreesingly is effect sentimentality, supposedlyseriouswriters--then the the power of real fiction will md no readerwho's experienced by it. be pleased not by the In great fiction we rre movedby what happens, of what or brwlhg of the writey's presentation That is, in great fiction, we are movedby characters happens. to be who happens not by the emotionof the person urd events, or fiction of Tolstoy as in the telling the story. Sometimes, Chekhov-and one might mention many others-+he narrative so that the voice is deliberatelykept calm and dispasionate, through almost emotionarisingfrom the fictional eventscomes but restraint of that kind is wholly untinged by presentation; style like that of Faulknecessiry. A flamboyant not an aesthetic The ner at his bestcanbe equallysuccessful. trick is simply that the style mustwork in the serviceof the material,not in adverand actions tisementof the writer. When the ideas,characters, are firmly grounded,Thomas Wolfe's or William Faulkner's style can give fitting expresionto a story's emotionalcontent. of a Greek chorus,greatrolling waves Like the formal laments of rhetoric can raiseour ioy or grief to e keen intensity that

CumtonEnors

n7

the mundane trrnscends and takeson the richnes and universdity of ritual. What beginsin the real, in other words, can be uplifted by style to something we recognize, evenas wc ree{ es et oncethe red and the real transmuted. on So the passege the derth of Joe Christrnrs,m Light i* Augast, suikes the reederas.t oncereality and anifice, fact and hymn. The proee is unabashed poery, in dl its majesticself-consciousness, leap rbove the language ordinary peoplereally speek,ceuses us to feel the lesonance of the deathand all it means. But it's because the necesrry dramr hasbeenpresented-thelifelike ceuses laid out in the story--'that the rhetoric works When Wolfe c Faulknerworla les carefully, as both sometimes do, trying to make incanation sub'stitute for character-in-action, the reader rguirms, We may squirm in the sameway, it hasoften been remarked, when we encounter the other eruemeof manneristic crtch in Henringwey, , the whine we sometimes wherein understetement becomes a kind of self-pity. The fault Longinusidentifiedas"frigidiry" occursin fiction wheneverthe author revEals by someslip or self*egardingir trusion that he is les concemedabout his chrrectersthan he ought to be-les concerned, that lg then any decent human bcing observingthe situationwould naturally be. Suppose thc uniter is telling of a bloody fisdght between en old manand hb ror\ and suppose thrt earlierin the story he hasshownthat dre old man dearly loves his son, though he can never find rn adequate way to showig so that the son,now middle-age4srill sulfersfrom his beliefthat his father dislikes hinr, and wisheshc could somehownrrn the old man's dislike to love. Supposc, further, that the writer hasestablished this story of misunderstandings with sufrcient power that when the fistfght begrnsthc old man'sblow to the sidcof his son'shead,the son'sa$onishedraising of his arms for protectioq the old man'ssecond bloq this time to the nose, so that the sonin pein and fuqy hits the old manon the ear--our reactionaswe rcad is horror end gief. We bendoward the bookh fescination anddarn, andthc

II8

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

'nTheold manwascrying like a baby now and writer continues: swingingwildly-harmlasly, now that he'd beenhun--*winglikc r baby wfuh hh diapcn full." ing and cryin& red-facedn and thc book into the fire. What has \ile throw sey, "Yuk!" of course,is that thc writer has forgonen that his happened, cheracten'situation b serious;hc's rcspondcdto his own imaginedscenewith insufficientwarmth, has allowed himself by thc baby imrge, end, momanterilyforto get carried arwey raal interest-the fact that gening or failing to noticethe sccne's can hrve led to this-the writer a patheticmisunderstanding at (or sealcsfor) a detail of, at best,uivid interesg snatches diny diapcn.The writcr lacla thc kind of pasionall true artiss a realwriter to thenobilityof spiritthetenables He lacks possess. enter deeply into the feelingsof imaginary characters(as he cntersdeeplyinto thc feclingsof real people).In a word, thc writer b frigid. the writcr who Strictly spcaking,rri$diry charactcrizes througlr-fails to cerry seriousmaterial,then fails to presents it dcscrvc. I woulil treat it with thc anention and seriousnes cxtendthe tcrm to mcana funhcr cold-hcertcdncsaswcllothe of thingsin the seriousnes givenwriter'sinabiliryto recognize thc fint place,the writcr who tunut au/ayfrom rcal fccling, or in a conflict of willq or knows no sec only thc supcrficialitics moreaboutlovc,bcauty,or sorrowthanonemight leamfrom r frigidity seems thusextended, Hallmark card.With the mcaning literatureandan. It is faultsin contemporery oneof the salient frigidity that lerds writers to tinker, more and morc sometimes with form; frigidiry that lea& critics to schoolsof obsessively, criticism that take lcss and lessintercstin chara$er,ecdon' and the explicit ideasof the story. It may even be frigidity thc faking of cmothat stees the writer towrrd sentimentaliry, not honestly feel.Frigidity is' in short,one tionsthe writer does of the worst faults posible in literature,and often thc basisof stand other faula. When thc ematcurwriter les a bad sentence in his final draft, though he knows it's bad, the sin is fri$dity:

Common Enors

rr9

Hs hasnot yet learned the importanccof his art, thc only an or in the world that deals science in precise detailwith the causeq nature, andeffects of ordinaryandextraordinary human feeling. When a skillful writer writesa shallow, cynical,merelyamusing book about extramarital affairs, he has wandered-with far moreharmfuleffcct-into thc same unsavorybog. Mannered writing seemsat times a speciesof frigidiqy (Hemingway at hisworst), at othertimesa species of sentimen. (Faulkner tality at his worst), but is besttreatedas a separatc fault, sincethe mannered writer may bc neither frigid nor sentimental but simplymannered. Mannered writing is writing that continually distracts usfrom rhefictionaldream by stylistic tics that wc cannothelp associating, as we read,with the author's wish to intrudehimself, provehimselfdilferentfrom all otherauthors. The tics of mannered writing erenot to be confusedwith stylisticdevices as clearly in that can be explained thc service of subiect ma$er (character andacrion)or designed to express somenew way of seeing(the specialeffectsof some difficultbut clearlyiustifiable stylewc mustlearnto tunein oq as we do to the stylesof GertrudeStein,Virginia Woolf, or, more recently, Peter Matthiessen in Far Tormga\. Neither shouldthe tics of mannered writing be confusedwith thosc odditieswe associate with inherent stiffnessor nervousnsq comparable to that of an amateur speaker who forms his scntences carefullyand somewhar clumsily,as in the painstaking, clunky stylc of SherwoodAnderson.[,ook, for orsomedmes ample, at the first nvo paragraphs of his "Deathin the Woods.' Shcwasan old womanand lived on a farm nearthe town in whichI lived.All countryandsmall-town people havcseen suchold women,but no oneknov'smuchabout them.Suchanold womancomes into town drivinganold worn-outhorse or shecomes afootcarryinga basket. She mayown a few hens andhave to sell.Shebringp them cggs in a baskct andtakes themto a grocer.There shetrades

t20

NOTES ON THE FICflONTL PROCESII

Then she beans. saltpork andsome theurin.Shegetssome flour. getsa poundor rwo of sugar andsome Afterward shegoesto the butcher'sand asts for somc dog meat.Shemay spendten or fifteen cents,but w{ren In my day the butchers shedoessheasksfor something. gaveliver to anyonewho wanted to c-rrqyit away. In our family we were dwap having it. Once one of my brothersgot a whole cow's liver at the slaughter-housc We hadit until we were sick of it. nearthe fairgrounds. It nevercost e cent. I havehatedthe thought of it ever since, that Anderson thinls count{y peopletalk this It's hardto believe an illiterate man'sway of way, and the ideathat he is imfuating to pu$ue. Yet, readingAnderson's writing is too discouraging thet he writes ashe carefully stifi work, we neverget the sense doesto call acention to himself.Efuherhe csnnot writc more he wrftesin this) or else of hisfictionbelies smoothly(but some his fiction's purthe style erprsses this farmerishway because us from looking for zuperficialbeeuty,the pose:It discourages us to read him soberand encourages of entertainment, polhh that suis the countr)t eamesmess mindedly, with the sort of plain, thoughtful narratorend his stoqy.The style shora rs not the writer's clevernes,much lesshis ego,but the tone and intentionof hiswriting. writing, on the other hend,are drce The tics of mannered from which we gather,by the prickling of our thumbs,some not fully perhaps on the writer't p.tt, a purpoce ulterior purpose our guerd. us on nevenheless suspect, puning corucionsbut or George Pasoeat his momself-important, Think of John.Dos Whereasthe frigid writer BernardShawwhen he pontfficates. lacls suong feeling, and the sentimentdwriter appliesfeeling writer feelsmoresuongly about the mannered indiscriminately, his oum personality and ideas-his ego which he therefore

Enms Conmon

rzr

keepsbefore w by means of style-than he feelsabout any of hischaracters-in effect,dl rherestof humanity. writing, then-like sentimentality Mannered and trigidiryarises out of flawed character. In critical circlesit is considered bad form to makeconnections berweenliterary faults and bad character, but for the writing teachersuchconnections are imposible to miss,henceimposible to ignore. If r male student writer anacls all wonnnhood,producinga pieceof fiction that the clas, the teacherdoesles than his iob requires embanases if he limits his criticism to comments on the writer's excessive useof "gothic detail," the sentimentalizing tendencyof his sentencerhythmq or the disuactingeffect of his heavilyscatological diction. The best such timorous criticism can achieveis I revisedpieceof fiction that is free of all technicalfauls but no lessembarrassing. To help rhe writer, sincethat is his job, the teachermust enablethe writer to se*-partly by showinghim how the fiction barap his distoned vision (as fiction, closely scrutinized, alwayswill)-that his personal is wanting. character Some writing teachenfeel reluctantto do this kind of thing, and peoplewho arenot anists-people with no burning convictions ebout writing or the value of gecing down to bedrock truth-are inclined to be qympathetic. Nobody's perfecg they generouslyobserve. But the true artist is impatient with such tallr. Circusknife-throwersknow that it is indeedposible to be perfect,and one had better be.Perfectionmeans hitring exacdy what you areaimingat andnot touchingby a hair what you are not. It serves no usefulpulposefor the writer to remindhimself that "even Homer sometimes nods." Homef doesnl exceptin the most uivial wap; for instancg in his many long batde carelessly scenes, killing off the same soldiertwice. Chaucer, in dl his finest p@G, achieves somethingvcry near perfectioo. Racine in Pbsedra,Shakespeare n Macbeth. Serious critics sometimes rrgue that the sandardsin an are always relativc, but all anistic mastcrpieces give them the lie. In the greetesr

-t
r12
NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

or Beethovcnworla of ert-rirink of thc lastworla of C6zanne (not snobbery or thereareno realmistakes. For thisvery reason malice)it is imponantto keeptrack of the faultsof writers not thosewriters closeto our own quitc of the first rank, especially us that their faults must timc, whose genius half-persuades vimres. somehowbe When we look at writers of thc lastgen*ation-to saynothing of the best-knownwriters now emongue-no fault smnds out more visibly than mannered stylc. William Faulkner, thoughoneof thc bestof menand often a brilliant writer, was the readcrfecls,and One morc "apotheosis," highly mannered. he'll be drivento blow up somechurch.In the late works, the rcaderfeelsagainandagainthat Faulkneris trying to recePture to by crankingup thc rhetoric,originallyinvented lostsucceses but now meresteam rlreadypresent, andemotions conveyidees and roar and rattle, a freight train empryof its freight. Hemto proseis antithetical ingwaywasasbad,thoughhis mannered is style (Should Hemingway doubt the anyonc that Faulkner's. is in as it chiseled, not iust beautifu\ mannered, excessively let him of Kilimanjaro"endall hisbestshortstorics, "The Snows in a row.) James try rcadingthroughten, fifteen storics Joycc His lyrical ashe knew himself. offender, wasanother ouuageous in Ullsses,can especially of key symbolicphrases, reptitions they elways function; fully by aesthetic bc never cxplained middle-pcriod his dandyism, carry with thcm a hint of Joyce's to standbackfrom the work of aft-as hc himself unwillingness told the world it should do-+is unwillingncsses 2n ertist to paringhis nails."Latc indifferent, imitateGod, sitting "outside, in life, Joyce was enormouslypained and frustrated by the his careerhad takcn $w Dabliners snd wrong turn he believed Porttait. The finest shon story cver written' he claimcd, was Tolstoy's late,simplelittlc fable,"How Much Land Doese Man is gcnlastopinions, Necd?'That opinion,like otherof Joyce's erally takennot too seriously. Joyccwasill" alcoholic,full of selfhaucd; hc had recently created-and wes still working ovcr-

Enors Common

n3

onc of the towcring works of the humanmind and spiriq FimcgansWake. right to keepJoyce's disadsfecBut while we're obviously Waken perspective, we need to noticethat tion with Finnegans in fact he saidwhat he meant. He waspointingout, quite seriously, something that he'd discovered to bc going wrong with thc age-not only in his own work but in everybody'swork. writTurning back,with praisc,to his earln most unmannered ings, and raising for inspectionas a literary touchstone an un' mannered, simplefable,Joycewasreiterating hc had principles recognized from the beginning,though he'd slippedfrom them sometimes in practice. He'd saidlong agothat all fiaion should begin"Once upon a time . . ." and by an ingenious trick had begun his Portraitof theArtin on that formula.He'd longsince offered his inemorable metaphoron the unobuusivcartist imitating God. He waspointing oug in shoft, an imponanttruth,. truth his disciples both early and late,from Faulknerand Dos forward, havetoo often refused Passos to hear. Not all original or strikingly individual writing is mannered. No styleis easier to recognize thanChekhov's, but it's difFcult to think of a writer lessmannered. be It should clear, too, that though a writer may be painfully mannered in one place,he may not be in others.Nowhere in Joyce'sfinest work-"The Dead,"for instance--do wc find the anist'spenonalityi[egitimately intruding on the story. Nowhere in Melvillcb greatest passeges, cenainly not in "Benito Greno" or "Banleby thc doesMelville'svoice rise to (as Lawrencesaid) e Scrivener," In theseworks, and otherslike them, poetic effecn arc "boy." kept subtleandunobtrusive. No onecanfail to noticethe poetic bcauty of Joyce'sclosinglinesin "The Dead," bur the pocr{f (rhythm sosubtlconly comes from the rhphm of the sentences prosccan achieve it), from the preciselyfocusedimagery (the imageof falling snow,which circlesoutwerd dll it fills all thc universc),and thc last lines' echocs-merestwhispcrs-of passeges encountered earlier.Yet it neednot be obvious poeticeffect

l
12+ NO{ES ON TlrE FICTTONAL PROCESS

that makesr story seemilumnered.fu William Gas shoun in hir bestfiaion-'In the Heart of the Heen of the C.ountry,"for instance-even quite spectacular artifice can sit firnrly inside intrusionby the writer. the fiction, not suggesting What doesthe beginningwriter look for, therqassigrs that his writing is slipping toward the mannered? He should think hard about any innovationhe'sintroducedinto his worh mrking surethat the work would not be, for all practicd purposes, the sameif he had done what heb done in more conventional for perio& commas ways. So,for instance, if he hassubstituted in much of the story, trying for somesubdenew rhythmical efrect thet seems to him appropriete to this particulernerretive, punctuatioq he might try reryprngkey passages in conventional over and over, makingsurethat the then readingboth versions new way really doesadd morethan it detracts.(Detractsin the that it distracs the reader'smind until he adiuststo itsense aswe do to the bestinnovativewritinp.) adiusts If the writer has inuoduced flamboyant poetic effectsnoticeablerhyme for example-the writer might read and redlowing it to read what he'swritten, then put it away awhilen cool, then againread and reread,carefully analyzinghis emqtion as he reads,tqying to make out whether the new device it givc new interest and life to the materialor worls beceuse whether,on the other hand,it beginsto wear thin, feel slightly in a maner like thix creepy.Needles to sey,no final decision, on cowardice. Any fool canreviseuntil nothing shouldbe based out asrisky, everythingfeelssafe-and dead.One way or stands kind of gusto.The trick all greatwriting achieves some arrother, lies in writing so that the gustois in the work itself, and whetfrom the hrrmony or rneyhavecomes everfire the presentation endthe thing presented. indivisibility ofpresentation

Techntqr.

What the young writer needs his goal of to develop, to achieve becoming . greete$ist, is not e set of aesthetic lacn but anisic mastry.He cannothopeto developmesteryall at once;it involvestoo much.But if he pursues his god in the proper way, he canapproach it muchmorerapidly than he would if he went at it hit-or-misg end the more zuccesful he is at each *age elongthe wan the swifter his progress is likely to be.Invariably when the beginningwriter hands in a shon sbry to his writing the story hasmany thingpaboutit that mark it asamateacher, teur. But almostasinvariabln when the beginningwriter deals with someparticular, srndl problen4such as descriptionof r setting, descriptionof a character,or brief didogue that has somedefinite purposc,the quality of the work approachc the profesional This may not happen if the writer works blindlyif he hasnot beenwarnedrbout the problems he witl encountcr rnd given someguidanceon posible wap of dealingwith the mainproblemsetfor him. But it's e commoncxperience in uniting clasesthat whcn the writer worls with someshrrply de 6nedproblemin techniqugfocusingon that alonq he producc suchgood work that he suqprisc hinrslf.Succes breedssucr25

r26

NOTES ON THD FICTIONAL PROCESS

ctss. tlaving wrincn comesmdl thing veqy wcll, lrc beginso lcarn confidencc. canbe learnedfrom thc fect that thc Two important lessons beginningwriter doeshis bat when working with somelimited problem.The first is that thc writcr's relativeindifferenccto his (though this is by no means to say materialcanbe an advantage thet thc writer shoulddways bc indifferent to his material). In bcginning an exerciscasigned him by his teachcr,the writer has no commitmentto the mesageabout to be convcyed,no is truc to be created concernaboutwhetheror not the character to lif+-an eccruate picture, say, of his mother. In an exercisg onc simply makesthings up as thc asignment rcquires'and if by chancc a mlkingtrec emerges, onegetsplayfully involvedin figuring out what a trec might think to mcntion.Thc tree, after the exercisc othcrwise all, mustsomchow bc madeintcrcsting; will bc a bore. In fact, the trec cennot help but say things of imponanceto the writer---othcrwisethe writcr wouldn't havc thought of the trec's remarks*and soon thc writer discovers cernest. Conthrt his playful involvementhasturned somcwhat sciouslyor not, heis exprcsingmorc feelingabout,for instance, childhoodfrustradons and maternallovc than he would bc Whether likely to springin a true-to-lifestory abouthismother. r givcn cxcrciscleadsto realisticfiction or non-realisticfictionn throughrecollection simulation, it lcadsto fiction: to a studied rnd imaginativeproicction, of real feeling within the writer. When one writes aboutan rctual pareni,or friends,or oneself, arelockedonrsothet frequently, psychological censors dl one's thoughnot always, oneproduces eithersafebut not quite true cmotionor clse-from thc writer's desireto tell the truttr, howcvcr it may hun$old but distoned,fake emotion.In the first prombcrse,onc'sold friend Alma Spire,who wasoccasionally cuow, tums out to bc "sensitivcend warmly sensual";in thc do somesccond, shcturns out to be a slut. Resl-lifc characters timcs hold their own in fiction, but only those,loved or hatc{ whom thc writer hasuansformedin his own mind' or through

Teolmirye

n7

beings. Writing sn crcrcise, thc proccs of uniting, to imagrnary thc writer b in ttrc idcd rnistic rtate, both scriousrnd not scrious. He wantsthc exercisc to bc wonderful,so that his clasmates will applaud, but hc is not in thedark pychologicalsetof the ambitious young noveliststrugglingto writc down hh cxistcnceasit is, with the ghoetof thc young Jamcs Joycc rtanding horribly et his brck. Writing en cxcrcisc,thc beginningwritcr b doing cxacdy what the profasionaldoesmostof the timc. Much of what gocs into r real story or novel gocsin not bccausc the writcr dcsperately wantsit thcre but bccause he nceds it: Thc scenc iustifies somelater action,showssomebasisof motivation,or rcveals somcespct wirhout which thc projccted climaxof of charactcr the action would not rcem crcdiblc. Ag.ro and againmc finds onsclf laboriously dcvcloping somcminor character onewould neverhevcintroducedwere hc not necdedto sell the clock for thc dmc-bombor to shcarthc shcep. Again and againonc finds onc$elfstruggling with all one'swits to makc I thunderstorm vivid, not bccausc one cares aboutthundcrstorms but becausg if thc storm is not madc real, no one will believeMartha's phonecall in the middleof thc night. If hc brilliantly succeeds with hiscxercisq the writer learns, consciously or not, the value of themind-set that produced thc success. The second importantlesson writer learnsis the beginning that fiction is madeof structural units;it is not onegrcat rush. Every story is built of e numberof suchunits: a pasagcof dacription, e passage of dialogue,an action (Leonard drivcs thc pickupuuck to rcwn), another passege of descripdon, more dialqguc, andso forth. The goodwriter ueatscachunit individuallS devclopingthem one by one.When he'sworking on thc dcscriptionof Uncle Fyodor'sstore,he doesnot think aboutthc hold-up mcn who in a momentwill cnter it, though hc kecp them in thc back of his mind. He describa the $ore, patiently, malcing it comcalivg infusingevery smellwith Unclc Fyodorl cmotionandpnondity (tris feer of hold-up men,perhep); hc

I28

NOTES ON TIIE FICTIONAL PROCESS

writing as worls on the storeasif thb were simply an exercise, if he had dl *emity to finish it, and when the descriptionis not Kxl long or too short in relationto its function perfect---and in the story ase whole-he moveson to his story's next unit. Thinking in this way, working unit by unig alwayskeepingin him to do but refusing mind what the plan of his stoly requires (Aunt Nadia'shysteria to be hurried to more importam things e story with no dead when the gun goes off), the writer achieves of aesthetic spots,no blurs, a story in which we find no lap,ses interest. One way to beginon the road to ertistic me$ery' then' is to By of fictional techniques. work et the sptematic development fictional manipulating mean, coune, ways of techniques of I that exist or elernens.No book c:rn treat dl the techniques old onesin might exi*---every writer inventsnew onsor nses new ways.-but it will be useful to examinehere in general tnns the role techniqueplap in contanporaqyfictior\ then to look, more or lesset random,at a few technicalmatte$ thet provebasb.

ficdon, techniqueiq on the whole' more selfIn contemporary conscious than everbefore.Given any basicstory situatiorpthe murderer creeping through the bushes,Grandmother'sconwriter is likely versioq the lovers'first kis-the contemporary than did the writer know ways of handling the situation to more common for writers to onceit wls of any former time.Wherees writers may work alwap in some onebasicstyle, contemporary change so radically from story to sto{f or novel to on occasion areall by one their productions novelthat we canhardly believe For one thing ere of coursenot fer to seek. hand.The reesons available to us.lilhen Sir ThomasMalory we havemorernodels he had virtually no models.The re wrotc a mas banle scene, mlt is thag brilliant eshe wasasan innovator,his batdessound m modernearstiresomelyalike. The modernwriter hasa vast

Teclmirye

ng

models, supplyof available from Homer'swritingp to Mongolien bandit legends to storiesfrom the French Revoludonor Vietnem. For another thing, thanks panly to certain movements in modernphilosophy,thc art of fiction, like rll the arts, hasbecomc increasinglyself-conscious and self-doubting,anists repeatedlyaskingthemselves what it is they're doing. Chekhov andTolstoy could saywith greatconfidence that the businesof fiction was"to tell the truth." Contemporary thought, aswe've seen,is often skepticalebout whether telling the truth is possible.Thoughwe mey be fairly confident that an does tell the truth, that fiction's elements and techniques form r language that the artist can usewith greatprecision,and that the reeder hasintuitive means of checkingon the truth of what the artist sa1n, it will be hclpful to look at this whole mafter in a little more detail,sinceknowledgeof the ergumenrs will help clarify theroleoftechnique. Telling the truth in fiction can meenone of three things: saying that which is factually correc, a trivial kind of truth, though a kind central to works of verisimilitude;saying that which,by vinue of toneandcoherence, does not feellike lying, a more important kind of truth; and discoveringand affirming monl truth about human existence-the highestrruth of ert This highestkind of truth, we've said,is never something the artist takesas a given. It's nor his point of deparnrrebut his goal.Though the artist hasbeliefs,Iike other people,he realizcs thet a salientcharacteristic of an is ia radicalopenness to pcrsuasion. Even thosebeliefshe'ssurestof, the artist pots under prcssurc to seeif they will stand.He may hrve a premy clear idcr wherehis experiment will lead,as Dostoevsky did when he sentReskolnikov on his unholymision; but insofarashe'sa true artist,he doesnot force the results. He knowsto the depths of his soul that when an artist creats in the serviceof wrong beliefs*that ls, out of wrong opinionshe mistakes for knowledge--or whenhe creetes in the service of doctrines thet may or

r30

NOTES ON TITE FICTIONAL PROCESS

mry not be true but cannotbe tested-for instancr,doctrinairc resurrection of thc dcad-thc Marxismor beliefin the eventual is not the effectof or otherwise, cfect of his work, admirable or rcliclse:pedagogy, truc art but of something propaganda, gon. But thcreremains in all scrionequestion, a centralconcern namely,thc impliscience; ousmodernart, asin contemporary cationsof the Hcisenbcrg principle:To what exrcntdoesthe instrumcntof discoverychangcthe discovery,whethcr the inof fiction" or the particlebombard$rumcnt be "the process mcntof anatom? amongthc group hc is presence Just asan anthropologisCs of the group,or asthe bombardstudyingcanaltcr the behavior to illuminate, so thc ing of an atomaltersthe patternit means which an rcality may alter the thing exstylc in artist explores plored. Anyone can discernthat, in music,emotionexplorcd atonally;and thoughit's tonally diffen from emotionexplored in the conto prove that the generating emotions impossiblc werc in any way similarin the rwo sciousncs of the composer qNes,composers thc opinion themselves have often cxpressed bends one's chosen musical one having 6rst form, then that the oneself to the key of thoughtto it, exactlyas,havingcommitted of to the resonancc D minor,oneadapts the generative emotion difrerentin thc "hap that kcy; onewould havesaidsomething picr" kcy of G major. A fcw yeers ego, or so I'vc been told, e group of sound tcchniciansconductedan cxperimentto discoverwhether they music by multiplying the "prcsence" of recorded couldheighten but on was sound, The result quadraphonic tracksandspeakers. the way to that result a s$engething occurred.A group of composcrs, musicalperformers,and critics were asembledto for four speakers, then eight speakers, Iistcnto musicdcsigned somcof to musieon eightspeakers, thcn morc.When listening notedthat what they weregettingwesnot morc the musicians accuratcrcpresentation of music as we hear it in e hall but

Technique

r3r

romahing guitc new and different: One beganto be rble o to ccupy r locate the soundsin spacc.Thc clrrinet seemed panicular point or areain thc room, thc trumpet anotherareq corrspondcnt the pianoanother-not ereas to thc scatingof thc group recordedbut rreasreletedasthe head,rrmg and lep of e rculpture might bc rclated. The music, in shon, had bccomc visud, sornething new under the sun. Writing music for eight composr might thcoretically shapcmusiclhysirpcakers,. celly shapc it-rs no onc had evcr donebefore.Whether or not my composcr hasexploredthat posibiliry I do not lmow, but the story, if it is truc, illustretcs a fact well known amongartiss, that an docsnot imitatercality (hold the mirror up to nature) but crcarcsr ncw rcdity. This rcrlity may bc rppsitc to the rcalirywc walk throughcvcryday+ueets rnd houscs, mailmen, trcc---*nd mry triggcr thoughtsand fcelingsin the same way a ncwly discovcredthing of nature might do-a capturedBig Foot or Loch Nes monstcr--but it is csscntidlyitself, not the mirror reflection of somcthingfamiliar. Thc incrcasingly sharprccognftionthat art works in this way hasgenuatcd thc popularity, in recentycars,of formalist artrn for rn's sake-end metafiction,of which we spokecarlier. Thc generalprinciplc of the former hasbcen familiar for centurics.Thc first modern thinkcr to dc6ncthc modeclcarlymay hrve beenRobcn Louis Srcvcnson in his prefaccto thc Chcterficldcditionof thc tmnslated Worksof Victm Hugo.Therc Stcvcnson pointcd out that all art cxistson s continuum betweenpolcshc calls "objcctivc" rnd "subiectivc." At onc cxtrcme, the subjectivc,we hrve novels like those of Hugo, whcreinwc fccl aswe readthrt we areamongthe Frenchmobs, surroundcdby noiscrnd smoke,uansportedfrom the room in which wc rcad to Hugo'simaginaqy Paris.At the other extremc wc hrve Ficlding'sTotn f ones, whcrcin wc areneverallowcdto imagincfor long that the herois I "rcal" young man.As soonas wc bcgin to incline to thrt pcrsursion,Ficlding introducesa Homericsimile, or anintcrchapter, from the tmdior somerhing

r32

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

tion of puppeteering, forcing us once more to recognizethe novelasanobject,not "real life." By way of illustrationfrom the visral arts,Stevenson the effect of early- and middlecomparcs were like vivid scenes period Turner, when Turner landscapes other hand, the work of seenthrough a window, and, on the that Stevenson 6omeunnemedFrench painter (one suspects may havemedehim up) who prsted reel sand on his beechscape in order that no one shouldmistakewhat he'slooking at for e red beachon which r family might arrive to spreadia picnic. or creators of ob;ective, ereinescapably All literary parodists moment we the meaningless formalisgan. The perody becomes foqgetthat the work is a literary obiect iokingly or seriously commentingon anotherliterary object. In ordinary "realistiC' fiction-the writwould call subiective fiaion-what Stevenson er's intent is that the readerfdl through the printed pageinto not words and fictiond so thxt he sees tte scenerepresented, crosing conventions but the dreamimageof, say,a tumbleweed Arizona. [n formalist fiction we are conrious mainly of thc and the art that makc it writer's art, or of both the tumbleweed might be drawn from exemples nrmble.Fxcellentcontemporery going andlooking somethe fiction of William Grs but to seve thing up, I will useonefrom my own work. In my novella"The King's Indian" I parody,amongother writen, EdgarAllan Poe. At onepoint I borrow directty from Poe:"My hair stoodon end, and I sankagaininto the bilgewater."If my blood congealed, my effort is successfulthe readerboth seesthe imagein his mind-les l realist'simagethan one drawn from nineteenthPoegrinning rnd wavillusuntion-and sees century magazine wings. ing from the In the nineteenthcentury, most writers, though not ell' fictions unapologetically austed their implemensand presented the cartoon or PuPPetmimetic of life. If a writer emphasized *age quality of his arq asdid Dickens,Thackeray,and Steven-

Tecbnirye

rt3

son, he did so not becarsehe distrustedartt relervanoe to life but either because he feh more or les indifrereat to that relevenceor because he enioyedpure enificq as we still do Thc slme mey bc saidof Homer, Dante,Chaucer, "Monk" Lewis, or Smollea.If pressed, they would probably havesaid that they believedan directly relevant to lifg but they loved anifice Thhl& of.Tristrm Shanily ,The wotkis of course aspoof,asen& up of the novelandof story+ellingin general, but no onedoubts that SterneintendedUncle Toby to seem to rs lifelike. Poe q .mong uniters in Englisb the great nineteenth-century f,cep. tion. The saddisparity beween life and art (ert lrills or transforms life) b both his favorite zubiectand the principle behind his invention of new fictional forms. (He was the inventor of suchforms--aswe know thernnow-as the detective stoqy,thc lrcror story, the piratestory, the doppelginger sto{F,the sto{ys-painting ["Landor's Cottage"], and the fiction that b dl denouement ["The Caskof Amontillado"].) For Pog asfor hb great Frenchtrenslator,art's relation to life uns far from inne crcna In "Ligeia" he suggsts dlegorically that in pursuit of the ilel the "dram munory" of Platonic philoeophy (the narrator's memoryof his lost Ltg.i.), the artist murdersactrnlity. In'The Fdl of the Houseof Usher,"the resurrection of dre lost beauty-blood-stainedand honibly hatteredwhen sheepparr _ls helpeddong by the narrator'sreadingof en old romenoe. Again and againin Poe's psychological dlegories, the anist doc his work muchaswitchesdo theirs,by following ancientformu. Ias,creatingart's effectswith the daemonic help of older worts of are Twentieth-centurywriters, for whom Poeanil his followers opened the way, often haveno confidence that aft hasrelevancc o lifa Like their colleagues in scienceand philosophy,they makemuch of the fact rhar "e changeof style b a changeof subiect" They know that eight speakers do not bring us clccr to thc realiry of the concenhdl, but crere a new actudity, rnil

r3+

NOTES ON THE FICiIIONAL PROCESS

thc tendencyof thc writen is m pursucnot life but thc ncw actudity, the invention.Hencethe fashionof linguisticsculpturc and'bpaquelanguag3." with art'r It is, aswe've seen,this samenervousfascination that hasled to the popularity of mctauntrusnvorthycharacter fiction, thc piccc of fiaion on thc subject of making fiction. of the less Somcof the moreinterestingrecentcxemples--+omc Wife, Muterr's Lanesmre Willie William Gas's boring-ere Barth's'LifcRon Sukenick's "lVhet's Your Story?"andJohn Story." A cenral concernin all such fiction is the cxtent to One of which techniqueor mediummay bc art's solemessege. is JohnBarth's of recentAmericanmetafictions the mostelegant the story of a boy who goesto a fun"Lost in the Funhouse," housewith his older sister and her lover, a sailor. All that il stanmoving andbeautifully written in thc story by customary or imagincd from real dards,Banh interrupts with comments manuals on the an of fiction. We likc and rffirm the story's lovers, raponding to the beeury of the prose unsophisticated of thet prosc interruption them;but the constant that represents with comments on how effectiveproseis written makesus irof the extent to which moving prooc is not ritably conscious As a result, wc doubt our naivc rcsPolsc natural but achieved. to the lovers,asBarth intendsus to. Wc sharc+s in ordinary fiction wc ere nevermeentto de-the doubtsand problcmsof in his work, and in doing so losc the anist, but alsohis pleasurc andthe erperience of our delightin thc funhousc the innocence Like the bright youngerbrother,we get no real of the lovers. we slip in to of life's funhouse; from the sensetions pleasurc and become are "loct." wherethelovers pulled Barth is not claimingthat maserful techniqucis a thing to it bc avoided but only that, if posiblc, onceonc hasc-rptured oneshouldkcepit on its chain.On onehand,showytcchniquc is thrilling, as much in a work of Fction as in the work of e brillient trapezcaftist o! animaltrainer. No one would askthet the masterartist hide his abilitia. On the other hand,cleverness

Techniqte

t3t

can become is own cnd, subveninghigher cnds,aswhen stylc overshadowscharacter, action, and idea. Thc question is betweensubiectand. whetherthe artist can ever hold e balance Perhapsit b in the nature of art that acntaliry presentation. mustbe murdered, asit is in "Ligeia,"and that what art bringt thing that, fonh is not somehigher reality but a blood-stained like Madeline life for only an Usher,can flicker with apparent instant before collapsing backto derth. One curiousresult of the current, though not exactly new, fascination with the alteringeffect of technique on subiectmetter is what L. M. Rosenberg hasidentified as "fictional zuperrealism."The aim of writers in this mode (Mary Robison, LauraFurman,Ann Beattie, and othen) is identicalto thet of exacicopyistDuanc in paintingor the sculptural photo-realiss Hansen, to get down reality without the slightat modification by the artist. fu e group, they reiect what would ordinarily be called "interestingplot." In one typical story, e characterinheritsa house in HoosickFalls,New York, goes therc to live in it and 6x it up, and hasbrief, seemingly inconsequential conversations with neighbon. Plot profluence is limitedto the fact that time pases,progresingto a momcntof slight emotional rilse (usuallysignaled dacriptive by the transformation of details to a full-fledgedimage the objecdfication of an unstated, trivial cmodon);the conventional divisionof narrative into organized scenes is scrupulouslyavoided;if someinsight is awakened or emotion stirred,the fact is simplyreponed, like any other fact The writer makes an effort to choose images with the disinterest and whereverposible he suppresses of a camera, or carefully wordswith emotive undercuts effect.As Rosenberg pointsout, the writer doesnot allow himselfevensuch dialogue tap as hollered" or "he exclaimed";even questions-suchas "shc "'Wherein hell is the salt?"-are tagged"shesaid."The writen seckto bring to perfectionthe scientificideelof Zolt or William DeanHowells, treatingnothingin natureasunwonhy of notice and nothingasmoreworthy of noticethan anythingelse.H. D.

rt6

NorEs oN rlrE FrcrroNALPRocE$t

Raymond, on supr-redist visuel ertist$ offen r modernversionof the old scientificidrl "In omining ideology, sublimity, and mordity from their vision they erc s\rorn to 8 phenomenologist credo. They stare unblinkingly rt what is 'really'out there,ignoring the mentd constructs through which they arc peering." Oneobiectionto the credois old andobviors: We simply do not believethat reality is what thae writers (and painten) maintainit to be. The realismis not "lifelike" because it seems to us dead.We may evensuspct in thc writer's suppresionof ernotiona certain unwitting dishoncty. Grtainly no one who looks at the paintingpof Philip Pearlstein,with their strong frontal lighting and accurate but slighdy cartoonish of emphasis features-"stupid paintings,"he celts thenr--can deny e faint suqpicion contemptfor feelsan unacknowledged that Pearlstein the humanform, evenwhen the paintingsare of his daughters. Eventhe composer who writes for eight speakers, producing visual music,is likely to do more than simply follow out the posibilities of some new ec$ality. His emocionsclectsonc visual musicasmore interestingthan another.The suppresion of the enist'spcnonalirycanbe virnrally total, esin the fictional super-redism of Robison,Furmaq and Beanig writers whose abnegation of individual stle is so completethat, exceptunder the closest scrutiny, we cannottell one writer's work from another's;yet the very supprasionof sryleis a sryle--+n eesthetic choice,anexpresionof emotion. An oppositeresponse to the ctrrent fascinrtion with the elfect of rcchnique on subiectmettermay be found in the work of r group of contemporary non-realistic movementsKafkaesqueexpresionism,surrealism,and the formalist "irreelism" of uniten like Borges and Banhelme.At is most produccs,for cxample,the Troe4presionisticthis movement pnttnsof Nathalie Saraute. In one of the uopsrtc Srrrautc describes en encounter betweene young womanand en earnest old gendemanis awkwardrnd intense: Their conversation

Tecbairye

q7

But heintenupted her: "England. . . Ah, yes,England . . . Shakespeare, eh?Eh? Shakespeare. Dickens.I remembr, by the way, when I wes youn& I amused myself trrnslating Dickens.Thackeray. Have you read Thackerey?Th. . .Th . . . ls that how they pronounce it? Eh? Thackerayl Is that it? Is that the wey they sayit?" He hedgrabbed her andwasholdingher entirely in his fst. He watchedher assheflung herselfabouta bit, asshe struggledawlnrardly, childishly kicking her litde feet in the ar, while maintaininga pleasant smilc; "Why yes, I ttrinL itb like that . . ." Herg as in someof the worls of Kgfka, panicular alsteilsof psychologicelreelity are directly tr:nslated into phpicel realyet no real rty. Techniqueis not suppresedbut emphasized, divorceof actuality and the expresionof actuality is suggested" Neither is there any real divorce betweenactualiry and exprcsrion in surrealisr fiction (Jerzy Kosinski William Pdmer, sometimes John Hewkes); the difrerenceis that here the rcality imitated iq not in one or nro detailsbut in many, that of our dreams. In this fiction (as sometimes in the conventionaltde), thingshappen asif at random;only coherent givesorden ernotion At other times-here asin Kafka's drerm storic ("A C,ountry Doctor")-a progression of evens carriesan emotiond charge not et first fully explained thernselves. by the evenrs The prsen: trtion tendsto be that of convendonal rEalistic6ction; only the subfectmattbr haschanged. As the critic end writer Joe Devid Bellemyputsit: In the early twentieth-cennry novel of coruciouness or modernistshort fictioq we ere insiilee character(or characters) lookingout. ln the world of thecontemporary superfictionist, we ere mostfrequently insidea character (or characters) looking in-'m theie inner phantasms are proiectedoutward,andin a sometimes frightening,sometimescumicrwenaf the outside"rality" bcginsto lool

r38

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCEST

morc and morc lilcc e mirror of thc inner lanilscapetherc is so linls difiercnccbcrn'centhe two. Socallcd absurdistfction offcrs another variation. [n Eug]nc Ionesco'splry Rhinocnoq thc peoplcof a town beginchanging, but thc nart?tor' who at thc onc by onc, into rhinoceroses--all into r rhinoccrosbut changc wishcs could hc cnd of thc story as thc can't, and pocsibly his girlfriend, who pcrhapachanges othershavc dong and then againpcrhapsthply pinc awey of Thc characte$'transformalonclincs and guilt rnd disappcars. cannot be cxplainedcxpresionistically' tion into rhinoceroses sincc somcof thosewho changearc rhinoceroolikc(stubbonr' ferocious,incapablcof rcasoning)and othcn are noq and neithc cen thc story bc intcqpretedas r drcam. If anything, the univcrsc to transformationsreflect thc workings of an ab,surd which all humanrcponss("our own moral codc," "our philossystcmof valueq" "humenisrn ophyr" "our irrcplaceablc " even lovc) arc inadcquate.(Thc stoly b commonly intcqprctcd as hevingto do with thc acceptancc of Nezi fascism.) variousof the "irrealists,"t morc intercsting and the Among abandon= group of writers who work out of fictional convention, ing thc attempt to deal dircctly with realiry, is Donald Barthelme. AU his work, from Snou White to The Dead Fathr, might bc read as,amongothcr things, t tow4e-f orce snrdy in litcrery (and visual) techniquc.His worldview, in all his fiction' sruggle with problemsthat is cssentidly absurdist:Characters cannot bc solved and either eccept thcir fatc or stmgglc on. Exccpt for the fact that superficially Banhelme'smethod b comic, and thc fact, also,that the pathoeof Banhelmc'sstorics onc cffect of his work is thc same is alwaysmuted,the emotional wc get from naturalistfictior\ irony and pity. Onc of the things that makehis writing intcrcsting is his sceminglylimitlas abilIt goes as modesof apprehension. ity to manipulatctcchniques nothing:Rcthrt, for Barthelme, they apprehend without saying ality is a place wc cennot get to from here. (Thc shon etory

l
Techniqte r39 fiction.) Yet at his "City Life" is in part a parodyof super-realist bestBarthelme can iuggletechniqua in a way that doesexprst emotionand an attitude toward life. Take, for example, his well-known story from the collection City Lif e, "Views of My FatherWeeping." Thc story combinesliterery perody and surrealism(normelly conficting modes,the first "obiective," in Stevenson's terms,the other "subiective"), togetherwith snippes of other modesand styles,to tell a non-reali*ic story of a son'sattempt to understand andavenge hisfather'sdeath. Thc story opens: wasriding down the streetin his carriage. An aristocrat He ran over my father. After thc ceremonyI walked back to the city. I was trying to think of the reason my fathet had died.Then I rcmernbered: hc wasrun overby a caniage. I tclephoned my motherand told her of my father's death.Shesaidshesupposed it was the bcst thing. I too it wrs the bestthing.His enjoyment supposed wasdiminishing.I wonderedif I shouldanemptto ffacc the aristocrat whosecarriagehrd run him down. There werc said to havcbeenoneor two witnesses. (e.g.,"an aristocrat")are thoseof the converr The materials tional tale;the style,flat-sutement rcalism; emotion, the surface absurdist: hewasrun overby a carriage." "Then I remembered: Abruptln a surrealist image breaks in: The man sitting in the centerof the bed looksvcry muchlike my father.He is weeping, coursing down tears hischeela. that he is upsetaboutsomething. One cansee Lookingat him I see is wrong.He is spewthatsomething like ing a fire hydrant with its locls knocked off. His yenmer dartsin andout of dl therooms. ...

r10

NOTES ON THE FICTTONAL PRO@SI

The poruait of the imposible deadfather is of course.mbgtr and dutiful, on one han4 and ous.The son is both concerned on the rnnoyed by the father's vulgprity and childishness, ("yammer"), ambivalence be developed throughout other an to the story. Two fuxtaposed images showthe contrestclearly,one showingthe father asmagical,hencevasdysuperiorto the son, the other showing him as embamasinglychildlike, the very rntithesis of "an aristocrat.' My father thronn hb ball of knitting up in the air. Ths orangpwoolhangp thur. My father regards the trry of pink cupcakc. Then he hir into into the top. Cupcake thumb each cupcake, ir* by cupcake. over the face of each A thick smilespreads orpcaka of parodic nineThe story continuesin alternating pesseges teenth-cennry gothic detective fiction (with modifications), surrealistfiction, and other styles.With the help of witneseq the son trecs the driver of the aristocrat'scaniag, I man of hb naned Lan Bang; we leern that, iust as he is ashamed father, the son feels ashamed by the of his own inadequacy aristocraticstandard("When I heard this name [Lars Beng], which in its soundand appearance fu rude vulgar, not unlike my own name, I wasseized by repugnance. . . ."); and6nally, in companywith other listenerqthe son learnsfrom the carriage driver (an elegantman in comparison to the son) that the father's deathwas a result of his own foolishnes--he was drunk urd attackedthe horses with e srritch. Insteadof winning iur tice for a murdcred father, the son has learned.-+nd c-aused andguiilf ttrereUy increasothersto learn--of his father'sshame iog hit own. Yet perhaps this is wrong Geelity is impenetrable)" A beautiful young girl, who hassat silent and sullen through Bang'srecitation, abrupdy spedrsup (using language slighdy

Technirye

r4r

bloody liar,' shesaid."The story vulgar): " Bang b an ahcolute As ends,asit mst: "Etc." nThe DeodFober, drc burdenof sonsgoeson and on. What is most strfting aboutthe story is dre rangeof styler orchestrated for a singleeffect: gothic detectivefictioq surreeL (ashere): iur, old-stylemelodrama Why! . . . there'smy father . . . sitting in the beddrere! . .. rnd he'sweepingt . . . asthoughhisheanwould bunt! you? ...Frther! ... howisthist... who haswounded ... name the man!. .. why I'll. . . fU. . . herg Father, take this handkerchief!. . . and this handkerchief!. . . endthis handkerchief!. . . ru run for a towel . . . absurdixverbalcomedy: Or again, brshesand somepatr Then we shot up somemesquite of a Ford pickup somebody'd lefr lying around.But no cameto our perty (it wCI noiqy,I admit it). A animels long list of animals failed to arrivg no deer,quail rebbit, sealions, condylanlu.. .. reals, Et cetera"What holds it all togetheris the ncrrative voicg a comic-pathetic troubledmind. All of theseapproachc to fictior--expresionisq srrfreelfttt, rbsurdist, ducc interestingwort if the cniter b rny good, however shaky the philosophicalbase.Whco thc writer creates somethingnew, he can hardly help doing it at leastby endogy to the familiar creativeprocescturning stret sounds or elecuonicbleeps into "musiC'by analogyto the proces by which Bachand thosebeforehim mademrsic of noteq or creatingan oral sculptue by a methodanalogous to that of the taditional sculptoror film-maker.At the "obiective" end of Robea Louis Stevenson's continuunr,the end that rtuects thc ireelist$ the only humanrcaliry thst rernainsis the selecting process of the anht. We get from the worh his emotiondsct,the rfrrmatiom.ven if he doeso'twish to nake it--of bis eye'r

r42

NOTES ON TITE FICTIONAL PRO@SII

goc rclrdonship (and thcrcforc hb hcan's) to thingr. Thc samc for thc rupr-rcalisa. As Robbe-Grillct kcqpepointing out' you cennotg* down thc rcality of thc rcfrigeratorwhcn no onc is in thc room; in othcr words writers camot suppress "the mental construcsthroughwhich thcy rrc pccring."The wholc question of the urrcenainryprinciplc b in l tcnsc r rcd hcning. Wc choorctcchniqucs aswc chooccwor& in English,cithcr to say whet we mcan,esnearly aswc cen,or to find out what heppnr whenwe choose thocctcchniquetr thoscwor&. "I hatcyor1" thc child reyr to hb father, watchingslnewdly for reection."Marriagc is s $rangething," caysthc lover, and glancc at hb love. So I propose in a piecc of fiction that r ccnain man had threc hundrcdrons,all rcd-hcads, and I muscon what that makcsmc 31yncrL Let us turn to spccifics. Out of the horde of tcchnicalmatters that might bc mentioncdI will chocc seventhat seemto me basic learning tcchnique by imitation, devclopmentand control of vocabulary,sntence handling,poetic rhFhr\ point view, of dclay, and rtyl.. orr all thcscmacers,my discusion fo mcentto besuggcstivc, not orhausdvc, Imitation For ccnturieqone of the standardwaln of learningtechniquc hasbccnimitation, aswhen, in thc cightearth century, the stw dcnt took some clasical model-for cxamplg the Plndaric hymn or the Horatian odc---rndwrotc, in Grcclr, Latin, or Eng, Ibh, en original work in imitation of that modcl.The approach is still instructivc. Two kinds of imitation secm cpccially worthwhilc: carefuluscof an old, gencrallyunfamiliarform for and analpis of modernsubiectmecer, and thc the prescntation morc dircct, cvcn linc-by-linc imitation that cnablcsthe writcr to lcarn "from insidc" thc sccrcc of somegrcat unitcr's stylc. Though humancxpcricnccb univenal in many weys, atti-

Technirye

4t

tudc changc from ageto rge rnd onc wey of comingto undcrstand our idcas and emotiom is to rtudy thcm ttuough thc spcctaclcs of somccarlier form or sct of aesthctic prcmise. For a number of reasons, we c"nnot quitc sharcthc Romanticcxperienccof nrture. For onc thing, naturc itsclf has changed. Whercrs the Romrntic artist might mrkc r painting hc cdls "Trec and Stream" or "Vicw of Montrinte-Victoire, Latc Afternoon," the paintertoday, whetherfrom dlsillusionment or from a curiousbut ruthentic attachment world hc knonry, to thc may makc a painting hc calls "Pontirc with Treetrunk" or way, thc writcr may copy "Chcvy in Grccn Fields."In thc same somc old ide+-thc drcrm visior5 thc imaginary voyege, thc hymn to the state,thc saint'slegcnd,or thc fremed narrativoand may translatcthc form to suit modern cxpcricncc.So in lason tnd Medeia I copicd the Argonntico of Apollonioc Rhodios(with someadditionsfrom Euripidesrnd others), asking myself .t evcry turn what the characters and cvcntsmight meento a modernsensibiliry-asking,thar is, how much of thc original would still hold, how much we arc forced to alter and whn whoeereading of expcrience is more eccurate (that of Apollonios or our own), and how much experience itself has changed. So DonaldBanhelme plap off thc medieval tradition of the allegorical mountain(mainly off Chauccr's The Houseof Fatne) in "The GlassMountain," Srrnley Elkin imitates TDe CanterburyTalesin Tbe Dick GibsonSbaur,John Banh imitatesScheherazede in Cbimna, and James imiJoyce in r sense tatesthe Ofussey,Worlcing closelywith someearlierwork, scrutinizingthe older wrirer's way of doing thinp, the modern writer getsan rngle on his material.He lcemshow the specch of modernheroes must differ from that of old-fashioned heroes (he learns the advantages and drawbacla of decadencc), leens why the innocent Homeric similc has given way to modern, more ironic simile,learnswhy traditional allcgory hasbecomc for us an dl but dead option cxcepr in comic worls.

r#

PROCESS NOTFf ON lNE NCi|TONAL

The imitationsI'vc mentioneLBarthelme end so ondr that is, far removedfrom the bue of dl feirly sophisticated; imitation. Much closcr following of the model can rchieve quelly d new-results. M*y of Poe'sstoric rrc imitationsor parodiccommenr. His'Imp of the Perveng" fof insancg imitatesthe style of WashingtonIrving and aaacls the 'tqgend of phili*inism end anti-intellecnrdismof lrving's asociateparody with SleepyHollow." Though we sometirnes collegehumor magazines or suchpopularorgtns x Motl nryazine and the Natiwul Ltntpoon, the useof parodic tcchniqug hCIproveda rich vein for contemporaqy both comicrnd serious, writen. (It hasbeen a mainstayof poetsfor centuries.)The parodistmay useonly the generalstyle of his model"asRobert C,ooverin "A PedestrianAccident" (ftom Prichsmgs anil Descantslusesslapstickfilm-comedy and vaudevilleroutins or he may follow his modelalmoa linc for a grim new purpose, for line, merely changingd*ails of action, character,rnd seton thc uriterb ting. Whether or not the resultis art will depend will producer clearertnowledgc wit Either wan the exercise of howthc writer rchievedhiseffects. Yocahtlny Simple lan' A huge vocabularyis not alwap en advantage. guage,for somekinds of fiction at least,can be more effective than complexlanguagewhich can leadto stiltednesor suggest signsof limfued Oneof the surest or faulty education. dishonesty it gignelt sometimes sste or intellectual mediocrity-though polyonly shynes end insecurity-is continualuseof the same words fashionable elseuses, qyllabicor foreign words eveqyone like "serendipiry,"or "ubiquitous" "mtt' ; "getne|"'milial' ernd asFrench; worn-out Germanwords biancd'when emphasized uGestaltr"ot "Sturm und or phrases like "Weltcnschauungr" Drong";or iugon wordslike "fictional strategy."And the writer mt iust that which is in style' vho ues his own fancy language,

Technirye

r45

can be equallyoffensive. lf we sense that, though working asr realisghe writes meinl)r for elegantverbal effect, choosinghb characters for the clevernes of their chatter or even violating characterout of deferenccto his ear, using "calculatC' for "think" or giving all his characters the right to say "da*ardly,' mannerism andtrigidity "connneiI f mtlr" or "my maq" we sense end rt onceback off. This rule like dl rules,musr be applied with goodsense. Dostoernkychooses charactenfor thc kinds of things they'll talk abouc And a nodcerbly ornate vocabulery canbe a splendidthing if well rued.For the writer who hrndles dilficult or obscue words well, giving the appEarancc of inuo' ducing them smoothly and effordessly,violating neither the authorialtone nor fidelity to character,omate vocab,tlrry on extendthe writer's rangeof tone and give textural richnes, to sry nothing of increased-precision. For qymboli.ssand dlegoriss lihe Hawthorne and Melvillg ornete vocabularymoy be an absoluterequisitc. In effective writing-normally-ttre writer slip in symbolsand allegoricalemblems with the crnning of e fim-fam mangulling his country victim. The qrsrbol that strnds out too sharply from in matrix may distract the reader's eyefrom thc fictiond dream,with thc unpleasing effect of making the writer seemfrigid and hb sto47 disingenuong more scrmonthan honestpresentation of imaginedvcots.-.a work, in shon, in which the readerfeels manipulated, prshcd toward someopinion or view of the world not inherentin thc fictionalmaterials but imposed from above. "Normally," I've said.In a cerrrin kind of fiction clunky symbolism,or the eppearance of woodco ellegory, can be a sourccof delighqend a vocabulary of cxtremelyodd words like "furfurlceousr" "venditater"or 'tgnivomousr"words that function like baublesor texmral blisters, calling aneftion to the story's rnificiality, can givc interest.For comic e{fect,one can do anythingthat'sfunny. And to thosewho appreciate it, pan of the appealof Chaucer's Mm of Lns's Tde is its stiffness, its tigdity of ideaand emotion.Cunstance ncverseems to us a red

r46

NOTES ON TT{E FICf,IONAL PROCESS

woman. She has the herd anglesof e primitivc crrving or r figurc in stginedgles; hcr story startsand stopswith the lcrkr and creaksof old machinery,and wc enjoy it preciselybccausc of what nowadayswe would call its irreality-is basein on is true of CleuThe same outmodcdsct of litcrary conventions. cer'sSccondNun's TaIe and of any numbc of modcrnperdic and comic. By making one'ssymbolism unworks both serious asin the bestmornensof Banh's Giles Goatusuallyobvious, cffectof artificcwithout Boy, onecansometimes get a plcasing in fact sacrificingthe symbolicload.We smileat the clunkincs of thc rllegory but at the sametime follow thc allegory out, much asin puppetshowsor Noh plap wc cnioy both thc cmon tcchnique andits impon. phasis Normally, however,thc symbolistor allcgoristworks morc es he often subtly. In "Banleby the Scrivener," Mclvillc uses, because it dlows docs,r narratorcapable of orbicularlrnguage him to introducedouble meanings-allegorizing puns-without disturbing the surfaceof the stoqy.On its most obviouslevel, lawycr rendered hclples by thc thc srcry is of a compasionate in kecping up his thc ordinary busines of both work dilcmma world rnd dealinghumrnely with what ftms out to bc the cosof his copyist Banlcby. On r mic dcspair,in fact madness, dcepcrlcvcl, the lawyer is e kind of Jchovahfigure, Berdeby e to r new idea patheticandineffective Christwho bindsJehovah formal,cvcnpondcrous of iustice. Thc lawyer-narrator's diction for story with full respect dlows Mclville to treat the surface thc dignity of his characters and their pathctic situationbut at meaning. Mclvillc thc samc time to work in signals of the deeper writcs: This vierv [the whitc well the nrrator sces throughone of hiswindows]might havcbccnconsidcrcd rathertamc than othcrwise deficientin what landscrpe paintcrscdl "life." But, if so, the view from the other end of my a contrast,if nothing morc. In chembers offered,at leestr

Techniqu

r+7

thrt dircction,my windowscomrnrndcd rn unob,structed view of r lofty brick wdl, blackcncd by .g" md evcrlrstingshadc.... At first glancg thesescntenccs arc mcrcly dacriptive of thc Rrrntor's suitc of o6ccg with r whitc well rt onc window, e brick wrll at rnothcr. But the n.rmtor'! elcvatcddiction allosr in languagc that hins at thc dccpcrmcaningthrt Bartlcby will call to his attention: Hb cunfonable "uperafus" chambcn erc surounded by dceth. This kind of thing runs dl ttuough the story, atablishrng its full symbolic mcaning. I hrvc spokcnco fer only of ometc vocabulery.A common problem.mong bcginningrvriters fo that eventtrcir vocabulary of ordinary words b limitcd to r dcgrccalnrcetcrippling, Ordinery words, like nrc words, givc tcmrd intcrcst. Thc good writer is likely tq know rnd uso--or find out andrp-thc wor& for commonarchitccturelfcatureq like "linrelr" "newcl poeg' ttcorbellingr" "ebutmcntt' rnd thc concrete or stonc 'hrnst dongsidcthe stcp leadingup into churchcs or public buildinp; thc names of carpentcrs' or plumbers'tools,anists'mstcriab,or whatever furniturg implemcntq or processcs hb characters work with; and thc names of clmmon houschold item* including thCIcwe do not usuallyhearnrmed, often rs wc wc thcm, suchu "pinch-clippcn" (for cuning fingcrnails).Thc witer, if it sris him, should also know and occasiondly nsc brmd nameqsincethcy help to characterizc. Thc pcoplc who &ivc Toyotas arenot thc samc pcoplcwho drivc BMW\ and pcoplc who brushwith Get arc different from thoscwho uscPcpodent or, on thc other hand,one of thc hcalth-foodbrandsmadc of eggplant (In supr-realist fictioq brand namcs are more importent than thc characters thcy dcscribc.)Abovc all, the writcr shouldstrerch his vocabulaqy of ordinary words rnd idiomswords andidionn hc sces all the timc andknowshow to uscbut ncverus6.I nrcanhcrc not languagc thrt smcllsof the lamp but relativelycommonvcrb6,nouns, and adjcctiva-"gdumph" and

I,$8

PROCESE NOIESON TEE FrcTTO}TAL

ormbler"'quagmire," Acoop' (n), "pustulg" "hippodmnrc'" 'rrni"." The casual way to build "recalcitrant' "disueught" as one reads Thc is to pay rttention to language vocabulaqy way is to readthrough a dictionaqf,makinglisa serious-minded of dl the commonwor& one happarsncver to rse. And of way b to study oounse the really serious-minded Among learn Greek,Latin, and oReor rwo modernlanguages. witers of the first rank onecannamevery few who werenot or rrt not fluent in at least tro. Tolstoy, who spoke Rusian, Frenc[ and English easily, and other langu4gc md didec-o with morc difrculty, studied Greek in his fonies The immediate risk for the writer who worb hrrd rt developing vocabularyis that h,it styl. may becometextunlly ovcrricb, disutcting from the fictiond dream.But practiceteaches balance. Limited vocabulary,like short legs on e pole-vaulter, buildsin a naturalbanier to progres bcyonda cenrin poine

TbeSntnce
After the individud wor4 the writer's mostbasicunit of erprecsion is the sentencgthe primary vehich of dl rheorical devices One of the things that should go into the unite.t's is a setof experimens A convenient ootebook with the sentence. rrre md chdlenging place to begin b with tlre long sentence, see that runsto et leasttwo prges.(For ttou4e-fmce example Dondd Berthelme's piece of shon fiction '&ntenct"--in fact one not a long, long sentence but a fragment) Long seotenceq, learns-end mean fake long sentenceg wherein com" I not soon and colonscould bc changed into periodswith mas,semicolons, no los of emotiond power or intellectud cohercncgbut red sentncs-cro be of many Lind* eech with is own rmique The sentence mey be propelledby some &ining hyst reffects. in the oq" ical anotion, like William Faulkner's long sentence tbe included introdrrction Soutd a*l Fzryrin to Tbe siondly .

Techniqre

r19

which the town librarian fnds Gddy's picture in r magazinc, closes the library, and rusheswith the picnre, her wits flying and her heartwildly pounding,to Jason's store;or the sentence may be kept doft-that is, held back from the relief of a final close,I full stop for breath,in other words,a period-by some neurotic senseof hesitationin the characterwhose aoubled mentalprocsses thc sentence b designed to reflect-+ome intelligent middle-aged housewifqfor examplgwho hasread about women'sliberation in her magazines and feels an increasingly anxiousinclination, hedgedin by doubts and on-the-otherhands, to takee nighschoolcourse-one in fower-arnnging, or ceramics,or self-awarenesr-perhaps telling her domineering mother and hu$and whar she'sdoing and then againperhap not-though money will be a problem if she taka the course secredy:Shehasonly her household and grocery dlowancemd there are alwaln the children, thoogh Mark (let ru call him) rnight possiblybe talked into stayingafter schoolThunday nighs to play bCIketball, and Daniel,on the other hend . . . but would Danielevenmissher if shewent out, in factt--glueil every night to the TV in his room, smoking(if that'swhat the smell is) pot?-$ut it would be risky, no doubt of it; if thcy found her out-Harold andher mother-there would be scens, tiresome dramas; bener to fnd some morefoolproof plan . . . or the sentenceme). be kqpt going by the complexity of its thought, or by the ometeness of its imrgeqy,or by the "sheer plod' of the drudge it ilhstrateg or by someorher causg or moto& beforeat last it quits. Shon sentences grveother effects Abo sentence fragments They can bc trenchangpunchy. They can suggest weeriness They crn increase the drabnes of a dnb scene Used for rn unworthyreas,o& ashere,they cenbeboring. Benveeothesecrtremeq the endles sentenoe and thc vcryl lhort sentence, lies r world of nrriatbn, a wodd o'ery writer mustevcotuallyqplore

r50

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

PoertcRby*tm

'nfin'T" .i-a ,. PrJr., [T.pkil, Fu)l, "i rr{y*'ir, --l .venauons.

l--

r. Like poetry, proschasrhythmsrnd rhythmic varietio-ns. esto Poet{y. areasbasic to prose 3. Rhythmandvariation | | | t| | | justlike vcrsc.* mustforccrhythms, 4. All prosc the above. Rcadingat the namralspcedwe usefor Compare poctry' wc of verscor prose prose, fasterthanthe naturalspeed find that item z is slower,moreplodding,thanitcm r; anditem
r Metrical analysismarkings rrc dways epproximations, both when wc're dceling with prosc and when wc dcal with versc. Othcr good rcrders-or I myself on anotherdry-might legitimatelyrctd thc lines I'vc mrrkcd in other wayg though somereadings.rc sure to bc les convincing than others. I usc the symbols for mcuicel analysis,here rnd in the rest of this
I u ---lvv | -l--

= $ressedsyllablc; = lightly strcsscd discusion,rs foltows: (or vct*, beatin thc rbscnccof sucss); sometimes, in meuical rylleblc *= O but longor slowsyllablc; = un$rescdsyllable; = unstrcsscd (by forcc) rhymc or othcr slighdy tomc unstresscd oonchcd ryllablc A= 41, hovcring su.s ldso towrrd stres; ll = pause or cresure; whercwc might readtwo iuxteposcd uscdin siturtions rylleblcsrs cithcr trochaicor iambic,but so similar in stres thrt they r.cm to dividc thc crnphasis of bcatbctwcen them,asin RobenFrost'r

,\

or-

wi6*.,, Joa, tr'!r. .Y.r,{r*Yml,.r "f whoAas trrisc .LY*JntTnf *.

Whcn in vcrsc thrce or rrcrc strescs (cithcr in iuxmpositionor with onc or morc interposcdunstrcscd syllebles)iccm to shuc r singlc . (In bcrt, thc phrascmrrt rnd rtressnumbcrmry bc uscful fr) rhythmicellytricky mctricrl vcrsc,think of thc bcrt asthc drum'sbrsic ridc.) Thc fiythttr, rnd the varietionsrs thc frzz soloistl syncopetcd

Tecbnrqn

rjt

of the fairly regular (rccurrence syllablc of stressed 3, because and thc numbcr of unstressed sllabla betweenthem, runs along more lightly than cither r or z and much more lightly than item 4 whercthe iuxtaposed suesses slow the sentence to . trudge.
rcrson for thesc complications,hovcring stress and phrase,is that in metrical English verse a foot can normdly contain no morc than onc strcssed and two unsrressed ryllablcs, though occrsionally<specially in nursery rhymes and somc very old folk poetry--one or morc exue unstresscdsylleblesmey be slipped in-the exua syllables Gcrerd Manley Hopkins called "riders." By the system I am using the only possible patternsfor the-English foot_, discountingriders and other syncopations, arc iambic(- /), uochaic (/-), (--'), anapestic dacrylic (/-), and amphibrachic(-/9. In verse,the number ol leet in the linc gives the Iine'smeter.For instance, the Frost line iust quorcd

wrroscwo/oas |,n.r..L l l,ttr, I rr.nl*

hrs four bcrts (as marked). The basicmcesures lre monometer!dimeter, trimetcr, tetremeter, pntamenter, hexameter, and heptameter. Beyond this length the line tends to break into separate perts, as octameter,for instencc, tends to read es two ioined teuameters. Only on rerc occasionq as in someof the writings of William Gas, and in sorneof my own work, docs prosc rhythm contain meter-uzually hidden, since thc metrically equel lincs ere run together, though they may givc somc such signal of thcir presencers obvious or subderhymc. A knowledgc of versc scansionis no idle talcnt for the prosc writcr. Reelly good prosc differs in only onc wey from good contemporary vcrsc -{y which onc mclns, mainly, frcc versc (unrhymcil end meuicrlly irregular). Vcrse slows thc reader by means of linc brcaks; prosc docs not. Notc that thcsc lines, by poet and fiction writer Joyce Carol Orteq could be sct cither asprosc or asversc: Thc crr plunges wcswrrrd into thc bluing dusk of New York State Thcrc is no cnd to it: the snakes that writhe in thc hcadlights, thc scrrvcs of snow, the veins, vineq tendrilq thc sky r crazy broken bluc likc crockery. Somc conternporary frce versc, likc thar of Gelwry Kinnell, has motp comprcssion than prosc cen bcar; no one denies the power of Kinnclll bcst vcrse, but as Whitmrn proveq comprcsion of tha! sort is not en rbsolute rcquircment

r52

NOTES ON THE FTCTIONAL PROCESS

slipeinto accidental In good prose,rhythm neverstumbles, Condogg.t4 or works againstthe meaningof the sentence. (For conmy permutations. sentence following sider the by context established ice has been that the veniencg assume and may be omined when we like.) ^ , i6 fi'e rlyr,Jpris ;d squJalea,,iln r. The pis thr: r@yd

\o

iie,pJntin-griilduembFng.
eshing and squealing, m. r. eitE ,tt*ttii'g rfty
vv | --| - l -t

| t* rntinganduembling. Penung f--v - - \ | - \- | . : / / - |-.| | v squealing, then panting,uembling, the iashinga;a and sq 3. Ttti"striig r ' \1 . / . | , - -- - - , 1

r,Jpr&,

pi-gl.y i"n tI'' ii.. -: - / napF" 4helplas. bling,lay

/ | l.,\ T[e pig thrashed and squeded then, panting, uenr t_

not entirely satisfactory.Thc Rhythmicdln item r seems asa tind of after6nal phrue, "panting and uembling," comes it by rll that has gone into don't feel propelled thought-we 'thrashcd and rhythr& of the earlier befor*and ia faint echo feelsslightly awkward.Item u is worse:The echoof squealed," h now much too obvious,gt"ing thc "thrashingand squealingp symmetry.Itcm 3 is bener. The an ofiensive sentence "looky cchoingphrues havebeenbrought togetherin the samcpart of to suroothout dlowing the closeof the sentence the sentence, the phrase from word "and" and run free; and by droppingthe is slowed segment of this "pnnting and uembling," the rhythm suP extnt down ('!anting, uembling") andthe echois to some presed" And + is beaer yet. Slowed by the PFse "panting, winds down, like thc pig in the word ueinbling,' the sentencc sense. now echoes Sound "helples." By keepingout e c:reful earfor rhythrq the writer cNnoon' subdety.In with cnnsiderrble trol thc e*oti- of his scntences

Tecbnirye

r53

my novel Gtndel,I cnnted to cstrblishthc emotim rnd c{rarrcter of the cuaal-chancter monster in hb 6rst utter.noe. After some brooding and fiddling, I qrotc;

'fi. ofd .J**la' dld;se"$"':"E ,oh*ria* ,S--| pidlytriumphane

h,rt of the effect,if the sentence works, is of coursethe choice of words. lt would be different if I'd wrinen, '"The old cow The opening ris . . ." But pert of it b the handlingof stresses. iotupoeed stresseq intensifiedby near rhyme give appropriate hanhnes;the dliteration of an esentially nasrysound("randq" 'rnrpidly") meinteins thir qo"lity; rnd the rhythnic hesitrtion of the long syllableet the cnd of the firs phrase

Jnr:ao
by tte nrmble ino difrorh-to-nrnage spcrnunrary followed oyllebleo unstrcsed
t --t stupidly uiumphant

gro suggestiorl hopc-d de monstcr'rdumsinss of " ud gait (Wc sczn doqght thewor&, I thin\ r empidly triumphant reficr thanrs dacrylic andamphibrachic. Thur'tri'functions -orurould in metricel yGntsarr rider,rnd,given ourhrbis of io *ongly rhythmbprose esin versgthe syllablc fdlclurnsily.) The gooduniter worls om hb rhythm by a"; bc usudly ao need of dreprnpherndia herefor purposcc has I've invoked it proves hdpfrrl to scan r linc of disctsion Yc ocrasiondly sie mcric.l .nel)rsis merls,asan aid to daermining whcrc tosr ns% *rong beetsbould bGinsqted,(E sonepau of uo'
t --, I

r5+

NOIES ON TITE FICTIONI, PROCESS

stresscdsyllabla suppresed or added. Turning sentcnccs aroun4 trying various combinationsof the fundamentaleleit leads mcna, will prove invaluablcin the end,not iust becausc ovcr thc ycan it teaches but elso because to bener sentences ccnain basicwep of fting rhythm that will work again on I don't knoq other, superficially quitc disimilar sntcncs. mootwritcrs would say the same-what mpclf-and I suspect it is that I do, what formulasI usefor switching bad sentences aroundto makcbener ones;but I do it all thc timc, les laboriously cvery ycar, trying to creepup on the bestwap of gening said.One thing thet may be helpful to noticc b the kinds thing;s Take thc that pushunstressed of changes ryllabla up to strss. f,rst phraseof thc nurseqyrhymc "T&y Was a Welshman" Rhythmically thc pocmcanlcgitimatelybe viewedin two wayl, either rs regularmetricalvc$e or 4s"old nativcmcterr' derivativc from thc Old English allhcrative linc. In the former casc thc line hassix bcats,in the latter only four. I will ueat the linc pushingu* herc as old native metcr. Watch the permutations syllablcs strcsscd to strcsqor, asHopkins would say,"tptinging' thc vcrsc. t--| t--| Taffywas a thicf. Taffy wasaWelshman, t - - -.7-T\ r. Taffywasadamnfool, r. Taffyshotidamnfool, .f t-I.4-T 3. Bill Jona shotr damnfool, ^-4TT\ 4-t shot Bill 4 Jones nno drmn foolq Noticc the difrcrenccof cncrgy in thc variousrhythmic Pcrmr trtions, though bhind all thc i*ing thc (imaginrqy) dnurF bcatis thc samc.

fr-,-^

TeclmiEn
Pointof Vieu

rtt

What hasalrcady been saidon the subiect of point of view need not be repeated herc.In contemporary writing onc may do anywith point of view, aslong asit worla. As long thing onepleases asthe flavor of the writing is at oncecontcmporery(as a John sculpture Saltpaintingor a George Segal simplycouldnot come from any other time), onc neednot sendsignalsto the reader that one may do peculiarthings-suddenshifts of any kind. That is part of the built-in expectation and pleesure of "conart. But in cvery temporary"or at-once-rcognizably-innovative includingour own, some literature--+ften sinceas age, the best, a rule onecannotsimultancously invent wildly andthink deeply --somc literatureusesuaditionalmethods, and hcre a ceftain correctncss is beyond dismisal. Somediscussion of point of view is thereforenecessary. It is often said,mainly by non-writers,that the fint-pcrson point of view (the "I" point of view,asin "then I sawthc jug") is the mootnaturd. This is doubtful. Thc third-penon point of view ("Then she in bothfolk and sawthejug") is morecommon nanative. No fairy tdes are told in the first pcrsophisticated son;alsono iokes.First person allowsthe writer to write ashe ulkg and this may be an advantage for intelligentpaople who interesting have speech petternsand comefrom a culture with a highly devcloped oral tradition, suchasAmericanblacks,Jcwg and southernor down-east Yankeeyarn-spinnen;but first person doesnot forcc the writer to recognize that written speech hasto makcup for the lms of facial expression, gsture, and thc like, and the usualresult is not good writing but only writing les noticerbly bad. Once first-person narrative has been mastered-$y some standardof mastery-the writer is cncouraged to write in the third penon sublective, a point of view in which all the "f's arc changed to "he"sor "she't and emphasis is placed on the cherrcterb thoughts, so that "Then shesawthe iug" becorneq "Was

r56

NOTES ON TTIE FICTIONAL PRO@Si

that a lrg shesewl" or "A iug! shethought' This point of vier (style, in a sense) in the hopethat goesfor deepconsciousnesq the thoughs and feelingsof the charecterwill becomethe ir thoughtsand feelingsof the reader.The mediate(unmediated) like: effectis something Was that a fzg shesaw?No, shemust not touch that honeyiug! Old Doc Chinahadchorded,"You loseninety pounds, Lulu Bogg,or you're a goner.Like your ma before you. You'll sit up in bedsome mornings oneof these and you'll turn white with the elfon of ig and click." Doc had snapped his fingers,brourn, bony fingers that wouldnt go fat if you fed 'em on goosefat and white bread foramontlu The third-penon+ubiective point of view hasis use*but it also hassevere limits, so that somethingb wrong when it becomes the dominantpoint of view in fiction, asit hasbeenfor years in the United States. In addition to defectsmentioneddready (Chapter 3), it locls the reader inside the characterbmind (even more so than Harry James'"center of consciousnssr" narrator), howeverlimited that where we haveen inteqpreting character's mry be, so that when the mind iudgrnensue mb more conect iudgmens mtrst taken or inadequetgthe reeder's comefrom a cool withdrawal. When the fiction is iudgmentd, and for somereasonmuch third-penon*ubiective fiction b' dre uniter commits himself m nothing except by irony; hs the snrpiditiesof mmkind; antl exceptinsofar mercly e:rposes rs he misesthe point, the readerstan& apan from the rction of dre story, watching it aitically, like e grumpy old man rt r pany. One can of coune get the srme misanthropiceffect by of other tcchniqua; for instancgby * of the crebby means omniscient&urator of Katherine fuine Poner's fiction or tho frvored by Melvile, as in ?De d*Hy ironic voice sometimes Catfulencetlm, lndon the odrer handit b of courseposibh for r writer rsing the third-prso-nrbiective point of visw o

Tecfuiqu

$7

cnioy md admirehis chanctersito writg that b, rbout somconc he considenrt leastin somemeasure r hero.But evenwhen thc fction is hncvolent, the third-person-subjective point of view achieve can litde grandeur.It thrives on intimacy rnd somothing likc gossip.It peels th"oogh r keyhole never wdb tluough an openfield. An evenlessgrand point of view fu third personobiectioe, identicd to third prsonsubiectiveexceprthat the n:urator not only nevercomments himselfbut alsorefrainsfrom enteringany character's mind. The resultis an ice-coldcamera'seye recording. We seeeventqheardidogue obsen'e the setting,end make guesses about what the characters are thinking. This point of view can work brilliandy in frirly ehon fiction ks limits ore obvious The noblestqniters,Iike Isak Dinesen and Leo Tolston rise above the pettines and unseemlyfamiliarity of third pe$on subjective, and rvoid the savage spersiryof third penon obieo. tive, by means of the authorial-omniscient pint of view. In thc euthoriel omniscieng the writer speaks as, in effecg God. Hc sees into dl his characten'heartsand minds,prsents dt post tions with iustice and detachment, occasiondly dipn into thc third personsubiective to give the readeran immediate sense of why the characterfeelsashe doeg but reserres to himselftlrc right to iudge (a right he usessparingly). Usually he iudges events,touching on moraliry only by implication. When hc intrudes with moral heavy-handedness, as Tolstoy does in Rewnection, the effect is likely to be disasrer. [n the authorial, omniscient point of view the readerccapesthe clauuophobir he may feel when boxed into e limited opinion; he se and ctlebrategshrugsoff, or deplores a variety of opinioru; and he sails dong securelp confident that he will nor be tricked or betrayedby the wisernd thoughdul srretor. The cardsare oD the table. What for e time dernoted the authorial-omniscient point of view--*uler of the field forcennric-vns widesprad doubgt

r58

NOTES ON Tl|D TrcNONAL PROC,ES{I

lerst rmong intellecnrds, of God, rnd inrbout thc existence 'What b creasingfascinationwith Pilatc's tiresomequestio,n Stephen Truth?" Charlcs Dickens, Henry James, Conrad, Jooeph to the Crane,and many others invented valuablealternatives omniscicntvoice-among othcrs,the story told through various pointsof view,filteredthroughprhaps unrcliablc narrators like Conrad'rMarlow, or reponedby somcpoeticor rcal voice,cvcn thc imegincd voiceof thc community. Now that nervous theologicaland metaphysical questions havelost thcir widc appeal, writers likc Donald Banhelmc,Joycc &rol Oates,or William they Gas fccl freeto usctheomniscient point of view whenevcr like, unuoubled and its furby God'sexistence or nonexistencc thcrmores. Thc euthorial-omniscient nerretor is, for them, as (or implimuch a fiction a literary traditionwithout desperatc cations)asanything else they may usein their writing, suchas thc old palominohorsewith spavins, or the wired-upchair in somckitchen. Cuning through the mucknthey simply sey-in thc uaditional voice of thc omniscicntnarrator-what is fictionally uuc. They play God asthey mightplay King Claudius, by putting on a cepe. in using may encountcr Onc of the problems thc beginner it thc authorial-omniscient point of vicw ir that of cstablishing inin the first place and,throughout hisstory,movingsmoothly this point of vicw to the minds of his charecters. To establish when his narrativeopens,the wrircr must dip fairly soon into the exvariousminds,setting up the rules; that is, cstablishing pectationthat, when hc likes,hc will move from consciousness to consciousnes. Thc shift to third pcrsonsubjectivcreguiresa scc skillful handlingof psychicdistance.(On psychicdistance, p.rrr.) Another availablepoint of view is the so'callcd "essayist Thc casicst way to dacribc it is by contrastwith omniscient." thc authorial omniscicnt. The language of the authorialomniscient voiceis traditionaland neutral:Thc authorspeals sayingwhat any cdm, digniwith digniry andpropergrammer,

Technique

r 59

fied, rnd reasoneblc pc$on would say. "Hrppy familicsarc all alikc." Or: "During thc first quarterof the last century, scaside rcsorts became evenin thooccountric of Northern the fashion, Europc within the mindsof whosepeoplethc seahad hitheno held thc role of the Dcvil, thc cold and voracious hercdita4y foc voicc sounds much of humanity."Evcqy authorial-omniscient like every other. Thc essayist-omniscient voicc, though it hes ncarly the same divinc authoriry, is morc personal. Though wc do not know the nameandoccupation of thc spcaker, we sensc et oncethat the voiccis old or young,malcor female, black (as in Charla Johnson'sFahb nd the Gooil Tbkg) or white. Whereas the writer who has chosen the authorial-omniscient techniqueneeds only to imitatc, say, Tolstoy, thc writer using the essayist-omniscient voice must first invcnt e charactcrwith particularhabitsof thoughtandparticularspeech patterns. Exccpt by their conccrns end subiect metter, onc cennot tell Tolstoy from Dinesen. Neither is free to be sly or bitchy; the voicc simply statesfacts and makesseeminglyimpanial iudgments.JeneAustcn,on the other hand,cen say anythingshe pleases, as long as it's interestingand suitableto the pcnonal voice established. Until recently mosrwriters who usedrhe essayist voicc developedsomeone distinctive voice and used it book after bock (Edger Allan Poc, Mark Twain, Willirm Faulkner).Contemporary writers tcnd to play morc with ventriloquism,so that sometimes onebook by e given writer sounds very litdc like anotherby the samewriter. Delay All goodfiaion contains suspense, difierent kinds of suspurse in differcnt kindsof fiction. Take the simplest kind fint. Anyone canwrite "A shotreng out" or "There lay thc body of Mn. Uldridge." Whar is hardcrto writc is the momentlcading up to such a climax. When thc writing is successful, the readersenscs that thc climaxis comingand fcels. srrongurgc ro

Ih

NOTES oN TIIE FTCTToNAL PRocEst'

skip to it dirccdy, but cmnot quitc tcer himselffrom thc pan" graph he's on. Ideally, every elementin the lead-in passagc shouldbe a relevantdistractionthat heightens anticthe reader's ipationandat the same time holds,itself, suchintoest-through richnes of literal or metaphoriclanguege,through starding thematicand accuacy of perception, or through the deepening recalled-that thc cmotionaleffectof significsnteerliermoments reederis reluctantto dash on Even in the work of someof our better pop novelistgtoo esy solutionsto this problemere conmon. One is the author's thoughs of e frst- or third-penon entrrrinto the suqpense-filled character,in the hope that the character'ssuspense will rub off on the reader.Another, more general,is irrelevant disuaction: "As I walkedtoward the Parkerplace,therewasc mockingbird tingtng. Upstain, it soundedlike-.somewhercbehind the shutters-though I knew there couldn't be a mockingbird ioside.I remembered-rnoving without a soundtoward the gate -how Old Bassusedto tell me about mockingbirds.'Samuel,' he'd say . . ." Irrelevantdisuactioruevenif it workg in a feeble wap makes Trug terftre can help the readerfeel manipulated. dirgoit. the fault (the nameOld Bas here,the mockingbird); and true, the line betweenirrelevant distraction and relevant disnrction may be e 6ne one.The distractingdeuil of thought rbout the mockingbird,in the linesabove,is not inelevant if it recallsearlierpassags in the fiaiorl asociations that enrich the srspenseful moment.Old Bas mry havedied mysteriously,or dark may havebelievedthst thc songof a mockingbirdpresages cvents. We are all familiar wirh thoseobligatoqymomentsin suspensefulmovieswhen the lady is ebout to open the dangerous door. Shestopsto listen,cyebrowslifted, end if the movie'sr good one the soundthat hastroubled her is one we've heard before (though she,perhaps,has not), e sound we t<xt lverc uoublcd by at fint, until we learned that it wasonly the tin *p h-g"g on the pump-spout, bengingin the wind. Or thc db

TechniEte

16r

tmcting soundmay recall a scencthet contrastswith this one; for example, e scenein which litde Leander,now ominorsly vrnished,playedhappily with the hired man'scat, offering it a &ink. The lady movesforwrrd agpin, her fear allayed, and reachc cautiouslytoward the door we don't want her to opelu Another sound! She pauses, her expression pertly fear, pardy inimtion-irriution at her own tiridiry, perhap, but the expresion is one into which we're fre to proiect our own irriatiort" (Srspenseful delayis cnioyable, but evenwheir distractionr cnrich the mceningof the climax about to come,we ere not nrch fools asto mis the fect that we're being led, a little like donkep. If the readeris not to wakcn from the fictional dream, it ccn be usefulto anticipatethe reader's feeling and channelit back into the story.) Anothcr kind of delaymay be achieved by stylistic io"trp* sition. F:rly in "Views of My Father Weeping," Donald Barthelmeinuoducc surreali* elemena-in this caseimages from outsidethe flow of tim+-into a narrativcthat hasso far been profuent, or forward-moving.We are puzzledfor a moment, wonderingwhencecamethe srrangeimageof the dead father weepingon the bed then the imageof his throwing the bdl of yrq then thet of his mashingthe cupcakes. Before wc qrn figure out the answer, \ye ffe thrown backinto profluencc, only to be brought up short agein,l page or rwo later, by morc surrealism. The effeq though more subdeand intellectual,b r linle like that in a thriller novel when the author leavesone chrracter rnd sequence of evens for rnother not immediately relevrnt to the first but sureto intersectwith it evenftelly. So, for instancgthc writer may bcginwith a likableAmericanfanr., ily of tourilss*iuing in Hong Kong, then switch to r group of dangerorsinternadonalplotters.Mentally castingforwe,rd,tho rcader cxpec-s trouble for the touriss and feelsthe beginning rwingesof suspcnsc. Herg asin Banhelme, the susperse com6 panly from our nor knowing for zurewherewe rrc or how to mticipate the furure.

t6z

N TES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

involvcsthc In scriousfiction, thc highestkind of suspense concernis of choicc;that is, our suspenscful Sanrirn anguish just with whet will happen not but with the moralimplicrtioru eachbased on somcap. of action.Given two posiblc choices, as wc read,over which choiccthc provablcgoal, u'e rrvorrJr'r will makeand,given thc natureof rcelity, what thc character rcsultswill bc. In some rccentfiction, nomblythat of Samuel Bcckcttand, the writer makes ironic use of thc often, Donald Banhelme, fictional conventionof dclay, encouragingthe reader to cest outcomeand then rcfusingto makc forward to somepossible towardthat end.ln Waitingf or Godotwc aretold my progrcss that thc two ffampshavecometo this barrcnplaccto wait for that may be.Thc namp's talk and go through Godot, whoever motione-routinc circular lcadingnowhere-and dmc pases, The in thc scnse that thingshappn (thoughnot scquentielly): one remaininglcaf falls from its branch on the nearly barrcn reei but Godot doesnot arrive.Our conventional expectrtion In Beckett's pleyHeppy helpsBcckenmakchis point on stasis. Dayswc gct muchthe same thing. Thc pile of refuscin which buried is gcs dcepcract by ect-by one of the two characters this proof that timc b the third it is up to hcr neck;but despitc pasing, the charactcn learn nothing, make no progres. In but, if so, provesto be the end may be achieved Banhelme, idioticioke,esat theendof "The Glass Mountain"or The some Dead Fatber-e ioke that makes nonsense of the quest. ln th6c valug if works dchy bccomc an cnd in itsclf-the any, is in thc ioumcS not the arrival-and the anguishof choice proves r Thc art of fool's dclusion,sinceno chorcebrings satisfaction. suchfiction liesin keeprng the readcrgoing,thoughthe writer knowsfrom the beginningthat there'sno placcto go. The monl valuc of such writing is obviously dubious,though it can be of thc writer as rrgucd-by cmphasizing thc moral seriousness he prcscnts his suspect opinions;by pointing oug if posible, the measurc of authenticcompassion wc cen feel for the characte$

Tecbtiqtn

$,

(not i,tst pitJror ironic demchmcnt);or by maintainingrheq in laughing,rf,c at oncc ecceptand reiect thc conceit.Wc acccpq, muchaswe do whcn wc hearsick iokcs,in that wc scchow thc thing; wc rciect in thag in . writer might sayzuchen outregeous the ect of laughing,wc deny that humanbcinp arc thc helples clown-creaturcs thc ruthor has represcntc4 rnd wc cuspcct, righdy or wronglp that thc ruthor sccrcdy agrecswidr usothcrwiscwhy makcthe characters so clownlikc?The fact that Samucl Bcckctt is in earncst, or se)'she ls, may surpriseus but docs not changeour rspottsc. To thc writcr who wishesto emulateBcckca or Brnhelme, thc only possible adviceis this: Make sure your routinesare as interestingas your model's, StyIe About style, thc lesssaid thc bcttcr. Nothing lcadsto frauihr lcncr morc swiftly than rhc consciouspunuit of sryll*ic uniqucnes.But on the other hand norhing b more natural to thc young and ambitious writer than that he rry ro find a voicc andtcrritory of hisown, proving himselfdiffcrent from all othcr writers.Sucha youngwriter is likcly to takc adviccfrom no onq end though thet fact may exasperete his writing teacher,thc wisc teachcrknows it's an cxcellcnt sign, and givesthe young writer his head,obiccting to and criricizing srylistic ab,surdities only enough to kecpthe studcnthonesr. A fcw obnervations may bc medcto thc young srylist that mey provc uscful. First, most fictionel styles arc traditiondthink, for cxample, of the cusromary stylc of the tale, thc yrrn, thc third-pcnon-omniscient realisticpieceof fiaion. Meny writen simply masterone such style and make use of it all their livcs, coundngon their ovm uniquecxpricnce and pcnonality to makethc sryle individual. Thcy arc right to do so, though their choiccis not thc only o'ncavailablc. Eachwritcrb intercsts andpcnonaliry mustincvitably modify thc sryle.Someonc who writcs brillianrly, with cloccly observeddemil, about profer-

r6+

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PN,OCESS

his or clerking in r grocery storg presenting sionaldishwashing realistic materialin the normal style of third-penon-subiective fiction, must inevitably sound different from another vriter basicstyle, writes of circuswork or who, working in the same life tornuers. Style often takescareof itself. the of profesional not oneconvenis true of the writer who masters The same tional style but many,eitherwriting eachstory in * style differnt from the style he usedla.sttime or mixing sryleswithin a givenstoqyin r way that seems to him intuitively satisfyingand in of the story asa whole. somehow terms iustifiable But therewill alwaysbe thosewriters, rightly anough,who insiston creatingsomenew style of their own, asJoycedid, or Faulkner,or William Gass. All that can be saidto suchwriters is: Go to it. The rists areobvious:that the style will attrect tq) much attention to iself; that the style may seemmannered; hinrselfit may and that instead of freeing the writer to erprss limit the numberand kinds of things he can say. (We seezuch limitations in Hemingway'searly experimenswfuh the thirdperson-obiective point of view donewith tough-guysimp["ity.) Goodcriticismwill help,if the writer canget iq andwill takeit. Failingthat,timeis likely to softenthe style'serceses

Ploming

e profuent plot, we'vesaid,the writer worb in When designing two or moreet once: He borrows oneof threeways,sometimes somc traditional story or action draum form life; he worls backwardfrom his climax;or he worls forqnrd from an initial situation.Without repetitionof what hasbeensaidalready,this asthey apply to chaptetwill examine all threeof thesemethods ploning short 6ction, the novella,and the novelnand dso exrmine wap of ploaing otherkindsof fictioq includingthe kind we cnll "plotless."The discusionqumot hopeto bc exhaustive, but it shouldgive the beginnersomepracticalguidanceon the herdest iob e writer everdoes. Thoogh causal sequence givc the best (most obvious)tind of profuence,it is not the only possible means to that necesaqF cnd. A story or novelmay developargumentetively, leadingthe reederpoint by pornt to someconclusion.In this ctse Eyents occur not to irstify later evens but to dramatize logic'elp6itions; thus eveft 4 doesnot ceuseevent D but stan& in some log".l relation to it. So, for example, the writer might impoee onto the twelve leborsof Hercules-<r someaction from reel Ii[q or somefictiond action-some logicd sequence thag like my other interestingrrgumeff, keep rs reading.By dmmar65

r66

NO|rES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

tizcd concretesituationsthe writer trgueq say, "[f c doesnot work, try bi if b doesnot work, try c"---4nd so on though twelve posible modesof action or value posibilities. Morc specifically,the writer might show his central charactertrying to copeby charitable behavior, then,aftcr failing, trying to cope by selfishbehavior,and, failing again,trying to copeby e mixture of charity and selfishcunning, and so on until all options seem exhausted. even Suche story or novelmight bc interesting, acbrilliant, but it can neverachieve thc power of an energeic it does not risc tion because the controlof actionis intellectual, out of the essence redity the way a lecof things:It discuses (though the ffer does morcvividly), it does not reveal perhaps modaliryofthings.It does not capture process. A relatcdkind of profuence, both which can alsoorganizc made-upstoriesand uaditional or real-life stories (found obis the straightor modified picaresgue plot. In iecs, soto speak), uaditional or purc form the picaresquc narrativc follows some characer, oftcn r clcver rascal,from level to level through sociery, showingusthe foiblesand absurdities The writer of each. canmakcany substitutions to pump new life into he may pleasc hero,he thc old formula.Instead of the customary picaresque might uscsomemonstcrfrom thc fens-thc monstcrGrendel, from BeoaruIf, for instance+nd instcad of thc customary movemcntthrough thc strataof socicty,hc might choosce list the anisof Grcatldeas of WesternGvilization (love,heroism, tic ided, picty, andsofonh) to which oneby onche introduces his skepdcalmonster.This structuring of plot is likely to bc more interestingor lessdepending on the extent to which thc raises sequencc questions involvingthc welfareof the character, each value, for instance,putting increasingpressureon the of ideasprovides monster's skepticism. Insofar as the sequence asgreat as involvement may be almost somethreat,thc reader's it is in the well-built energeicplot, though here too the final proces. energyis mising: the powerof inexorable by symbolic iuxtaposiOr againa plot may be constructed

Ploning

r67

tion. Thc epicBeoatulf ,discused earlier,worla in this way. All talesof quest, or nearly all, havethisstructure. In the 6nel analysis it seems unlikely that an csentially intellectual strucnre can have thc same power and aesthetic validity, all other things beingegual,ase sructure that appeals simultaneously to our intellect and to subtler faculties, our deepest cmotionsGympathyand empathy) and our intuition of redity's process. However that may be,an intellectualstructure is easier to createthan is a powcrful energeic plot. With intelIcctual strucnrresthe writer always knows exactly where hc stands and exacdywherehe'sheading, thoughthc readermay be baffieduntil he figuresout thc key. If the writer is very clevcr at fleshing out the skeleton, covering it with vivid details drawn from life or lirerature, the rcader's initial baffement, combined with hisintuitivesense that the fiction hassome order,may lerd to the reader's et fi$t overvaluingthc work-and his later disappointment,wheri hc figuresit out Wc sense at oncc some mystcriouslogic in Kafka's "A Country Docror," and our first impulseis to aaribute this mysteriouscoherenccto some ingenious penetration of the natureof thingp.But oncewe learn that the story is tightly allegorical,asnearasmathernatics or . sennonon the sevendeadlysins,wc may begin to find it thin and too obviously contrived. All this may be vain argumcnt; ccrtainly it doesnot deny Dantc his sraruses the greatestof medievrlpoes. But in an agefond of intellectualstructurcs, it is a thought worth consideringthat thosewriten who move us more profoundly than all others-Homer, Shakespeare, and Tolstoy, for cxample-differ not in degree but in kind from thosemasters whosestructuresare intellectual,not energeicwriters like Dance, Spenser, andSwift. The question, to poseit one last wan is this: Can an argument manipulated from the start by the writer havc the same emodonaland intellecnralpower es an argumentto which the writer is forced by his intuition of how life works?Comparisons arc odiousbut instructive:C,an a.Gullfuer'sTraaels, however

r68

NOTEII ON TTIB FICTTONAL PROCESS

brilliantly crnstructd evertouch dre hemof the garmcntof r infefur play fike Kirg Leo? Or: Why b ther{ ewid n meu:kdlly to the lli,ld? From all we havesaidaboutploniog in generalit shoulil bo orident that evenin those"modern" plos in which evens hrp the pen by lewsnot immediately visible-as wher\ for instance, taaooedman in the circusreveals in the courseof e whimsicel conversation that he hason his chestI tanq) of the litth girl now looking at hirn, a child he has never beforc secn,or .B wheq in IsakDincen, a decorous old nun turns abmpdy into r monkey-there must be somerationrl or poetically persuasivc bosis. We can enioy e sto{y thet hassomesecrctlqgic we sersc but cannotimmediatelyguess; that but if we begin to suspect the basis of profluence is nothingbut madwhimsen we beginto be di*racted from the fictionel drerm by our questiong doubts, and puzzlement, our feeling that the story is getting nowhere. The "mad" story--+urrealisgexpresionist,or whatever-must bc ascarefully ploaed asthe story with causally relatodrctions. Onc can plot such fiction in r variety of ways The most clmmon is the techniqueof setting up basicphiloeophicdop positionsand then dirguiring thenr, translatingideasinm rp by the methodof thc endgenereting propriatecharacters vents old-fashioned allegorist, but cacheventexpresingin mysteriotrs soncretetermsthe activerelationship betweenthc centralidcs& Thus, for example, wishing to tdk about mrterialismand spiritudity, one might chooseas dlegoricd "central characerr" I fat bankerand a pigeon;and wishing to say thrt body crnnot live without soulor soulwithout body, we might sct up r simation in which an elderly pigeonkeep up is strengthby living off the crumbsthat fall from the Oreo cookiesthe brnker eets betweencigars,and the banker is k.pt from dying of cigarby the necessity of from time to time opensmokeasphyxiation the window let ing to the pigeonin and out. For contrastwe might setup in the officenext dobr an identicd fet benter who doesnot havea pigeon,andan identicalpigeonwho hasnothing

Plonkg

169

for sustcnme butrain. All of thcirneges, needles to rry (sterting with the bankermd the pigcon), ere choscnboth for theh significance cnrblemetic and for their inherent interest.(By an "emblern" I mcan m image that has one signification.Thc bankermeans materialism By r "symbo[' and only materialism. I meanan imagethat may meansevenlffigt.) And everything in the story-seaing, didogoe enfhing else-must be selected by thc same principles,both immediate and emblematic interesa Oronemight work, asChaucer often does, by the obveneof the dlegorical maho4 choosing ueditiond dlqgoricd emblerm (the roee,the lemb the cron'rqthe grarl) and erploring them in quasi-reali*icterms.Thus, for examplga literd-minded, practicrl philosopher--aninventor of householdapplirnces,or r complains.depertment supervisor-might find himself in thc cmpany of the dying FisherKing. By either of the basicrllegoricalmethods, the uriter thinks out fint what he wants ro say in gened then translatc his ideasinto people,places, ob' jects, rnd evnts,and then, in the proces of writing, followr out suggestions that rilsefrom hb story, perhap saying mort than heet first thoughthe hadto sey. Expresionistic and surreal fiction ie superficiallylike dlsgory but the meaning is nuch lessimposed from without. Thc e4presionist translatessome basic pychologicd redity m actualiry: Gregor &msa becomc not like r cockroachbut r cockroech, rnd the story dwelops,from that point on, redistically. In surreelfiction the writer translates en entire seguencc of psychologicdevents,developing his story as the mind spirs out &eams.Plotting the story, in either of thae modegb e+, rentially lile plotting a realistic piece. The writer shovn us drameticellydl that we need to know (within the modc) to follow the story to is climax.He doesnot simply tell us things but dramatizes all that is crucialto ourbelief in the climax. We sew earlier how the writer works back from a climar (Helen's suqprise) to discoverwhrt materialshe must dmme. tize to makethe climax meaningfuland convincing.In the casc

r70

NOTEIION TIIE rICNONAL PROCCSS

of the Hclcn of Troy story, ccftdn basic facts rrc givcn by wcrc like, cvidcncc(what thc T-i* lqpnd and archcological werc likc), and thc writer is to somesnent what the Achaians things too noticeably,thc snrchwith thoscfacts.If he changes may that thc writcr made things too easyfor rcader feel has himsclf-playing tcnniswithout thc net, asRobert Frost saidof poet{y without rhyme. Working with a wcll-known traditiond story, or working with materialwe cln find in thc newspaperg that we will gct the expectation the writer automaticallyraises not only an interestingsoqy but an inteqprcmtionof thc faca that must convinccuc if that we too know-en inteqprctation it is to hold our full int*est. Theoretically thc writer may violatc this principle; by tonc and srylc hc may cstablishet oncc that hc is treating the story asa fablc from which hc can withdraw at any timc. Italo &lvino's comic tale of lifc at thc end of of the wellthe dinosaur age,"The Dinosaurg"is a specialcase way of telling known cvent reinterprcted. Becausc of C,alvino's thc story-and alsobecause mutationb a pan of the subiectrrc we not shocked but delightedwhcn the narrator,r dinosaur, srqprisingly concludcs:"I traveledthrough vallcp and plaitu. I camcto r station, caught thc fint train, and was lost in thc crowd." But though thc rule is not firm, it is gcncrallytrue that in old storiesrctold ga much of their intcrestfrom our pleasure writer's the inteqpretation. Lct uslook at how the writer works whcn he plos backward from the climax of e story that is cntircly madcup. Any cvent that sccmsto thc givur writcr startling, curious, or interestladen can form the clirnax of a possiblestory: A roadsidc vcndor'spickup is struck by r transcontinental uactor-trailer; r womanpurpoaely runs over a flagmanon the sueet.Depending on the complexity of the writer's way of seeingthe eventdepcnding, that ig on how much backgroundhe fceh our the of the cvent rcquires-the climax becomes understanding high point of r shortstoqy,e novella,or a novel.Sinceplotting is but something thc writer broodsand ordinrrily no hastyprocss

Ploning

ryr

laborsover, trying out oneepproaclr, rhenanother,carrying thc idea aroundwith him, musingon it casuallyas he drifts ofi to sleep,writers often f,nd that an idea for a shon stoqf mey change into an ideafor a novellaor evena novel. But for convcnience here,let ustreer the two climaxes I've mentioned-the wreck of the roadside vendor'spickup and the woman'$attack on drc flagman-asideas that remainshon-storyideas. A roadsidevendor's pickup is hit by a uarucontinental tractor-teiler. Let us saythe vendoris the story's centralcheracter.In any climaxin which the cenual character is in confict with somethingelse (anothcr character,somernimal, or some morc or les impenonalforcc), the climaaic encounter mey comeaboutcither through the knowledgeand volition of both panies or by significant accident. (Accident without significanccis boring.) Thc semidriver may hit the pickup on purpose,accidentally,or for somereason we do not know becausc wc lack eccess ro his thoughts.If the semidriver his thc pickup on purpose, the writer working backfrom the climaxis logically requiredto show dramatically,in carlier scens, (r) what each of the rwo focal characters (r) is like; why thc semidrivcr his the vendor'spickup. (The wrirer might conceivably gct eround both r and r, telling us only whar rhe vendoris like; but thc introductionof a malevolenr semidriver who simply happens into the story, bringing on the climax,hasbecome sucha clichd in modernfiction asto be almost unusable.) The story containing r and r is a relatively easykind of story ro think out and write, which is not to saythar it cannotbe an excellent story if well done. Thc valueof the standard feudstory alwalndepends on the writer's abiliry to.create powerfully convincing characten in irrcconcilableconflict, both sida in some measurc sympathetic-thet is, both sidespunuing real, though mutually exclusive, values.For the climax to be penuasive, we must bc shown dramaticallywhy eechcharacrerbelieves what he does and why eachcannotsympathize with the valuesof his antagonist; and wc must be shown dramaticallywhy the conflicting

172

rOTES (nf lHE FTCIIO!{ALPROCES'

qmnot or do not ti"ply rvoid eechodru' s h rcel characters life even tigers ordinarily do. For the climax to bc not only but intercting, it must come about in I way th* persuasive seems both inevitablernd surprising.(trn e form asstandard* to imponant.) Needless the feud story, this last is exceedingly say,no sqprise will be convincingif it restson chaocghowevcr common chance maybein life. If the semidriver hits the pickup by acrident or for some we neverlearn,the constructionof an aathetically vdid reason *ory b more difrculg sincethe vdue conflict that propeb the story must be derivedentirely from the central characterand his situation.In this case the sernidriver functionsasan impersonal force and can have only zuch meaningas the roadside vendorFoiects onto him; in other wordg the semimustbg for the vendor,a qrmbol Let w say that for the vendor transcon: tinental trucls represent power and freedonr,r qymboliccor aast with his own life which he vieun as constricted md unsatistying.The wreck of the pickup, then, will be gdmly ironic. Having thought it out this far, we find that the story beginsto fdl into placa The story's principle of profluancc might be e moJementfrom greatct constrictionto least conabmpdy reversed when the semihits suiction'-a development the pickup. vendorb e redneckboaorn-landfarmer, . W th" roadside pole beans,yamg and grower of melons,pumpkins,squash, tometos in the red-clay countqf of Kentucky, southernMb souri or southemlllinois-e mancalledPigto". (Ths venion of are from the writer Leigh Wilson.) Consuictions the plot comes by the goverr beuzyed the len4 to fnd for such a man, easy ment, thc newly liberalizedBaptist ChurctL perhepsbetrryed by life in other weysrs well, at leastin his own view: His wife sickly-other meq like his neighbor Alice, is worn andhaggard, Plnky Heams,havehealthy,strong wiveq good workers And Pigtoes children Nretoo numerous(or not numerousenougb' chooee one) andrebellious.

Plotting

,7'

Thc urriter might leadup to the climaxwith threerelatively rhon but texturdly ricb at least moderatelysoutherngothic scens. In the 6rst, Ptgtoeis at breatfastwith hb wife, talking, while outside the children load the truck. The writer can quickly rnd easilyestablish Pigtoeb feeling of being squeezed by life-his feelingsrbout the church, the school,blacks,hb chiltlren rnd neighbors, uxeq and the weather.But whereas hb f*ily b pretty much stuck on the farm, as they are grumblingly awarg Pigtoeczn rt leastget eweyr little, seethe larger worl4 met strengers, selling produce from the brck of hb pickup,out by the highway.The scene enrlswith Pigtoewatch' ing ashischildrenfinishtheir carelesloading. A brief transitiond scenemight show Plgtoe driving iloum Lipes Ridge Roed (or whatever) toward the iunction of the state highway and the intentate. We get some of Pigtoeb thoughts,sharpimages of how he drivesthe truclg andaboveall r dramatized movementfrom one world to another.Then the third scenemight show Plgtoe with two or thneesignificant eustome$'--'ir uim suburbanhousewife,for instance;a university couple-"hppi.s," to Pigtoe(they might envy hislife "close to the land"); perhap alsoe well-off family of blacls in a new Chevy wagon.Through all this and,subtly, from the bqginning of the story, we get Pigtoe'sfeelingsabout the peoplearound him: his contemprend bitternes, and his envy, almostworship, of the peoplewho haveescaped his imprisonment, the menwho drive the chromeeighteen-wheelers. Now the climaxis setup. How the wrircr comesout of it (in the denouement), the writer must probably discoverrs he writes and repeatedlyrevises the story. Pigtocmay be killed, or he may be left stuing at the tipped-over pickup, honefeun and pumpkins mmbling down the highway toward Oklahoma.Agein" the sernidriver might *op (not at dl the supremely free beingPigtoehasimagined him); Pigtoe in his rage might seizethe old red gas-can from the pickup andtry-*uccesfully or with pitiful ineptitude -to burn the eighteen-wheeler. Or any of e dozenother things

r71

NOIES ON TllD FICTIONALPROCESC

rnight hrppcn. Thc writer must decidcfor himself,di,scovcring hiscndingfrom within the story. The good Thc risksin thisstory wc've outlinedareepparcnt. writcr will think them out carefully beforc he starts.The main is that the stoqy'ssoutherngothicismwill sccm one, of coun;e, typc is no reeeon old hat. Thc faa that the rtory h of r standard not to write iq however.All fiction is derivativc,r fact that thc making thc most of thc good writcr turns to his advantage, rcldcr's cxpecations,rwisting old convcntions,setisfying expectations in unexpectedwep. Becausehis matcrid is so r stylc not obviouslysoutherngothic, thc writer might choose usual in such fiction, r style as far as posible from that of Flanncry O'C,onngr, Eudore Wclty, or William Faulkner. Mrinln howcver, he must sca the matcrial with a frcsh cyc, using his own experience of southernlife, choosingdctails no othcr writer hasnoticed or, enywxy, emphasizcd, thus crcating a rcality as dillercnt from that of gothic convcntionas gothic convention is from realiry itsclf. story situation,thc womenwho purpoeelyruns Our second ovcr a flagman, is thc oppositc of our Pigtocstoqy,sinceherethe focal chrncter is thc aggrssor, not (asat thc cnd of the Pigtoc story) thc viftim. What the writer mustfigure out, to iustify thc climax,is (r) what kind of womenwould run ovcr a traffic fegmen,and (r) why? Eithcr shecan know thc flagmanand havcsomething personal rgainsthim, or shemay not know him, I am but sees him asa symbol-e malc chauvinist,for instance. ignoring, for my convenience, thc possibility rhat thc woman mainlybccausc in that might run overthe flagman by accidcnt, cascwc arc almostcenainly saddlcdwith a victim story. What the climax would necessarily be e set of harassing precedes At bcst the story that explainthe woman's carelessness. evcnts stoqy:Thc be, abstract, duplicadon of our Pigtoc would in the r women believc onc thing-that a cenain attitude and way of areeffectivc-andis provedwrong by cvents. behaving Let us say, arbitrarily (though in fact thc givcn writer's

Ploning

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choicc would not bc arbitrary but guided by his intuition of what would makce goodstory), that thc womtn docsnot know the flagman.What central charactershall wc choosc-for cxample:a harried,unhappyhousewifqr tough femalecxecutivg e suippert Any choicecould makee good stoqy,but let's tekc the strippcr,an ideethat might appealto r given wrirer at least panly becausc of our presentstageof socialconsciousness: No writer beforeour own momentwould bc likely to seethc striF per in quite thc way we do. What prasurc can wc put on our sripper that will accountfor the climaaic cvenrl Let us say that our stripper, Fanny, is thirty-six, wellpreserved,cven beautiful, but hard put to compete with youngerstrippersof the new breed.Shc'san old-stylc stripper, thc kind who tcases andscorns her maleaudience, asif taunting them, askingto be tamed-a clasic ect (she'sbeenthe star for years),but her acq like her body, is slipping.Her act is of thc highly polishedkind: Sheunclothcsslowly, tormentingly,with rrtistic style. She has,let us sey, urined white doveswho fly away with cacharticlc of clothing shetakesoff. The youngcr dpp.o, who rre bcginning to challcngehcr top billing, arc new-sryle strippers.Nakcdnes meansnothing to them-they takc off their clothcsasindilfcrently astreesdrop lcaves-and thcir acs, bccause of their easyand uninhibitcdsexudity, havc no needof high artifice or polish.WhereasFanny grew up in Texas, of stern,southern Baptist stock,and fed to burlesquc in troubled defiance, guiltily but brazenly,rhe new breedgrew up in citieslike SanFrancisco andfeelsno suchinner conflict. Having worked our rhis generalapproachto his story, thc writer is rcady to start figuring out his scenes. By thc rulc of elegancc and efficiency,he will choose the smallest number of scenes posible-perhaps three. Fint, thc wrirer might usc a rcenein which FannR fearfully and engrily, watches thc rehearsal of a youngerstripper's act. Shccan tell asshcwatches that, thoughthe act is technically shoddybeside her own, it is beinggroomed asa starringact andmaywell pushher from her

r?6

NOTEI} ON rlIE rICIIONAL PR@ESE

or billing.In the ncxt scengFenny might crnfront the manager director and learn from him that her suspicionsare wellfounded. Shegoesinto e rage. At the peak of this sceneshc might slap the director, rnd he, to her shock and emazcmurg might slap'her bach even fire her. trn the third sceng Fanny driva toward the flagman, who unluckily smilesr uife lewdly ot her, bring"g on the climax. What happens after this-the soory'sdenouement writer or pull-runy---the may know only when hc writes it (Somewriters claim they know the lest lines of their storiesfrom the beginning.I think this is usrally e bad idee,producingfction thet is subtly forced,or mechanicd.) This brief, rough sketch of e posible story raisesan ertrqnely important point--c point asfundamentalo for the most ceriorskind of uniter, asthe conceptof the uninterruptiblefictional dream.What we haveso far, in the sketchwe've worked out-and whet many quite good writers nevergo beyond-is r proiectedpieceof fiction that, if well-wrinen, will be no more than e penuasive imitation of redity. It showshow things hap pen and may imply certainvalues, but it doesnot look hard at the meaningof thingp.It hasno real theme.This fo e cornmon limitation of second-rate fiction andmey sometimes characterize Losing Welty's novel even quite powerful fiction, like Eudom Brnles. Wc get an eccurateand totally convincingpicnre of whet it feelslike to havca deathin the familn what it is like to leaveoneb husband and children for a new "free' Iife, how it feelsto be suedfor malpractice or to losean election;we do not get closcexamination of somedeeprootedidea.The writer, in fiction-he other words,hasdonethe first iob donein all serious hascreeteda convincingand illuminatingsequence of eventsbut he hesnot done the second, which is to "mine deeper!" as Melville says,dig out the fundamentalmeaningof evens by organizingthe imitation of reality around someprimary quesconcern. suggested by the character's tion or theme The themeof our story about Fanny the stripper*bht bc Life (or of cource, melecheuvinism; or it might b Aft versus

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Naturc); or nakednesin sil ia forms. The writer's choicc of themg pudy Fanny'schoicg will dictatehis sclectionand organizationof detai\ h rtyte and so fonlr" For instance if what seems to him centrelin Fanny'sstmgglehasto do with thc Art and Naturq he will focuscarefully on rhc coftrut between differencebctweenFanny'sact end thrt of the younger gul* i.rg.ry, etc., thrt subdy undencores his point of focus.Hc may pry clooeanentionto Fanny'smirror, a beautifully carpentered obiect with a hiutory and, for Fannn specid merning.And th flrgman'suny of doing his iob--+regligendy ed anlesly, or officiouslyand carefully-will havebearingon the climax.If the therncthe writer chooses is nekedness, hc will chooseothcr denils to brood on rnd develop--+he chipping paint on the dresing-roomwalln for instance; the paychological nakednes of somechrracter; the manager's unwillingnes to disguis or cover over his lack of int*est in Fanny'swell-being or, if it clmesto that, his hrtred of dl shcrepresens. Givcn this themc,the uniter may find himselfintroducing a decorous old who clothes his eveqy mood the moet aiin prinstaking ianitor quetteend who weas, whateverthe weathcr,two sweaters and r cost Thesebecome thc "counte$," soto sperk,for the uniter's droughc They help him nnd out rnd xprss preciselywhat he rneans Themg it shouldbe noticed,is not imposed on the story but cvokedfrom within it-initially an intuitive but finally an intcllccuel rct on the pan of the writer. The writer muses on the story idea to determinewhat it is in it rhat haseftractedhirn, why it seems to him wonh telling. Having determined that what interesshinFand what chiefly concerns the maior characteris the ider of nakednes (physicd, psychological, perhapa spiritual), hc top with variouswayc of telling his story, thinls aboutwhat hasbcensaidbeforeabout nalcednes (for instancg in traditional Ctuistianity and paganmlnh), broods on eveqf imagethat occu$ to hint, tuming it over and over, puzzlingon h, hunting for connectionqtrying to figure out-bdorc he

t78

NOTES ON THE FICTTONAL PRO@S8

rcvi.sior of repeated writcq whilc hc writcq and in thc procss -what it is hc rcally thinks. (How nakcil shouldwe bc or crn vulncrability, a virnre or a dcfcct?To what wc bc?Is opennesq crtent, with whet important qualificationst) Hc fin& himself bringng in black stripper$ pcrhapeen Indian nrippr' sup And so on poncd by imagcrythat rccallsprimitivc nakcdncsc Only whcn hc thinks out his stoqyin thb wry docshc echicve not iust an altcrnativercaliry or, looscly,an imitetion of narurc, but nug firm art-fiction as scriousthought I havcsaidthet e writcr mry alsoplot r piccc of fiction by working his way forward from rn initial situation.Sey hc gea thc slightly lunatic idea of e young Ctinesc teacherof high who h kidnappcdby e group of schoolEnglishin 9n Francisco thcy want him to write their stoqy, of Chincscthugs becausc which they'rc inordinatcly proud. If thc fiction b not to bc r victim story (hcncc unusable),somc conflict rmrst be cstab' lished: Thc tcachermust bc givcn e will of his own and a purpocc opposed to thet of his captors.In othcr words, he must want-in some dcspcratelyscrious wey-not to writc their stoqy.What, wc rsk, groprngtoward a stolF, would makc our tcachcrso unwilling to write thc cxplois of thc thugr that hc would crossthcm, understanding thc danger?Pcrhrp he hes his hcedfull of thc lcgcndsof Mongolianbanditq and pcrhap hc's not only a tcachcr but an ambitious,ficrcely dcdicreted )rorrng poct, steepedin thc uadition of Chinescpoctqy and grng that docsnotll' proc. In this casc, thc story of a miscrablc ing morc lofty thrn knock ovcr en occesional Savings& Loan Associationmay bc a story that rc outragc hb scnscof lifc rnd an thrt he refuses to have anything to do with it. If thc gang simply shoos him for his recalcirance,that's thc cnd of that; no story. How can wc kcep him dive and thrs keep the story going?Perhap he docswritc asthcy tcll him to dq but wrircs insultingly, lcgitimatcly conuzstingttrc pctty cscapadc of his kidnappcn with thc cxploitsof great Mongolianbandits Insofarashis captorsarc persuaded that thcy really ought to bc

Ploning

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morc litc Mongolianbandits--and thcy woulil nm hevc kiilnappedhim rnd rskcd him to write if thcy didn't havc somc pride-thc kidnappcn may sparc hinr, grudgingly, Iearning from him a morc dazdingkind of banditry. Evcntudln rhcn, it might occur to thcm thrg given nsbhour uaffc in downtown SanFmncisco, thicvcsmight rob r bank and cscapc if thcy werc mountcdon horscs, likc Mongolirn bandits.So wc might lcad to thc comic-hcroic imrgc of modernMongolianbrndirs chacring acros thc GoldcnGatcBridgcin uzditional regalie, Thc writer's basicproblerm when hc thinls forward from rn initial siturtion rrc ascntielly the sameas whcn hc thinls backwerdfrom r climax. As his plot linc takc shepcend hc graduellymakes out whet his climax or scric of climaxcs b to be,hc mustfigurc out what hc mustdramaticallyprovc to makc thc climaxor scries mcaningfuland convincing.Hc must figurc out his thcme-in this case, clearly,thc rcletionship bctwccnrrt rnd lifg rnd thc moralrcsponsibiliry of thc anisr.Hc musrwork out maior dctailsof chrmcterization rnd think out whet sonrcof his maior images impty (thc cxtcnt, thar is, to which thcy function rs symbols);hc must wort out his story'r nrturd lcngth rnd rhythm tnd dccidcon thc epproprirte*ylc.

So far wcte talkcd mainly about short-stoqyploaing. Lct us look now et longcr forms; thrt s, thc novclle rnd thc novel. I will ueat et lcngth only cncrgeicptos, sincc for long worls thoscerethc kind mostlikcly to succecd. The novclh can bc dcfincdonly as r work shoner than I novcl (mostnovclhsrun somcwhcrc bcrwecn3orooo and Sorooo words) rnd both longcr end moreepisodic thrn r shon story. I use the word "cpisodic" looecly hcrq meaningonly thrt thc novelh usuallyhu r scriesof climaxcqeechmore intcnscthan the last,though it may bc built-qnd perhaps in fact ought to bc built--+f onc condnuous ection.William Gas's 'nThcPcdcrsnKid" is r mofc or lcs pcrfcct exrmplcof thc form. Discount-

I8o

PROCESII FICTTONAL NOTES ONTTTE,

ing brief flashbaclswhich show what Big Hans Ghe hired men), Pa, and Ma were like before the openingof the central actbn and how they cemeto be the peoplethey are now, thc action is a continuous sueam moving through a series of climexes,focused throughout on r single character, young rural landJorge.The story runs asfollows: In somedesolate scape (Wisconsin, perhap North Dakote), in the dead of Lid, arives and is diswinter, a neighbor'schild, the Pedersen coveredalmostfrozento deathnearJorgebfather'sbarn; wheo he's brought in and revived, he tells of the murderer at hb Big Hansand Pa decideto go house, e manwith yellow gloves; there,taking youngJorge;when they get there,Jorge,makingr hearsshos; Big Hans and Pa dashfrom the barn to the house, ere killed, epparently-Jorge is not sure-and Jorgeslipsinside the house and down cellar,whereet the end of the novellahe is still waiting. The streamof action is completeand uninterof of the sequence rupted, from the initial situation (the cause events;that is, the arrival of the Pedenenkid with his suange story challengingthe couregeand humanity of Big Hans and Pa) to the closingevent,Jorge'srecognitionthat he hasdonc identity' or what he must,heskept his word andsohasachieved has iu human $atus. But the continuous$ream nevertheless each if we look progresion of increasingly powerful climaxes, on the level of closely,symbolicand ritualisticaswell asintense his conpure action.The writer, in other words, hasorganized segnenq or scene-cluster tinuous action as e grouP of scenes loosely,"episodes." The blockingof C'ast novellamight be laid out asfollows: kid arives andis broughtinto the kitchen end The Pedersen therethawedout or "resurrected"by Jorge'smother. (Here, as of mystic ritual abound.Mr throughoutthe novel, suggestions kid as she worls when baking worts on the frozen Pedersen bread. The boy's whitenes remindsJorge of four, and Mr worla on hir& kneedinghim, on the kitchen tablg where cusNotice, by the way, how tomarily shekneads her breaddough.

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thgroughly rglistic all this is, for all is qfmbolic frrghting. The detailsof the scene havethe sharpedgedvividnes of nayet nearlyevery ward Westonphorographs or realisticpainting. detailworkssymbolically aswell asliterally.) the thawing of the boy, Ma needs someof pa'swhlskey - lo. (an ironic permutationof the wine that goeswith eucharistic bread,the Pedersen kid's "dead" body), and we learn what a dangerous, meandrunkard Pa is, a man both violent and spirsnakelike, capableof dumpingthe contentsof i*.lly debased, his bedpanon Big Hans' head.The scenJbegenwith intensc (the whole family is slighdy eezyz Mruembles in fear pressure Pal Jorgeresists, almostpsychotically, the thawingof the kid 9f found in the snow) and builds urgenrty to the novella'sfirsr Big Hans'challenge of Pa andthe decision to go to the liTo, Pedersens'house andlook for themanwith yellow glou.s. Having, in effect, vowed to do so, Pa Big Hans,and Jorge setout, armedandangnly tormentingoneanother,an4 on their we)r to the Pedenens', find the murderer'sdead horse,nearly buried in snow. (Throughour the novella, snow-burial anh spring rcurrection are seminalideas.)Their discoveryof the horse--end the loes of Pe's on the second climax: Because they'vesaidthey'll go to the pedersens'and are too stubbornto back down, Pa and Big Hans confirm their re. colve.They mekeit to the Pedenens', the wall of JorgerEaches the housg and (in the novella'sthird main climax) pe and Big Ham are shot by someone inside.Ratherthen freezcto deathl thou$ he expects to be killed anyway,Jorige goesinside.The novellabfinal climaxb Jorge'srecognitionol what it is thrt he hrs achieved, whetheror not hewill live to tell of it 'The Pedersen Kid'r$ I've sei4 I more or les prfect crrmplc of the novellafonn-r singlesueamof action?ocused on one cherecterand moving through r seriesof increasinglyinterueclirnaxes. We find the same srructure in manyof thJnovdhs of HenryJames-"The Tum of the Scred' ena "fne;oUy Cornerr"for instanc+-andin the work of vrriousother writcrs:

r8r

NotrEsoN TI{E FtcrIoNAL PRocEss

and "The PasFlaubertin "A SimpleHeart," Gide in "Theseus" William Faulkncrin "The Bear,"andsevcral torel Symphony," of ThomasMann. Though this form of thc of the novellas it is and cfficientnovellastructure, novellais the mostelegant novellawriten Some not thc only structureposiblc, however. babynovels, shiftingfrom onepoint of view (or writc, in effect, with time to anotherand usingtrue episodcs, focal character) stream of action.D. H. breaks between, instead of a continuous this morc complicatcd Lawrencc,in his novclla"The Fox," uscs for him to makes it possible succcss. form with some The choice the and in novella covera longerspanof timc thanis customery alsoa greaterlatitudcof sryle.One paysfor theseadvantages in that thc progras of eventshas lessugency than Gas and whilc the brevity of thc work prohibitshis Feulknerachieve, achievingthe powcrhousc cffcct usualin thc 6nal scction of r goodfull-length novel. Anothcr pcsible structureis fictional pointillism,usedintercstinglyin RobertCoover's "HansclandGretel"andmasterfully by William Gas'in whatis to datcprobablyhisfinat work, "In the Heart of the Heart of the C,ountry." In this form the writer called "crots," moving lets out his story in snippcs, somedmes asif at randomfrom onc point to enother, graduallyamasing action. the elcments, litcral and symbolic, of a quasi-energeic No rule govcrns the organization of sucha work but that thc writer be a prose-poetof genius.Even if hc has someintelfor aranging his crots,the basicprinciplcof his lecturl system his fragments to asemblyis fccling: Hc shuffies and reshufles and he achicvc 6nd the mostmovingof posible presentations, not, asin linearfiction,by the gellingof kcy vents' hisclimaxes solargelyon texftrc asit does, but by poeticforcc.Dcpending, -having abandoned structurein the traditionalsensc(cvents relatedand prcsented morc or lessin sequencc)-thc causally thc writer's tendency modcruns the greatrisk of overrichness, Thc great aneffectof sentimentality. to pushtoo hard,producing focuson imagcry advantage, on the other hand,is the necessary

Pbtrtng

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whereby repeatedimagesaccruegreeter and greater psycho' Iogical andsymbolic force. is structurg hasan effecranaloA good novella, whatever gousto that of the tone poemin music.A good novel,on thc other hand, has an effect more like that of a Beethoven symphony. Let metry to make analogies a littlc clearer. these The chief beautyof a novellais its almostorientalpurity, its elegant tracingof an emotional thc shortstoqy line.Wherees movsto an "epiphany,"as Joyce said-in other words to r climacticmomentof recognitionor understanding on the part of the centralcharacter or, at least,the reader-achievingits effcct by fully iustifying, through authenticating background, its climectic cvent or moment,thc novellamovcsthrough a series of smallepiphanies or secondary climaxes to e muchmorefirm conclusion. Through the sparest means posible-not through the amasingof the numerous forcesthat operatein a novel but by following out a singleline of thought-the novellareaches an end whereinthe world iq at leastfor the centralcharacter, radicallychanged. Jorge,if he evergetshomeagain,will be a differentyoungmen: He hassurvived andtriumphed in hisrite of pasage, hasachieved hisadultidentity.The "fox" at the cnd of D. H. Lawrence's novellahaswon his womanand murdered his enemy. The bear,at the end of Faulkner's novellq is gone, and lkc McCaslinis changed forever.Nothing can be moreperfect or complete thana goodnovclla.When e novelachieves thc sameglassyperfection-as doesFlauben's MadmneBoamywe maytendto find it dissatisfying, untrue. The "pcrfecr"novcl lacksthe richness and raggednes of the besrlong fictions.Wc neednot go into the reasons for this exceptto noticethat the novellanormallytreas onecharacter and oneimportantaction in his life, a focusthat lendsitself to neatcut-offs,framing.The novel,on the other hand,at leastmakes some pretense of imitating the world in all is complexity; we not only look closelyat various characters, we hear rumonr of distant wars and marriage* we glimpsecharactenwhom, like peopleon the subway,

t84

NOTES ON TITE FTCTIOXAL PROCES'

we will never seeegein.fu a result, too rnuch neames in r novel kills the novel'sfundamental efrect When all of a novelb suings are too neatly tied together at the end, as sometimes happens in Dickensand elmostalwap happens in the popular m)'sterythriller, we feel the novel to be unlifelike.The novel b by definition,to some extentat least, a "loosg baggymonster"asHenry James saidiritabln disparrging the novelsof Tolstoy. but r novelbuih It cannotbe too loose, too baggyor monstrous; asprettily ase tacupis not of muchuse. A novel is like r qymphonyin that is closing movemnt with all that hasgonc before.This b rare cchoes end resounds in the novella; the effect requirestoo much timg too much mas. Toward the cloceof a novel, the writer bringp hackdit or in the form of his characten'recolleaions-image$ "dy characters, earlicr. evens, and intellectual motifs encountered boUnexpectedconnectionsbegrn to surfrce; hidden cnuses however btitfly and unstably, orcome plain; life becomes, the universcrevealsitself, if only for the moment,6 Bpnized; inexomblymoral;the outcomeof the variouschancters'actions b at lastmanifest; and wc seethe responsibility of free will. It b this clCIingorchesuation that the novelexiss for. If suchr elosc we shut doesnot come,for whatevertheoraically good reason, This b of the book with feelingsof disatisfaction,asif cheeted. connee tantamountto saying that the novel" as a genrg has e built-in metaphysic. And so it doc. The writer who doesnot ecceptthe metaphysic canneverwrite a novel;he canonly play off ig asBeck*t and Banhelrnedq achievinghb o*,n cffeca by visibly zubveningthce uaditionalto the novel,working likc tlre sculptor who makc sculpturesthat selfdatruct or thc composr who dynamita pianoo.I em not seying,of course' that the anist ought to lie, only that in the long run the anti. novelistis probebly doomedto at leastrelative failure because we do not believe him. We erc not profoundly moved by wc would lite to be Homer, Shakapeareor Melvillc beceusc lievc the metaphpical theis fictioos embody--ao

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orilerly universe that impces moml responsibility--$rt bccau* we do believethosc asumptions.We c"nnot<xcept in very subtlewayr-believe both Homerand$amuel Beclett Succesful novel-lengthfiaions csn be organized in numerousweys: energeically, relatcd ttnt is, by r sequence of cansally events;iuxtapositionally, have when the novel'S parts symbolic or thematic relationshipbut no flowing developmcnt thrcugh cause andeffect;or lyricalln that is, by someesentially musical principle-onc thinks, for examplg of the noveb of Malcel koust or Virginir Woolf. The lyrical novel b the moet dificult to talk ebout What canies the reader forward is not ploq basically-though the novel may contain, in disguissd fom\ e squenoe of causdly related cvenc-but somc form of rhythmic repetition: r key inage or clusterof imagc (the oceaa, e childhoodmemoqT of r swingset,a snow-capped mountaiq a forest); e trey event or group of evnts,to which the uniter rcturns repeatedly,theo leavesfor materid that increasinglydeepens and redefinc the meaningof the eventor eyentsior somecentral idec or clustcr of ideas. The form lendsiself to psychological nanativg imitatiog th. play of the wanderingor dreaming mind (eryecidly thc mind aoubled by oneor ntoreuaumeticexpriences);md moet practitionersof this form of thc novel create worls with e marked dream-likequeliry. The clasic exampleb Fimegas Wake. A more manageable example is John Hawkes'powerful rnd mysteriorsearly nove[ Tbe Beetle-Lag, a nightmaresto{f in which thc narrativemoveswith increasing speedand presgurefrom oneto anotherof a few key images-a beetleleg-sized crackin the nmllof a danr, r motor,cycle gang,andsoforth" Thcmostcommon form of the noveliscnergeic.This bbott thc simplat and the hardct kind of novel to write.-the sirn, plest bccause it's the nost inevitable md self-propelld the hardestbecause it's by far the hardestto faka By hit made-up yord, mergeio,asse've said,Aristotlc meent'th actudizatioo of the potentid thrt erisa in chrracterrnd situetioo" (The fact

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N TES ON THE FICTIONAL PRO@S3

that fuistotle was talking about Grcclctragedy nccd not dclay us.If hCd known aboutnovcls,hCd hevcsaidmuch the samc.) Iogicalh the energeicnovcl falls into tbrec parq fuistode's "beginning,middle,andend,"which we may think of asroughly equalin length and which fall into thc pattcm cxposition"developmcnt, anddcnouement. In practicc, novclist would no sanc devotcthc first third of his total numbcr of pages to cxpoeitiorL third to development, if thc sccond andthe lastto denoucmcnt, only bccausc aftcr ten hasno profluencc,and five or exposition pagcsthe readerwould quit. It is for this reesonthet Aristotle rccommends that the writcr begin"in thc middle of things" and 6ll in thc cxpositionashe can.But for pu{poss of discusion it will bc usefulto treatthc threecomponens scparately. all that the rcaderwill In his cxposition,thc writer prcsents needto know about character and situation,thc potential to be without e "actualized."Obviouslyhe cannotplan his exposition clear ideaof what the development sectionb to contain and at since lcastsomeinklins of what will happen in the denouement, in thc novel, rs in the short story or novella"what the readcr necdsto know is cverythingthat is necesaryif he b to believe and understand thc ensuingaction. If the plot b to bc elegant, sloppy incfficient, not and then for the ensuing actionthe reader (essendally) and nothing clsc; must know thc full set of causes that is, no important informetion in thc cxpositionshould be irrelevantto the action that ensuc. And hcre, asin the shorter formg whrt the reader leams in thc cxposition hc must bc shownthrough dramaticevcnts, not told. (It is not enoughthat wc bc authorially informed that r characteris vicious beyond bclief. Wc must sechim slit a baby's throat.) Finally, if anythe thing is to comeof thc initial situationand characterization, in the expositioq rhc situadonmust bc somcma$er presented how unstable:Thc charactermut for someteasonfeel conr pelled to act, effectingsomechange,end hc must bc shownto capable bc r character of aaion. fiis meangin effecg that in thc relationshiphtween chrr-

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acter and situationthere must be somcconflict:,Cbnain forccg within and outsidcthc character, must prq$ him toward a certain courseof action, whilc other forces,both within and outsidc, must cxcft strong prcsure againstthat courseof action. Both presurcsmustcomenot only from outside the character but also from within him, bccauscothcrwise thc conflicr involvcsno doubt,no moralchoice,and esa resultcan haveno (All mcaning, profoundmeaning. in thc best6ction, comes from -as Faulknersaid-thc hcan in conflicr with itself. All truc suspcnsc, we havesaid,is a drematicreprcsenration of thc enguishof moralchoice.)The famous curveis in cffecta Fichtean diagram of thisconflictsituation: I

Lct line c represent the "normal" coune of action; that is, drc counethe character would takeif he caredonly for safetyand stability and so did not assenhis independent will, trying thc difficultor imposiblein thc hopeof effecting change. Let line D fepresent the couneof actionour characerdoestake,suuggling againstodds and braving conflict. The descending arrows (l) represent forces (enemies, ctstom, or naturallaw) that work against the character's will, andthe ascending arrows (f) reprcsnt forcesthat support him in his enterprise. The peak of the ascending line (&) rpresents rhe novel'sclimacticmoment;and line c represenrs all that follows-that is, thc denouementr Thc

r88

NOIES ON TIIE I'ICTIONAL PROCESS

eitherbeconfict is nos'resolved, or in the proces of resolving, or hasbeenoverwhelmed the will of the cenualcharacter cause A he haswon and his situationis oncemorestabilizing. because (our feelingof susdevelopment chrn of the novel's emotional curve. fascination, or enxiery aswe read)is,then,Fichte's pense, action is in fact not smooth but moves Since the ascending through e seriesof inceasingly intenseclimaxes(the episodic rhythm of the novel), r refined versionof the curve might be
the followinot \

I wastold many yem ego,I forget by whom, the plot of e novel-in-progresthat perfectly illustratesall thls. The central characteris a keen-witted,tough young ApacheIndian-let us call him Jirn-who spenthis early yean on the Indian reservr tion but has now earnede degreein American anthroPolog)t His motheris old from the University of Glifornia at Berkeley. urd in needof his financialhelp, and his youngerbrother needs moneyfor collqe (he wans to bg say,a Methodistminister). to land ong but he menagxi Jobsin our hero'sfield are scarce, without interview, in a small univenity in Ohio-l* us call it At Twin Oaksa pro' Twjn Oaks-formerly e teachen'college. supponedby r is iust being establishe4 gram in Indian snrdies on his H*Lyfdenl grant Jim loads hb few possesions that e terrible Devidsonand travelsto Ohiq wberehe discovers

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mi*ake hasbeenrnde: What Twin Oab University thints it b ge$ing is e spccialist b AsianIndian studies. No one knoua yet that Jim is rn Apache and e specidistin American Indiensurbanonesrt that. Whct to do?The "normal" courseof action would be to ride back to Berkeley end try again.The more daring courseof acdon is to makeen attempt to fake it as an Asien Indiao. He ges himselfr turban. Now thc writer's buines is to put pressure on his hero and elsoto line up thosewho will encourage and rbet him, on one hand and thosewho will oppos hirn, on the other. We havereached whet we may c"ll the development section The writer anengesa set of crisesfor his hero. fuiother Apachemey cometo give a lecture,or a real AsianIndian may anive. A faculty member may develop a powerful dislikefor our hcro and for somereeson mey take to spFng on hirq trying to gt him fued. Cenain studens me)' grow suspicious; or his brother,overzealous in piety, mey cometo visit; or a womanhe goesto bed with may hearhim talking in his sleepand srspect his secret.At the samedmq the writer arrenges forceson the hero's side-friendly snrdens and fellow teachen, increasing from home that force our hero to keep going (his mother breals her hip and hasgreaterneedof mone)')rand so on. Finally the novel'smain climaxcomes, and the conflict is in one way or anotherresolved, moving the novel into is denouement (Here the diagram can be slighdy misleading.The denouement may be a winding down of the action, I reun to r6t, or it may be high-pitched,asin the caseof a triumphant closingsectionor a closingsectionthat b terrible and dark-for example, the hero burns down the univeniry and many people die. Either way, the conflict is resolved; our initial concem,thc teeping of the secret,changes to something else-the result of the secret's havingbeendiscovered.) When he knows what is to happenin his development scetion, and something of what it means philoeophically(thematically), the writer is ready to work out rh demils of his

r90

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

cxposition. If the actionrcquircsJim to havce violent streak,we must bc shown dramaticellyhow this violent strcak dcvcloped. because they both If hc formsa friendship with oneof thc deans plry thc cornet,we must hearwhereand how Jim learnedto the writer mustshowuscverything play. Or, to put it generally, of imponanccto Jim's characterand everythingof importrnce rbout his situation,which means mainly the character of all thosewho will supportor opposc him at Twin Oala U, their politicrl affiliationsand biases, cverything about them that will hlve somc bearing on the action. This cxposition. wc'vesaid, cannotbc setdown all in a lump the rt the beginning of thc book.If the story is to be profluent, actionmustget goingalmost and the writer must immediatelR slip in cxposition ashe can,the only limit beingthat by the time wc rcachthe peak of the Fichteencurve there shouldbe no has moreexposition to bc presented. When a novel's denouement bccnpropcrlyset up, it falls likc an nvalanche, and the writer's chicf job is to describe stoneby sronehow it falls. Heving workcd out what he must present and develin his cxposition opmentscctions, the wrirer comcsto the most difficult pan of rhe his plotting, what medieval rhetoricians called ilispositio, dispositionor organizationof the variousmaterialshe has sclected. In thcorythe writer maydecide to starthisactionrnywhere, but in practicehis optionsare limited.If he starrstoo far back (with Jim in hisfirst yearof college, say),the novclwill bc slow starting end almostcertainly tedious;and if he stxrts too neer lastevent-the dramatic thc end-for instance. with the novel's rcsult will look gimmickyand self-rcgarding. Thc writer who and frigidiry will figwishes to avoidsuchfaultsasmannerism urc out wherethe actionactuallybegins-probablywith Jims arivrl at Twin Oaks-and stan there.(Thus Homer-to shift not with rhe openingof for l momentto thc sublimc--$egins of Briseus, seizing thc Troirn wer, not evenwith Agamemnon's the ergubut with thc argumentof Achillc and Agamemnon,

Ploning

r9t

ment that showsthc contrastbcrwccnAgememnon'lcynicism rnd Achillcs' extrcmc idcrlism, thc rrgumcnt that sets off Achilles' withdrawal from the war rnd will ultimately bring down tragedyon hishead.)Hevingdecided wherchc will starg thc writer thcn planshis rhythmicalclimaxes, thcn figuresout in dctail wherc hc will work in the necessary cxposition. Ar cvcry strgeof hiswork, the writcr mey revischis carlicr plan. Hc may for cxample, discover, that hc needs more timc for cxposition in chapterr, and he may thereforeinseft somc ncw minor climax, with a uough on cach side of it, giving himself more room. I will leave it to the reader to 6gurcout the ploning of the cousinof the cnergeicnovel, the so'celledarchitccnormous tonic novel;that is, a novelwith two or moreparallelenergeic plots, cachfocusedon e ccntral characteror group of characten. (This wasa favoriteform of the Victorirns!not to mention Tolstoy,andcrn still be used, asWilliam Gaddis provcs in /R.) All thc plos mustbe philCIophically related. Think, for cxample, of the two main plos of Anne Karenina, onc leadingto Anna's symbolic damnation-her suicidc anong mumbling voicesand sudden" strengclight-the other leadingto Levin's symbolic and actualsalvadon. Basicallythc plotting proces is the samc asfor the simplecnergeic novel,only hardcrand also more risky, sincetoo much neatness in the parallel plos may make the novel seemcontrived, and too litdc will make it sprewl,rs if out of control. I alsoleaveto the rcaderthc probIemof workingout the novelthat imitata thc biographical form (e.9.,Daoid Copperfeld). Here the ploaing is cnergeic, ar least for long stretches, but the novelbreaks into largecpisodes from variousperiodsof the hero'slife, and the choice of thcsecpisodes(es opposed to other posible episoda) follows theme. Again thc risks ere self-evident. If thc thematicconnectionbctwenthc various episodes is too neat,thc novelwill seem conuived rnd unlifelike; and if rhe connections erc too vegue,rhc novelmay lack focus.

tg2

NOTES ONTIIE DICTTONAL PROCE$I

the To a large ftent, whateverkind of plot he chooses, writer is more servantthan mesterof his stoqy.He can almost neveruseimportantdetailsonly once:They are$ue to cdl out if the writer givesthe hero r nightfor repetition.For instance, mere,e nightmareso well done (rs it had bener be) that the the writerdistress, rerder feelssomethingof the character's rnd the readerafter hfun-will feel a need for anothernightelementcalling to elernent marelrter, or someclerr equivalent, thtoogh the novel, form crying out to form. If he introducesr of that love sceng he commitshimself to lrter developments he cwrmic if he cloeely character, focuses on r minor $ene; return,if only asr memory. himsclfto that charecter's k is this qudiry of the nov4 is built-in needto renrm and rcpat,that forms th. php..l basisof thc novel'schief glory' is resonant close.(It alsoses up r risk that the novelmay seern et thc end of e novelis not conuived.) What ringsendresounds however. moves ts b not iust thrt charecphy"".l, What iost some form of recapituletionor re terq imagel and evens gt connectedness of thing* call We rre movedby the increesing uhimately r connectednesof vdues. Coleridge pointed oug by his interestin Hartleim psychol$ined to the obnervation of asociation can give complexsJrutems ogy, thet increasingly e literary work someof is power. When we ncountertwo Hardey notice4 we tend to recdl drings in closeasociationo if one ir one when we encormter the other. Thug for example, standingin e drugstorewhen one first readsShelley,dre ncxt one mey think of the poet, end thc time onegos to a drugstore next time onencountens l poemby Shelleyonemey get e feint when we The samething happens whiff of Dial and battrsdts. it readfiction. If the first dme our hero mees a given character will carqy next epperance oeurs in a graveyard, the character's sening. with it some residue of the graveyard The effect can bc roughly illustratedthis wry. [.et a repro. rt the foot of r fim encountered rent e pair of bloody shoes, in villow tree &; let c eqnelan orphanhomg first encountered

iloning

rg3

c thundertonn, d; md let e reprcsentr woman'skitC oPoiencedon e uaft\ f. If c (the bloody shoes)b mentioncdlater in the story, it draun with it a memoryof thc willow (& in brackts). In the samewty c produces[d] as en echq and e pre duca [f]. If the top of the line below is the beginningof thc nanrtive and the bonom of the linc b the en4 then e vniter might dwelop somc such pattern of rsociations as the following:
a

b t d l lrl

tl
c

rt, c
a

t
c [ll

ttl t

v l e r [r] (dl tcl I r c pl[Cl

in fictior\ this diagramb to what ecnnlly happens Compared simpleandctudein drc ertremg but perhap it makc the point Even et the cnd of a short stoqy,the power of ao organizcd rcturn of i*g.c event$ and characters can be oonsidemble. clmi4g Think of Joyce's moments of a novd "The Dead."In the the effectcanbeoverwhelming. We are of coursenot tdking abort iust any old return of image*etc. The images that cometogetherat the end of 'oThc Dea4' eachdraggingis trrin of asociationgrre dl imeges of death.The images rnd expcricnces brought togethcr io MoU)t Bloom's soliloquy in Ulyssescreatc en cqudly symbolic but vrsdy morecomplexthought-emotion in which the principlc of coherence is loving afirmation rgainst od& rsociationdly rccellcd.The 'ycs" thrt begilrsase copulativecry cotargB ou[vnrd to becomea mystical efirnation of dl thc rmiversc, includi4gcvcodeath.To achicvc such.o effecgthc vniar mrst

rg+

NoTES ON TIIE FTCTIONAL PROCESS

of all bis plot'r rise abovehis physicalplot to an understanding including thosc that arc clementsand ell thcir rclationships, in other words, is not incxprcssiblc. Thc novel'sdenoucment, simplythe end of the story but the story'sfulfillment.Here at last, emotionallyif not intcllectually,the readcrunderstands cverything and cverythingis symbolic.This understanding, which thc writer mustreachbeforehe can makeit availablc to in thc planningof the the reader,is imposiblc to anticipate novel. [t is the novclist's reward for thinking carcfully about rcality,brooding on cycryimage, cveryword,both evcryaction, from thoscthingshe planned the beginning andthosc that crept in in thc scrvice of convincingness. Unfonunately,thoughthc can be describcd, thc writing of e cffcct of r truc dcnouement cannot gooddcnouement be taught.Onc canonly givc hintsand warnings. The mostusefulhint is perhaps this: Readthc sto{f overrnd over,at leasta hundred times-literally-watching for subtlc mcanings, conncctions, accidcntalrcpctitiong pychological significance.Leave nothing-no slightcst detailimage endwhenyou discovcr in some unexrmined; implications or evcnt,oonchthosc implications towardthe surface. This may bc donc in e veriety of ways: by introducing subtlcrepctitions of the image, attcntion; sothat it catches the rerdcr'ssubliminal by slippingthc imagcinto a metaphorthat hclpsto fix and clarify thc meaning you havc found in it; or by placingthe (or imagc event or whatever)in closerproximiry to rclatcd symbols. fu for thc warnings,two ere of mostimponancc:On onc hand,don't overdothe dcnoucment, so ferociously pushing meaningthat thc rcedcr is distractedfrom the fictional dream, giving rhc narrativea too conscious, contrivcd, or "workshop" effcct;anddon't,on the otherhand,write sosubtlyor timidlyfrom fear of scntimentalityor obviousncs-that no onc, not cventhc angcls afluttcr in thc raftcrg canhearthc resonancc.

Exercises

Onc of thc bcstways of lcrrning to write is by doing exerciscs. Thc following group end individual cxcrcises erc somcI hevc found hclpful, but any tcacheror studentcrn think up othcrs in e notebook kcepingthc cxercises iust asgood.I rccommend (a looscJcaf for rcfcrencc or spring-bindcr) later,perhaps along with other thingsuscfulto thc writcr-story ideas, imprcssions, snatchesof dialoguc, ncwspapcrclippings. Somc writers of coursc6nd suchthingsmorc usefulthan do others.Somcwritc each story from scratch,mrking cvcrything up; others build more slowly, depnding morc hcavily-rs Dostocvskydid<n snippcufrom thcir rceding,journal cntries,andthc likc. L Group Exacises m Discassion endQuestionsf Many of the individual cxercisc in scction II bclow work cquallywcll asexerciscs to bc written, rcadaloud (voluntarily), and discusscd in clas. Onc rdvantage of usingthcm in this wey is that studcns discoverhow good thcy all uc-no smdl matter. Oncc r clas discovers that it's vcry good (and most students,when thcy work on somclimitcd, clcarly defncd prob-

r9t

196

Ernches

exciting. (In lem, are surprisingty good), the classbecomes my cxperience,fifteen to twenry minutes is enough clas time to spendon the writing, and for writers well beyond the beginnerstage,6ve minutesmey be sufficient.) A secondadis that as classexercises ventageof doing individual exercises the criticism that follows tendsto be of the kind most useful to the writer, especiallywhen the courseis still young. No knockedoff in one is likely to comedown hard on an exercise So A few slipsandinfelicitiesareto be expected. fifteen minutes. out be. It to points hind it ought is of the the discusion on not making too much of them, and focuses small mistakes, of course,b instant vinues or potential.The third advantage, feedbaclt. that ought to be coveredin every cou$ie Someof the thing;s efficientlyonly by e clas on wriring prosefiction canbe covered of this kind follow. No one clasc working asa group.Exercises n get through all of them, and it shoulddways be borne in that the mostimPormind by both the teacherand his students havebeen tent thing that cen be donein clas, oncethe basics is the readingandcriticismof originalfiction. Thinking covered, rbout the exercisc can sometimc be as valuable as siaing down to do them. fu a rulenit is usefulto do certainkhds of ecially thoseinvolving plotting-throughout the cannot by thac exercises terrn, sincethe skills to be developed be acquiredall at once.With practicethe grouPand eachof its gets faster and better at doing the fob. For most of members of the group theseexercises, either the teacheror somemember will needto a$ esblackboardrecorderand referee.The clas decisionasfinal. Group exthe referee's will needto recognize become chaoticandthereforeboringif no oneis accepted ercises the nameand age rbout, for instance, esthe settler of disputes beingmadeup. It shouldalsogo without saying of the character might be usednot for someof theseexercises that occasionally or meditationsin the wrher'r but for esseys group discrusion notebook.

Er,ercises

ryl

suiuble for g r. Clatg in onl two characters frighrcnedor harmed)' ghoststoqy-first the victim (the person the namg 4gg then th9 ghost Wort out for thesecharacters f*tily brckground,psychological physicd description, makeup, connectiongcircle of immediate friends,occupetion,appropri' atc setting, and anything elsethat seenrs important In doing this exercisgand dl thosethat follow, do not be unduly clever Jor instanc, herea dqg and e choosing asdrc rwo characters lizard. Undue clevernes defeatsthe puoose of the exercise, nising complcx pnoblems before the simple onc have been rolved. (a der. Writg by onl cooperation, the openingparagraph scriptionof sening) for r parodicor serious gothictale' the openingpuagraph (a de, 3. Write, by orrl cooperetiono scriptionof the yarn-spinner told in the voiceof the poor,dumb credulousnarrator) of a comic yarn. Considerusing not thc uaditiond yarn+pinnu (a bachrater Southerner or New Englander) but someintercting varirnt . canny old womag r black,r fnt-gcnemtion Odnesc-American. li* the customery of one or morc elements 4 Cooperatively of the following: r gothic romence, r murdermy$ery, 1)zun, l TV situationcomedRa lVestern,of $)meother populargenrc with which the wholegroupis familiar.What arethe philosophicrl implicationsof eachof theseelements? For example The uaditional ghoststory includes,amongother thingg someol4 remote building, an emphasis on weather (espccidly wind, cold" and dampnes), x rstless animrl (dog, wolf, orn'|"bat). What do theseelements seemto rneanpsychologically? What eresome posible qfmbolic meaningp of the ghost'srerum?The genreslbted abovc are ell "popular"; that is, their appeatis usudly iu* adventure or enteftainment. Suggct wap in which one or moreof them might be elevated fiction How, to serious

rg8

Ewrcises

for inmancgmight ghost-storyconvurtionsbc usedto cxplore mothc and hcr the rclationship of an indqpcndcntdomince.ring intimidatcddaughtcr? 5. Plot r realixic shon story, b.g*ing wfth the climaxand working baclnpard. What charactcnarc necdcdfor thc climar and what erc they likct (&c cxcrciscr, above.)What must bc &amatizedto authenticatc thc climax?How many sccncsarc necesaryto achievc thc climaxl 6. Using thc stoly worked out in exercise 5, dividc up thc sccn6 emongmembcrs of thc group and writc thcn\ then read doud anddiscus. 7. Plot r rcdistic story working forward from an initial sitw atioru 8.Plot a story bascd lcgcnd. on some of the fonnn 9. Plot a comic or seriousfable. For cxamples Acsopor Jamc Thurbcr. see ro. PIot an allegoricalfiaior\ hgrnning with thc idea or 'message" andthings andtranslating to pcrsons, placcs, r l. PIot a short strrcal fiction; a short expresionisticfiction. r r. Plota tde. 13. PIot a realisticor fabulousshon story, bcginningwith three basicsymbob (for cxamplg an exg thc moon" a sct of goldcn dcmurc). Bcforc working out the plog discus poesiblc By r "fabulous"stoqyI mcanherc onc mcanings of thc symbols. conaining nonexistent beingsor someimaginaqyand fentastic

Erercbes

ryg

placg but . stoqythat, gvcn thcscodditieqoperats rcalisticdly; thatis,by ordinary, notpoetigc'ause andeffect. 14.Plot a realistic story, beginning with thc or fabulous (for themgor philosophical subicct example, loes of innocencq poesesivc vcsrrsselfleslovg varicties and cowof couragc ardicc). (forward15. Discus wap of giving fiction profluence movingnes) withoutcarsally related evenb. Plot suche sto{y. 16. Plotr storyby beginning with a choice of thcsrylcto bc used. Let thestylebe in some way oddor unusual-forexsm. of vcry longsentences, ple,a preponderance or thc uscof thc virtuallyunusable second-person pointof view.
r7. Plota novella. r8. Plot r novel. 19. PIot an interestingnovel on r hackncycdsubicct; for a novcl about a circus, r lost vallen a gold minq an cxample, unfaithful wife, a doomed plancgfinr love. (or multi-plot) novel;plot a novel ro. PIot an architectonic that imitata thc form of the biography (David Coppnfdd). lI.Indiaidual Eraches the Dnelopmmt of Technique fm It is not necessary that a bcginningwriter do all--or any---of thcsccxcrcises, and it would bc imposible, rs well aswastcful, for a srudent to do all of themin one term, sincethc cxercbes shouldnot be substituted for the writing of actualshon storicq tales,fableqyarns,slcetches, novellas, or novels. One of thc moet

2oo

Erercises

importantthingsa writer canlearnb the fceling frmr within of r completcfictional form; so the snrdentshould work on the only during the early weels of the courscand therc crcrcises after only at odd moments,p$ting most of hb cffort into complae pieces of fictioq prcferably shon form$ then longer forms. is this: Moet apprenThe point of thesetechnicalexercises tice wriren underestimate the dilficulty of becominganiss; they do not understand or believethat greatwriters are rsually those who, like concen pianists,know many ways of doing for gurius; but everythingthey do. Knowledgeb no substitute literary m$rcr. makc vast a supponcd by techniquc geniw Eqp*i.[y iust now, whcn compaition for publicationb prob ebly grerter than everbeforg it is helpful for r cniter to know technique. Any apprentice writcr who does0t leestsomeof thesecxerfaithfully and well will secthar when he getsto, say,crcf,cises cisezq he is in a positionto do the eerly exercba with much faithfully more facility than when hc begen;and every exercise usefulin short or long fiction performedwill teacha technique The writer who has worked hard at thesc exercbc will sec whenever he writes e story or novel,that he hesvuiors choiccs available et everypoint in his fiaion' and he will be in a betta new. positionto choooe the best<rinvent something with the utmoot then, The exercises shouldbe approached, writer haq howeverhc mey scriousnes. Every true apprentice try to keep it secretevenfrom himse[ only one malor goal: gloqy. The shoddy wrfuer wans only publication.He fails to twelve recognize that almostenyonewilling to devoteberween end founeenhoursa dry to writing+nd there are many such But only the greatwriter people-will eventuallyget published. hb uade rnd b who fully undentands will survive-the writer willing to take time and the necesaryrisla-alwap asuming' of coursg that the writer is profoundly honestend, rt leastin hiswriting, sane.

Errrcises

zor

&nity in e uriter b merelythis: Howeversnrpidhe rney bc in his private life, hc nevercheets in writing. He neverfory.tt that his audienceis, at least ideally, as noblg generougand that he tolerant ashe is himself (or moreso), and neverfoqgets writing about is peoplg sothat to turn characters to cart<rcnq, to treat hischaracters CIinnatelyinferior to himself,to forga their reasons for beingasthey are,to tret them asbruteq b bsd eru Sanityin a writer alsoinvolvesuste. The true uniter hesr great advantage overmoff otherpeople:He knowsthe greattradition of literaturg which hasdwep beenthe cuning edgeof moraL ity, religion"and politrcs,to sy nothing of social refomt" He knowswhat the greatest literaqymindsof the pm rre proud to do and what they will not stoopto, and his knowledgeinfonm his practice.He fits hirnselfto the companyhe moat rspcs endeniop: the companyof Homer,V.tSl, Dante,Shakespearc, endsoforth. Their standards his own. becomqin some masure, Patiness, bad tastefall away from him automaticelln end when"olg"rity, he readsbad writers he noticestheir lapsa of tasteet He sees once. that they dwell on things Shakespeare would not hevedwelled on, at his besgnot beczuse Shakespeare failed to notice them but because he saw their triviality. (Except to craminc new techniqueqor because of personalfriendship, no serious apprentice shouldeversnrdysecond-rate writen ) To write with mste,in the highestsensgis to write with the asumption that one out of e hundred peoplewho read onc's work may b" dnng or hrve someloved one dying; to write so that no onecommitszuicide, no onedespain; to write, asShakespeerwrote, so that people undersand,qrmpathize,see the univenality of pain, and feel suengthened, if not directly errcouraged to live on. This is not to say,of course, that the writer who hasno penond experience of pain and terror shoulduy to write about pain and terror, or that one should never write lightly, humorously;it is only to say that eveq;'writer should be rware that he might be readby thc desperate, by peoplewho might be penuadedtoward lifc or deatlu It does not mean,

zoz

Ernoises

cithcr, thrt writers should writc moralistictlly, lilce prcechen. And rbove all it docsnot meenthat writers shouldlic. It means only that they shouldthink, rlways, of what harm thcy rnight inadvertentlydo and not do it. If therc fu good to be said,the writer shouldremember to say it. If therc is bad to bc said,hc shouldsayit in a way that reflectsthc trwh thaq thoughwc soc thc cvil, wc choosc to continucrmong thc living. Thc truc enist b neverso lost in his imaginaqy world that he forgets thc rcal world, where teen-agers have a chemical propcnsity toward anguish,pcoplc betweentheir thinies and fonies have e tendcncy to gct divorced, and pcople in thcir seventies have r tendencytoward lonelincss, poverty, sclf-pitn and somtims anger.The truc artist chooses never to be r bad physician.He getshis sensc of wonh and honor from his convictionthat art b powerful--cvcn bad art. For all thcseexercises, avoid the cheap,obvioug and corny. For cxample, in exercise built alnost 3, don't write a sentence antirely of adjectives. In otherwords,don'r wastetimc. r. Write the paragraph that would eppeerin a piecc of fictftn iust befmc rhc discoveryr of a body. You might perhap dcscribe the charader'sapproach to the body he will find, or the hcrtio'n, or both. The purposcof the excrcisc b to developthc techniqucof at onceattrectingthe rcadcrtoward the paragraph to follow, mating him want to skip rhead,and holding him on thfo paragraph by vinuc of ia intcrct. Without thc ability to writc suchfmeplry paragraphe, onc can ncvcr rchicvc rcal guc. PGme. r. Trkc a simple evcnt: A rmn gets off r bug uipa looks aroundin cmbarrasmcnt, and cccsr worftm smiling. (Comparc RaymondQucneaq Erereiccs&r Stylc.) Dccribc thh cvenq usingthe samccharacen and elemcnaof sctting, in fue corrr pletely different wap (changcs strucof style, tone, sntcnce

E*ercises

20,

turc, voice, psychic distance,etc.). Make sure the styles erc radicalQdifferent;otherwise, the exercise is wasted. eachat leastone full 3. Write threeefective long sentences: (or typedpage :5o words), eachinvolvinga differentemodon (for cxample, anger,pensiveness, sorro% ioy). Purpose control of toncin a complex sentencc. es seenby an old womanwhocc a landscape 4a. Describe disgustingrnd detatable old husbandhas iust died. Do not mentionthc husband or death. 4b. Describca lake as seenby x young man who has iust committed murder. Do not mention themurder. esseenby e bird. Do not mention 4c. Dacribe a landscape the bird. by a man whosesonhasiust 4d. Describea building asseen beenkilled in a war. Do not mentionthe son,war, death, or the old man doing the seeing; then describe the samebuilding,in thc sameweatherand at the sametime of dry, rr seenby e heppylover.Do not mention loveor thelovedone. 5. Write the opening of r novel using the authorialvoice, making thc authorialomniscicncc omniscicnt clear by going into thc thoughtsof onc or morc characters after establishingthe voice.fu subject, useeithcra trip or the arrivalof a scengcr (somc disruption of ordcr-thc usual novel begin-

trg)'

6. Write e novelopening,on any subfect,in which the point of view is third personobjective.Write a short-storyopeningin thisseme pointof view.

2o,4

Esncises

in which the of at leasttluee pages, 7. Write e monologne intemrptions-pauses, gesnueq description, etc.-all clearly rnd penuuively characterize, and the shifs from monologue to (s and character touches when the touchc of setting $sture someobiect or glances out the window) all feel rhphmically right. Puqpose makea long to learnwap of letting e character speech that doesn'tseemboring or artificial. 8. Write a dialogue in which eachof the rwo cherectenhas e sccret.Do not revealthe secretbut makethe readerintuit it. who For example, the dialoguemight be betweene husband, courage tell hb hasiust lost hirs to iob and hasn'tworked up the wife, and his wife, who hrs a lover in the bedroom. hrqpoee:to and to make give two characters individual ways of speaking, cracklewith feelings dialogue not directly expresed. Remember that in dialogue,as a generalrule, every peusemust somehow be shown"eitherby narration(for examplq"shepaused")or by And rememsomegestureor other breakthat showsthe pause. for geslwe e all dialogue. Sometimes, ber thrt is pan of real instance, we lookaway instead of answering. sketchusingob9. Write e trvc.pege(or longer) character reader's sense of landscape, weether, etc., to intensify the iecm, ("Shewrs like . . ."). what the character is like. Useno similes by roing morethen inPqpose: to creteconvincingcharacter mind. tellect,engaging both the conscious andunconscious ro. Write a two-pege(or longer) dramaticfragment(pan of weather,etc.,to intensify two a story) usingobiects,landscape, characrcrqas well as the relationshipbaween them. Pqpose: scenicbackasin exercise the same 9 but now makingthe same ground, etc., servemore than one pupose. In a diner, for inone character may tend to look at certainobiectsinside stence, the diner,the other may look at a difierent setof obfecs or mry look out the window.

Etncisa rq develop theplot of e shon story. r r. From cxercise

rot

shsrF rr. Dacribc md evoker simpleaction (for example' rat). eninga pencil,crrving a tombstong shooting a voice. 13. Writc rbrief stach in the eseyist-omnlscient 14 Write three acceptable examplcs of purple prosHhat q highly self-consciors and arry prosemadeeccepableby suL iecg parodicintent, voice,etc. 15.Write a brief pasageon some stocksubiect(a iourney,a landscape, a sexualencounter)in the rhythm of r long novel" thenin the rhythm of a tight shortstory. 16.Write an honestandsensitive description(or sketch) of (e) one of your parens, (b) a rnythologicalbeast,rnd (c) r ghost. (one or two 17. Describer characterin a brief passege (a as in pagc) usingmostly long vowels and soft consonants the samc "moanr" e asin "see";I, tr, h sD,etc.); then describe character, usingmmtly shon vowelsand hard consonaffs(i es ft, in "siC'; f, p, gg, etc.). 18.Write e prosepassege that makesefrectiveand noticcableuseof rhyme. 19.Write the first threepages of a nle. zo. Plot eachof the following: a short-shortstory, e yar& e fable,a sketch,e tele,e short stoqf, en energeic novel,rn architectonic novel, a novel in which episodes are not causallyreIated (allegoricd or lyrical strucnre, for example),a radio plaR anopeR a film that couldonly be a fihn.

106

Erercba

zr. In r fully devclopcd monologuc(seccxcrcise 7) prcscnt e philocophicalposition you tcnd to fevor, but prccnt it through e charactcrrnd in I conrcn that modificsor undermines it 'lVrite rz. r pesseg using abrupt end radicrl-4ut droroughly rcceptable-+hifrs from thc authorirl-omniscicnt point of view to thethird penonsubfectivc. z3r. In high parodicform (in thc way Shakcpcarc scriously prrodicd thc revenge tragcdyin Htrilet, for examplc),plot onc of thc following: e gothig I mystery,e sci-fi, r W6rern, e drugstoreromance. r3b. Write the first threepages of the novelplottedh r3n usingthc trashform u the basis of a scriorspicceof fiction. z4. Without an instant'slapse r person(a) of taste,describc goingto the bathroom,(b) vomiting, (c) murderingr child. 15.Writc ashortpieccof fiction in mixedproscandvene. 16. Ifritg without irony, r character's moving defcnr of hinrclf (hcrsclf). 17.UCng ell you know, writc r short storl rbout an animd -for instance, r cow. 28. Write a short story rbout somcwcll-known lcgendary fig*.. r9. Write e tnrc story usinganythingyou necd. story usinganythingyou need. 3o.lVritc a fabulous

Index

Abq Kobo,Tle Rfined MaP,u an, Absalom!(Frulkner),4 Ab sal of conclusive cbstrection: anotion,6r-z; critid 77;of elcmena of fiction, jt-2; in meaphysical, 63;mizuse language, 98;rymbolic 8f* r6G7 rbctrrct logic,83 r38,r3g r4r ebsuriliscfiction, vriterg rq rlr l4-jr rcademic
40 "accidens" of writing, 69 cctioq 7, r 5, 3t, 37, 454, 52,67, 69 97, rz7; continuous strcam, in novelle, ryfit; energeic, 47,495q 83-+, 166 ro5; 167,r85, r9o-r; cxercise, immediate appcd of, 39 4Ir; vs. logical ergumeng 81 165{; metrphpical irr plications possible,63; non-proflueng85, r3i; sentimentrliry no substitute for, r r5-r7; shrpedin tandem with chamctersand setting,

46, 5o16, tfi6.7, rgn-l', qpeeches assubstitutfor, 8r; ofale,73; unbrokenflow within sceng 59; writer's limiationq 4r-3 i tee aln ploq ploning rctive voice, roo AateilI (Vergil),18 Aesop, r98 resthetic interest, 1y47, 614 TT 9; basicingredienq 4133 conventional w innovetive fiction, 47-5r ; empethy for centrd chencter, 6y; immcdirte appealvs hsing pleasuren 3g4z; profuence vs boredonr,4&9 55;in urrconventiond fi ctioq 8d 90'9t rcstlretic rules: lbsolutc, futilc search for,3-8, rj-r( 33; suspension of,6j,8 dlegory 83-6 r43, 167,t68, t69; vocebulary o( r45{; ploaing exercrse,r98; psychologicel, r33

209

2IO

Inder
.uthoritarien fiction,8r-6 t5, 89 ilthoriry rnd mrstery, writer\ 8-9, r5,tq,9t auxiliery vcrbq 98

dliteration, r53 dlusion,r3,9o Amer i can M et or i c, An (W ttt), r8 anelyzingfiction, r3t 4r Andersoq Sherwood, 9; "Death in the Woodg" r rg-ro (Tolstoy), rr, r5, AruKnmina 45' 63' I9r q Apof lonios Rhodiosn Ar gonaurtc r{3 rr, Et,87, rppositionalphrases, useof, ror rrchitectonic novel, r9r Ari*otlc, Sl-J,63; cnetgeia, q7, 9-5o,82,83-.1, r85-6 rrrhythmic writing, ro6-7 rrg r5-16,l4-Jr {2, j5,80, rrr-rt ll.flzrloti cornparircns bawcen bnnches of,7+ r&-ro, 5r; contempoffy, tSti crertio{r of ocv redity in, l3r; formrlirt, r3r; fund*,' mcntd clementg5rr 79; genrcl t&-ro; eslenguegc, 8t; "mctning" of works of, fr; rnd metrphyiic, lt4-5; nodcrn relfnue*irning r 19; rclrtion to lifc, l 3r-4 Arimov, Igmc,4o rrocirtion: Hanleian, r9r; in novclf t91, tlhgrmt ry3 rtmocphcre,39,5:; dcvclopmcr* of,7o; tcc tlso ating Aurcn, Jrnc, t6, t5g.Eran*,6t, 69 .uthcnticrtioq rr-6; of climr4 6o,66, rtTi of prirnrry mee* ilng,6r, Q1; scctko detrrli docurncntrtion .uthorid htcrrupionq 59 ruthorirl-onnircLrrt point of v'*w,fi, r57-9; cxercisc, ro3; lcc rlro omniscient-nrrrator point of vicw

backgound cxplanetioru, tg Brcon, Fnncig rr "Brkcr's Bluelry Yrrn" (Tvein), zzrz54 Barth,Johq 32,87,r 34;Chimet6 rq; GilesG oat-B oy, r 46i "Lifc-Story," r 34;"Lom in thc Funhousc,"r34 bardic voicc, ro7; sccalso pedc rhythm Btron in tbe TreesrTbc (Glvino), rr Buthclme,Donald,rr,87, 13( r38-4r,146 r58,r84;"City Life," r39; Tbe Dead Fetbet, t38, r4r, 16r;"Thc Glas Mountriq' r43, 16r;'Pangrny," 4t;'Stntcncq' 148; Slr,w Whitc, r39; rnc of dehn 16r-3;'Vicvr of My Frttrr Wocfrry," r3g4r, 16r 'Benlcby thc Scrivcmr" (Molvillc), rr3, r4G-7 "Bctr, Thc" (Frulkncr), rtr, rtl Bcrnh, An4 r31, r36 Bcckm, Scmucl,ty, tn 16r-3, rtyl; HoppX Dqs, 16z; *Itlox Dks, niWaithgfr Godot, t6z;W.tt, rr Ludwig vm, rrr, rt3 Beethovcn, g, TDc (Hewkes), r t5 Dcctla-Le bcginning.,rc initirl siturtlu oPcnmg bchrvioml nrodcl,fiction rs,8&z Bclhmy,JocDevid,r37 Bcllow, Saul,8d "Benito Greno" (Melvillc), rr3 Beounrlf , 8z,83-6 89,9o, t67

Inile*
Bible, thc,89 biogrephSfictionelSqrgr Borgeq Jorgc Luis,48, 87, 136 bmnd nameq usc of, r47 Bread Loaf Writcrs' ConJerencg d Brodkcn Harold,88 Brooks, Clcanth,{r Bunin, Iven, "Thc Gendcmrn from SanFrenciscq" zg3o Bunyan, John, Pilgrim's Prcgrcss, 84

2rr

Gge, John, 19 Italo,86,87; Tbc Bnon C,alvino, inthcTrees, rr;Cosmicotnic!, ztr, z8-9; "The Dinosaurg"rTo;elcvrtionof popular metcrids, zo-r; TDr NonexistcntKnigbt,Tq; t-r,cro,zo Cnttcrbwy Tdcr (Cheuccr), rq rq3rrq54 Cc*ar (Pound),8r CrpotgTrumrr4brCoklBlood, zt C4tain Mantel cornio,3q "Gsk of Amontilladq Thc" (Poe),47,5o,r33 crusality, 2J,16,Jj,79,84, r8t, r 86-7; rbscncc of, 8r, 83-4; rnd dramr,86 rrj, r17;v3 Iogicrl profluence,83,165-6; Wtic,z+7t "Cclcbrrted JumpingFrog of Calrvcms CounV, Thc" (Twain), rr 'ccntcr of consciousnesg'156 C.crvrntcs,Dor Qahote, qB Peul,5r, ru Cdzannc, chrncters, T, 15,rr-r, lr,43ar iJ-1, jz, 5q.6o-r,67-7o1 77, 168-9;rs ccntcr of grcat

litenmre' 4 56; rctivc mtuc rndmotivation"64-6'r86; centrrl, rnd conflicq 187; complcrcnes' 5t t9o; cxcrciscg rg7, ro6 zo5;frec will of,4r,53-+ 186 r87; immcdirtc rppal,39,4r-e, 169;innovrtive fictionirB' dismisal of,47-8; psychologicd consisrencf,6; 45i return to, in novcl, r9:-4; rounded, lrck in llird' 5' 8r; rhaped in trndem with rcning rndploq4( So,S1q, r7r-zt r7g,r8G7; of telc, 7r3; writcrl limitationg 4r-3 Geoffrey,rrr rrr, r33r Chnucer, l6gi Cmtctb*y Talel 43i genre-crossinginrzo;Thc Housc of Ftnc, rq3; Knigbt't Telc,zol Man of Ltttt'sTalc, rq,5;Rimcof SitTbopas,rr; Second Nttn't Tde, 46 ChckhoqAnton,9t, rt6, I!t, rtg;, Thc Scagull,q Cbildhood(Tolstoy),ry Chimcrt (Benh), r43 "City Lifc" (Brnhelmc), r39 Clarkst (Richrrdson), rr clinrax,nrrrativc,53,6o-r,64, rl7,dhgtm 188,lt9; rudrcnticrtion of, 6o,66, rtTi ploaingbrckwud frorn,57, 85, 161,169 rTat' r79; rcconderyclirnrrcl rTgtq r8r, rt3, rt7, r9r; rrrycrrcfd &hy re pcprrtioa fot, 159-6111 rc dn conclurio; dcnoucmcnt C.olcridge,$mucl Trylor, 14 4o, r9r; the "I AM," 4d,5r collegehurmr mrgrzincr, I44 colloguialdictiott,76, rcz comic books,rt, lrh {e 93

zrz

Iniler
Dente, 8, r r, 16 8r, 89 r13, 167 Douitl Copperfield (Dickans),84, r9r 'Dead, The" (Joyce), n\rg, DeadFather,Tbe (Banhelme), r38, r4r, 16z 'Death in the Woods" (Anderson), rrg-uo "Death in Venice" (Mann), 78 fiction, xi,86,87deconstrucdve gz,g4;see alsometefiction Defoe, Daniel, rl Delaney,Samuel R.,4o delay,suspenseful,4z,r5g43 Nicholas,r4 Delbanco, demonstrationvs. exploration, 84 r89, r94; plotting denouemenq for, r73, 176,186.9o description, 7t lit JJ, JJ1rzJ; vs, poetic,44-5; discursive iq 351, 1274, r97. exercises zot, zoj, 2o,6 detail,t77,r7g,r9z;awkward insertion of, r I2, l lr}; emphrslc jfio; functioq 596o; precise,needfor, zz-ro, J2, 98 detective story, rJ3, r4o, r4r section, novel, 186, development t89, r9o; Fichteancurve, r878 didogue, ?, )7, uq n7, 169; exercise, zo4 r3z, I58' Dickens,Charles,84-5, r84;DatidCoppetfield,S4, rgr;Great Erpectations,Sti ATale of Tuo Cities,94, Dich Gibson Show,Tbe (Elkin)' r4t diction" 17,ror-3; choiceof level, 7j, 76,78,Ioz; colloquid, 76, Ioz; elevated,roz-3; fonnrl 7G7; limit in first-person

omic writing, 29 roor ro+-tr r43; vocebulery, 145-6 community point of view, 77, r58 r7-r8 compositionrulesn useof, ror compoundpredicates, conclusion:emotionof, jj-+6ri by logic exhaustionvs. resolution,53-9, 165{; novel vs. closeof novella,184;resonant novel, r9z-4; and spatial treatmentof story line,85; seedlso climex;denouement 'toncrete philosophn" 36,63 Confidence ManrThe(Melville), tt6 conflict situation, 187-9 r58 Connd, Joseph, consomnts,hrrdvs. sofg 38,78, loj continuity principle, 3r-2,97,98 conventionrl fictior\ xf ll, +Z 48..5r,77,p, 94; causalityi& 23r24,46,55; "innovative" {guments against,47-8; profluence in" 48, Jl, Jj4 Coover, Robert: "Hansel and Gretel," r8z; "Noaht Brother," ri; "A Pedestriao Acci&ng" r44 (Cdvino), rer, Cosmicomics rS9 'C,ounay Doctor, A" (KafLr), 37, 167 Georgc, 14 C,rrbbe, Crene,Stepheqr58 CrimeandPsnisbn errt (Dostoevsky),65,rz9 criticisrn, seclitemry criticism *crotq" r8:

Drdaistq rg Dnicl Martin (Fowles), 11

lniler
point of view,76;shifn in of,76; ror-r; types Ievel,99, vulgar,76 Isrk, u+ rr, rot' rrTl Dinesen, t59,t68 'DinosaurqThe" (Crlvino), t7o discoveryfiction rs meensof,67, 86 t3o discunivesrylg44-5 rp dispositio, TDe(Drnte),8r Dhtke Comedy, in redist writing' documentrtion: 2l-i,2j, 16-8;in ule writiqgt in yarn t1.1,26,z&-3o; uriting 254,7o Don Qairote (Grvantes),48 story, r33 doppclganger DosPesog Johr\ t2o,r23 Fedor,& t6 r4t Dosoevsky, hnnt, ry5; Crimernd Punis 65,tz9 dnmatizatiotl r 5, 67,84,97,169 of,834 r7r-r, r79;absence r ro-r r, 186; v:. explrnation, r I 5-r7 vr" sentimeneliry, dreerqfiction as,3o-2, 34 38,{t, r r3, r 15;breaking, t 6C, CZ-8, cerdindmistekgjr-r, 97i disaactions, 98-t t j, t 19,r4tb r94;intentionel r48,168, of,3u,87,ro9 breaking drermfictiorl r17,r85 Dreiser,Theodorg 6r &ugstorcfictioo,{o DrydeqJohq r+ Dublinqs(Joyce), rn DurrelllcYlrooq ro5 eilucrtim of wrfters,Frt, ror &lwrrds,Jonetheg 14 clenrns of fictio\!J-1, JratTlt of, 5r-z; nf8; rbctractioo

2t, proponionof, 7, alternoting, of' rr8; burden of meaning 64,66; defined, 5r; exampleg of, development 5r; tandem rcstof tP 4, jo,.52,66i 79 ProPflateness, cb,6r rl4 iddlemm Eliog George, Bkir\ Stanley, 94i T he Dick GibsonShoa443 169 emblem, Entma(Aasten),6r,6t 8o-r, 167; conclusive, emotion, 54, in 53-66r-r; conveyed description, 3Zi primery,62i of fictioq esprimarysubject t4-r5,42-3iV$Sentimenality, rf, rr5-r7; suppresion I35,136 in super-realism, empathnwriter's,65,8er; hck of,5qu7-t9 ending reeclimax;co'nclusio'n qy5o,81,1d6,, tQ, energeh,47, r85-6 energeic nove\ r85ar language,88 English rnd profmrl profession Eaglistr r(>rr, r3-rd t4-$t9:{.r epic,7t-2, 8z-68d 89;in genrecros$n8,2() t4; in qisodes,nrrrative,5;8,6r, r87,r9l; innovellg novel, r798o, r8r; panern of risc rnd fall,Z,r87,r9r point of vbq esryist-omniscient 76,r5fi esayis's stylg 44-y game ofr6fE F^senceg t43 Euripides, 6o-r, 81 eyent-sequence, 55-6, plon rrz-q; seealso Gr6tS 41,5r, 54,rd8;retornq, innovel ryt4see dm rction

2r4

Inder
17,rr3r r59,16At7g r8r; A bsalom,Ab salom!, qi'nffue Beer," t8:, t81i Light in August, r17; manncrcd writing, rrT, rrgt rr:; tA Ror for Emilyl'1?;Tbc Sowd and thc Fuy,r4fi1 "Spottcd Horscsr" to fceling,T, i7,6r,6177, rrtt t8r; rbstracrionof, 62i sec*bo emotion fcud *ory, plotting, qv4ry{^I Fichteen curvc, 187-8,r9o fction: csscnccof, 6, 3r, 18,4rt, j6; as. modc of thoughg 16,J?{, 5ri rtt 4/to clcmcnt3 of fction; form of fiction; meaningof fction fctional processr 38,53,6r-8r; plrnning,611,7o,ryi writing,6r,6717, r7of4 Fhlding, Hcnry : I tnathan W ildc, tlt zr;Tom Jones,87, FieldqW. C.,93 Finnegaw lU akc (loyce), tz1, r8t first drafg 69, r 14 first-person point of vicw, 75{t rtt flashbrckq t9 Flrubert, Gustrve: Madattp Boamy, r83; "A Simplc lf3gj." r8r folktalc, r55; in genre-crosing, 2ot94 foreign words, r44 t3r, t32 formalism, formalist ircalism, 136,r3&-4r form of fictiono7, r18, 131;primat/r ro-3Q 33r35i secondary, 19, 87n, r1,z-qi rcc also getuc Forrythn Fredcriclq,4o

Excctttioncfc SongTbc (Mriler), 13 Exetcices du StXlc (Queneau), 10r cxercises,19, tzF7, 195-zo6;in chlractcr, rgT t zo$ ro5; chss discusion and criticism, 1956; in description,,j-7, rz18, to3, ro5, ro6; in didogug ro4; in gcnrc, ry7-9,2o54i Sroup' t9i-8; individud' rgg-zcf; monologue, rol ro6; in plotting, 196,198-9' ro5; in style, ror-3; tcchnicrl zcp.,zoz4 cxistcntial litenture, 85 cxpricncg reada\ and resthetic interest,43-4 writer'sr rs limit on Gxpcrience, his subiect,4r, ror; supposcd needfor, r4-r5 crplanation: background, 59 nccdless, 99, rogrt t, I86 cxploretion vs. demonsuatior\ E4 crposition, in novel, 186-7,r9o-r cxprcssionism, 5q 7r, r4r, r6gi t3&7; Kafkaesque,5o, ploningin. 1684

feble, rr-2, r7q t98 fabulation,85,86 frbulism, r I-2, z54i secalso tdci yarn fairy taleg r55 Faitb onl tbe GoodTbing (Johnson), r59 "Fdl of the House of Usher, The" (Poc), t33, r3S "Frncy Womaq Thc" (Trfor)' t74 Fer T ornga (Matthicscn), r r9 Frulkner, Williaq 8o, ron r 16-

lniler
'Fox,Thc" (Iawrencc),r8r, r83 Fowlcs, John,87i Dtniel Martin, 4i T hc Frm cb Lieutmant's Woman,Sg frce will, $, j!-4, r84,r87 frigidiry,17tJ4trrJ-rg, I 20'I 2t' principle r45rr9o;Longinus' rr7 of, to8, Frost, Robcrg3t, r7o Laura,t75,t36 Furmrn, Willirm, /R, r9r Gaddis, r51i Gardner, John:Grendel, lasonandMedcic,r43;"Thc Indirn,"r3r King's 87,t3r, r5tz.,r58' William, Gasq 164, r8r; "In thc Hcartof thc Hcart of the Country," 116l8r;"ThePcderscn Master't Kid," r7g8r; VI/illie Wif c, ry4 Loncsome of,67, I&-3o, gPnrc, 33;choicc ln, t97n, 7r-t; exerc$es t8-I9; in :o5-6;in music, visualers, ryzo; rc also redisticfiction; trlc; yarn rF2r | 74-* gq genrc-crosing, frorn SanFranciscq "Gentleman Thc" (Bunin),z93o r9 George, Gershwin, story,197-8 ghosr Gidc.Andr: 'The Pastoral r8:; "Theseuq" Symphony," l8r 75, Gilbert,Sir William S.,94 oy (Barth),r+6 GilesGoat-B Gilgtnesh,S4Sg Giotto, ro Mountain, Thc" "Glass (Brrthclme), t43,r6t gothicism: deectivefiction, r4o. tg7,zo6'. r4r; cxerciscs, t7t-{ southcrn,

2r5

grammar, 17 Grapctof Wretb,Tbc (*eill. to beck), Gr cat Ergectatiaar (Dickens)' 85 poctry,rI Greek Greektregedy, 5o,56,t86 t53 Gtndel (Gardner), Hnnlet (Shrkesperrc), 5-6,r r, 88-9, zo6 'Hanselrnd Gretcl"(Coovcr)' r8r r35 Durne, Hansen, 16r HappyDays(Beckcn). Hanley,David,r9r Hawkcg John,zo,trq t17iThc Bectle-Lcg fi5 Nathaniel, 145 Hrwthornc, Martin,88 Heidegger, principlc, r3o,r4r Heisenberg Helenof Troyr story treatmcng 9742,61-7,$75, t6yl,o g 164; Ernest, Hcmingvay, writing,rrTrtt9, mannered of Kiliman' rrri "Thc Snows iaror"trr Hobbeg Thomas,5t 6,8, r r, 36,5r,7r-r, 87, Homer, t84-5; 89,rrr, r33,167-8, lliad,5,r3,8r,85,r68,r9ot; Odyssey, S,rr. r43;similcl r 3 r ,t 4 , GereldMenlcn Hopkins, r'o-rn. horrorstory,r33 Hoaseof Ftnn, TDe((Xreuccr), r4t William Dean, r35i Howells, a Mrn "How MuchLandDocs (Tolstoy),r:z-1 Need?" Hugo,Victor,worksof, r3r alrocomic writing humor,45;lec

2t6

Inder
rnd point of view, 75,156, ly8; "TheTurn of thc r8r Screw." iargon,r{4 laon andMedeh (Gerdncr), r4, 931 "iazzingaround," Fcitb atd tbc Ctrarleq Johnsor5 GoodThingryg r8r Thc" (Jrmes), "Jolly C,orncr, ttt l{ il de (F relding\,zr I onath loneg Spike,19 r+ 8S rvl, rrr-tr Jameg Joyce, 16g r83;'"Thc Dea4' rr3, Fitmcry3;Dublinets,rzzT gans ottr& W ake,n3, r85iP of the Artist asa Yormg Mttt, rzz,rr3; Stephen inelucteble moddity Deddus: of thevisiblg 5o1 Ulys*s, r12,t43,tgt rgt lR (Gaddis), r37;'A Ksfl.., FraIrz' +A 136, l37'167' CountryDoctor," "Meamorphc\"{7,tq t6g Keomn,Buster,93 t r, 6r' Khg Lem (Shrkesperre), r68 "King'r Indh+ Thc" (Ciar&cr)'
t]1

l&ad (Homer), i, tJ,8u,85, 168, !9c-r image$zi, 97, 1714, r7g r8z-3; descriptive, 37; directresg 98; emblemadc,r@; in lyrical novgl, r85;repetitionof, r9:4; qYmbolic,6T-988, rr3, t69 r8r imaginadon, leap of, 7, 94 imitation: learning techniqucbn r4r-4; odditiesof, r rz, r 14 "Imp of the Perverse" (Poe), r44 In Cold Blood (Capote), 13 intre inf nite-verb phrases, ducmry,99, rq)-r! ro4 initial situatioq tj; e:cteriorv$ interior, 5o; ploning forwrril from,57, 16$ rlu1^ innovatioq rcr; vs mannerism, r24 innovativc f ctiooists, 47-5o ioside world, 5q rtTi tec clm chgrecter instincq writer\ l,6g instruction, fiction cs vchiclc of, 8r-4,85 inalccq writer'$ 7T 78,g, r& 7, r77, r84 rcc alto thought "In thc Heart of the Heart of tho

t4 r8r Cp*ry" (Gass), iaruitioq vniter'* ?, lT, Jr,6* Tlrr&1,r77 iavcntiott,& U, r33-f 87 aot, Iocscq Eugeoe, ; Rbhmc rt8 irony: disctrsivestyle,45,7r;i! I43 rtslutioq 6r; similcq, imcdisttl' 13( r38-4t Lving, Washingtoaq*gand of Holloq" r44 Sleepy Hcnry, 95,42,44,56'8l, Jrgrcs, r8a;"Ttrc Jo[y Coroer,' r8r;

Kinnell,GdwrS r5Ira T bc (Chlw)' Kaieh* TaIG, to ofsrbiecq rq tr, rl knowledge Kosinski,Jennt37 Krcl Kcrcomks,93 "Lrnilot's CottegC(Poc), r33 r48;rs crrrier of vduq, laoguege, 88;concrtte'for vividncs' 3r,$;(opnqug'r3adnpb

hdet
vs.complcr,98,r44;rocrbu" lery, rg-t Irwrence, D. H" rr3;'Thc Forrt'r8r, r83 le Cerr6,Johtt,<p Hollon/ "Legendof Sleepy (Irving), rf+ Lcwig MaahewGregory "Mon\" r33 usein yarq ut; ties,absurd, by reeder,z( 3o accepteoce "Life-Story"(Barth),r34 "Ligei." (Poe),r33,r35 Ligbt in Augast(Faulkoer), rr7 linguisticsculpture't34, t4l r18,tzt; literarycriticism, 88;New deconstructive, C'riticg4r of, rt, {r; literature:analysis 'exhausted" teachiqg of, 53;
I(>II' l3-lth Jg-tll

2r7
Mrnn,Thoms, r8r;'Dce6 b Venicg" ?8 trt! tr7, ttgF l, meonerisnr, tgo ,22a, r4j, 164, Tele,Tbc Mn of Laa;'s (Chaucer), r45 Marx Brotherg93 reeauthority aod mestery, mesteDt Matthieseq Pecr, fcr Torug4
t19

logrc,typesof, in fiction, 79 logicalexhaustioq 531, 165-6 logicd profluencq83, 165 London, Jack,9 ro8,rr7 Longinus, Lotkg Batiles(Wdty), 176 (Brrdr), "Lost in theFunhouse" r14 lawry MdcolnuUulerfre Yolcano,u lyricd novel,rE5 Macbetb(Shrkeqpeere), rrr Lldtme Bauary(Flrubcrt), r83 Mod wgazine, rq4 "mrd" story, 168 Magician,Tbc (movie),91 Mailer, Normao,The E*ct tioaer't Soag z1 MaloneDier (Beckctt), rr Mdory, Sir Thomrq rrE

Mrtlsg Hcnri, ro of 6ctioo, 6t-1, t76-7, meaning r87; authentication of, 6r, 64-7;primary,58,6r; secondary, or larger,6r-a 63;seealsotheme poetry, zq rr medieval Melville, Hermarl g rr, 15,tol, t4j, 176 r84; "Brrdeby tb tz1, r@i Scrivener,tt 'Benito Cerenor' t4; Tbe Confdence Mo4 r56iMobyDick, n, ryr Gg 'rnessage" of fiction, 7t, 6tr 7o mcufction,rr, tr-3, qz,48n, 86-7,88,9G2r9$ r3r, r:Ki 86 defined, sMetamorphosis" (Krfka), 17, jo, 169 mctaphorq 45,7r,7?,r%i in 68;of good, chancterization" by reader,63; rbsorbed tneated asfacg 5o 63,85,88;of novel netaphysic, rgf-t mcricel analysiqr5o-n Middlmncb (Eliot),6r Miller,Wdter llL, Jr,4o Milton, Johr\ r r5; gcnr-crossinE, zo;Patadise Lost,Sz l[oby-Dick (Melville),rr, 15,63 modernisrq 4r, 86;plotq r6&j Moll Flcndm (Defoc), rr

rr8

Inder
lyricel, r85; vs. memfiction! 3r-3; rnd metephysic,184-5; vs novclla,r8r, rE3-4; opcning of, 5d 186;opning exercisc,zo3; origins of, rr;, philosophicrl, r ro; picarcsque,84, 166;ploning, 165, r7o, t7g, r85-94; ploaing cxercises, r9g zot; psy-

moratconsiderations, & 3r, rg5; 16r, enguish of rnoralchoicc,

t87

morally exprcsionistic causclity, 7t moraltruth,73, rr9 movies,2rt 92,g\ t4+ Mozert, Wolfgang Amrdeus, 6 multi-plot novel, r9r music,8q 88, r3o-r; visual,t3r, 136;writing comparedto, 7-8, r&-rg 5t, r83, 184 mystery, tq 96 r84, rgv t6

Nrbokov, Vhdimh ef narredve, y1-6; climax, 58, 6o-rt 66 6d; lengt!, 79; pacc, 59; end proflucncc, J3, jJ,79 nertetivc cpisodes,scc cpisodc nerratiYc surnmary, 7 ntttatolr tz, t4 26176, toz, t$ r r4; intcrprcting, 156; omniscieot,7f..7,gr, roo, rtq 157-9;unrclirblc, 99 r58; tcc alto point of vicw; voicc National Lnnpoon,4q nrturalist fictioq 6r, r3E Ncw Critics,4r Newman, Rrndn p Naut Yorkcr, The, t8, 3g, to5 'Norh'g Brothcr" (C.oovcr),xi N oncdstent Knight, T bc (@lvino)' 74 r 3G oon-ledisdc movcmcnnq, 1t oovcl, tr, 183-5;rrchitcctonic' r9r; choice of sylc, 75; clocing of, 186 r9r-4; 'conncctednesq" tgz4i r85-9I; cpisodic encrg;eic, rhythm, r87, r9r; fictiood biogrrphn 84, r9r; innovrtive fictionists rn4 +7;

chological-symbolic, rq r85; terching of, r3-r4 4r novella, 7J, r7T83;choiccof crylc,75;continuous strerm of action,r7g8r; dcfincd, r79;episodic $rucilrg r798q r8r; lcngthof, r79, rEr; vs.novcl,t8r, 1831; ploning, 169, r7o,r7y83, pointillism in, r8r-3; vr 186; *ron srory,r7g rtl r5rz., r58 Orteg JoyccC,erol, obicctivc fiction,97,r3r, r3r, rt9,
t,lt

obicctivc-nrbicctivc continuum, {4J, tJt-t, tJg objectivity, nerdfor, rrrl, tt O'Connor,Flenncrn 174 (Homcr),$ rz, r4t Odyssey OediptttRer (Sophocles), 5o point of omniscient-narntor vicwr7r.'-7,9r, too,156, 1579; ercrcise, ro3 a Noeclix On Bccoming (Grrdner),xii opquc lenguagc, rp r9n ro3; novd opcning:exerciscq w. shon $ory, t6i tec alm initid situatioq trposition order,ncedfo4 7,16 Otbcllo (Shakcspuc),rr Onmy, Thomeq r4 ortsidc wodd 5o

Inder
pacc of narntivc, 59 painting, raa visual arts Pelmer,William' li7 Panela (Richtrdson), z I Lort (Milton)' 8r Psradise paragraph$ruc$re' t7 "Pamgury" (Barthelme), 48 I3lr r3r'4o' perody, 35,72t,93, r44; exerciseqrg7' zo5, zo6 passive voice,99,too i'PastoratSymphony, The" (Gide), r8r Philip, t36 Pearlstein, "PedersenKid, The" (Gas)' r798r "Pedestrian Accident, A" (Coover)' t44 pcriodic sentence,to+ Pbaedra(Racine),r:r philosophicalnovelq tto *philosophy" in fiction, 3d 63 photo-realism'r35 picarequc novel, 84, 166 Pilgrim's Progres (Bunyrn)' E4 pirate story, r33 Plato, Repablic, 83 plog 4&7, 55-7, 165-8;causel vs. logicel argusquencc mcntr 83' 165{; energeiq 166, t67. r79; immediatc rppeal of, 39,4t-ri innovativc fctionists' dismisd of, 47-8; in logic of,6, r6E;shaped tanilem with characters an<l sctting, 44 5o, 57,66, r8G7| as story "gerr&" j6; symbolic, 81-4, r6G7i of, talg Zl; as writer's first concern, j6i tee 4lto rcdoni crusality; profluencc plodes fictioq 33-6 82, 83-n t35, t65-6, t85 ploaing, 5G7, 6o-t, 6q 66, r65n4; brsed on traditiond

219

plot or real lif.e, 56, 57n, ir1 rS' 165,t7o; cxerciscs rg8-9,ro5; novel, r7q l7g r85j4; novella, ryo, r7Y81, 186;short sory, r7o9, 1861 working backward, 57, 85, 165,169' r7e8, r79; working forward, 57, 165,r78'g Poe,Edgar Allan, l& rStt tJ3' r59; "The Cask of Amontilhdo," 47, Io, tJJi "Thc Fell of the House of Usher," 133' r35; "Imp of the Perverscrt' r44; "Lendor's Conager" rlli "Ligeiar" r3j, r3J poetic causaliry,16 73 poetic rhythm, in prosc' roG7, r13, r+1, r'(F{ poetic style,44-5,rz3-4' IEr Potryr rr; tn genretros$ng, 2q r44; teachingofr 4t pointillism, fictionel, r8:-3 point of view, 75-7, r42' t5t-9; ruthorial-omniscieng76' r j 716 cseyist-omniscicnq zorr zott 76, 158-9;exercisesr ro6; frst-person, 7 54' t 55i shifts in, 76, t57, r58, zo6i third-personJimited (subfective), 76, gez, 155-7, r 98, 164;third-personobiective, r57, 164;thirdperson-omniscient, 7d 9rt 99 roo, 156,r57n, t63 popular materialq elevrtion of, ryzr, 197-8,zo6 Poner, Katherine Anne, 156 portrait of the enist in convco' tiond fiction,49 in innov.tive fictioq 47-8 Portrait of the Artist as a Yotmg Man (loyce), n\ rz, post-modernism, 85-6 Pound, Ezra, Conto\8t

220 Poussir\ Nicolaq 5r preiudice, writerl 4r profluence, J!, j54,79, r6t4, r9o; abstract logicalvr dramatic, 83,165-6; defind modern 48; lack in some fictioq 85,r35,16r prosepoeuy, ro6-7,rr7, rgo-4. Proust,Marcel,r85 pychic distance, rrr75,8r,99r, rr, r58;defined, rrr peychological rt3 allegory, pychologicalceuseliry, 73 psychologicd consistency, 4 4t pqychological $lte, rs inid.l situation,5o novel pqychological-rymbolic 185;in genre-crosing, ro puactuatioq 17,rr4

Inile*
diction in, rgr.; plor-tilS, 169r t7oj4; precisionof deail needed,22-q z&8 realisric-symbolic short srory, zo Renaisancepoetry, rr Republic (Plato), 83 resolutioq conclusionby, flf Resartection (Tolstoy), r57 revisions,69-7o, 77, rr4, 12$ t9t rhetoric, ttFt1, tzz Rhinocerot (Ionesco),r 38 rhyme, ru4 r53; accidentel 99, ro&9, rr4 rhythm, poetic, 9p, r&T rzt, r4z, r5c-4 Richardson,Samuel zr Rime of Sir Thopas (Chaucer),

qualifierquseofr ror Reymon d, Erercic et &t Queneau, Style,zoz f,ctino, question-end-rnsnrer-form 31 raised, que$ions mustbe aaswere4 ?1, i4, SS SiPhaefuq Recine, JeanBaptiste, Robergro Reuschenbery Maurice, r9 Ravel, H. D., 135{ Re)trnond' io, reading, b, rJ, 78;boredom of' lg-+; in 49 55;Pleazures universityeducatioqro-r4; r48 for vocabulary, Hlistic fctioq rg 2r-g r1,,7t, of style,75-7, roTtr3zichoice 1631; control of prychic on di*ancg rrr; dependent verisimiliode,n4 ry, z6;

Robbe-Grillet, Alain, r4r (Defcp-), Robinson Crusoe zr Mary, r35,136 Robison, romance, in genre-crosing, zo poetry,rr Roman 143 Romanticism, 'Rose for Emily, A' (Frulkner), 77 L. M., r35 Rosenberg, Ruined Map,TEe (Abe), rr futile seerch rules:eesthetic, for, 33;composition, 3-8,15-16, t7; suspe$ion of,61, 8, 17 Mrquis de,63 Sade, SalgJohn,r55 Nathalie, Ttopiwtt, Sarraute, rt6 of choice,16r Sartriananguish fcenes, 59{o, 77,84;defined,59; rhythm of, 59;wriring, 3r, 98,r73,1754 r43 Scheherazadg rr, 4o eciance-ficdor1

hdes
Seagttll,?be (Ctrethov)' 4 &cond Nrrlt't Tale (Cheucer)' t46 Segal,Gorgp, !55 self-educatedwriterg 9' la 'Sentence" (Barthelme)' l4E sentenceq ro4; rccidental rhYnrc in, g9, ro&9; bearing of Point of view on, 76; fqcuq 99 ro5; inaoducory infnite verb phnseq 99, too-r' ro4; learning to hendle, r4r, r4&9, ro3; length of,76, roq r4&j; periodic, ro4; rhYthnl 7199 ro/h roG7, rr3, r5o-4; sPeed,74 106;structure, ro/$; cyle, 38, 78; variety, 17,99, ror, ro3{ rntimentelity, r5, rr5-r7, rt8, rrq r8r, I94; monnered,rI7, rt9 rcning, zr-3, 4G7, 52,6r,67; rtmospherc, !9, J2t loi development of, 7o, r69i rtreped in tsndem widr ch.rgcters rnd Plot,46 50, t7i rr Itory "germ," 56; of tale, 7r, 73; writer's limitations, 4z-3; we alto description; detail William,6, & rI, r5, Shakespeare, 42' 56,1674 r84' ror; "darlt comedieg" 20; genre-cro$ hg, zo; Httnlet, i4, ,rl 8&9, zo6; King Len, t4 6r, ft8; Macb*b, rzr; Othello, t r; revenge tragedies,88, Shaw, George Bernard, rzo of Son story 37, r8r; choic,e sgle, 7t; closing of, r93; description iq 35; opening, 56; plotting, 165,r7c9, 186; ro5; ploning exercises,rff, rcalistic-symbolic, ro; erchiog of,4t

22t

similesr45; Homerig use of, r3r, r43; modern ironic, r43 'Simple Hearq A" (Flrubert)' tBr Sb Gaanin ttd tbe Gren Knight, zo Smollett, Tobias George, t33 "Snows of Kilimanjaro, The' (Hemingway), trz Snou Wbite (Buthelme), t38 Sophocles,OediPus Re4 5o soul, tripanite (Plamnic), 811 Somd md the Fwy,Tbe (Faulkner), r4&9 southern gothicism, r?3-+ space/time remotenesgin tale, 7r, 72r7lr 7+ rrr-r2 ryatial treetment of story 85 spelling,rr2r rt4 Spenser,Edmund, 167 Spider-Mm comics, 4o

"SponedHorses"(Faullocr)' zo g rr9 Geruude, Stein, Steinbeck, lohn,Tbe GnPesof , l{roth, to e, Tt isttcnt Laurenc Sterne, r73 Shtntly,6,87, Wallace,37 Steveng RobertLou\ 97, Srevenson, t3r-3trtg, rlr *ory-rs-painting,r33 etory idea,origin of, 56 La (movie),93 Srada, Igor, 19 Suavinsky, Suuganky,Arkadi endBoris,4'o rtyle, 44-j, r rg, r4z',appropriatc to feeling, 6r,79, rr6-t7; of change of, means change subiecg!7, r3j-fi choiceof, q7, qg 67,7t,jt-7, r63-a6 esayist'sdiscursive, 44-5; iq r99,:oz-3; exercises r24i 116-17, flrmboyanq individudisnin, ra3,161;

222

*yle (canthrued) rmnnerisrq ,rtt r17,rrFzrr rzz-q, r6q1, poetic,44-5, re31, tEr; sentence/vowel/ consonlntcombinations, 38, of, in supr78;supprcssion 135-6 rcalism, rubjectivc fiction,r3r, r39 rubicctive-obj ecdve continuum, 14-5,r1r-2, r39 Sukenick, Ron,"Whrt's Your Storyl," r34 Sullivrn,Anhur,94 ruperfctionisrs, r37 rrrpcrn.nu.lclcmcntq 7F ,73, 7t srpcr-rcdbmr 8, 8r, ro5,135{, r39,I+!, r{7 rurredisrn r3?,llF 33,91,,r!6, ploaiagk\ {rr r6t, 169; t68a nr?cnrc; in mguishof monl 16r.r87;dclayfor, choice, 159{3; cxcrcise, ror anpcnsion of disbclicf,zz,t4 26, 29 Swifg Jonrthrq ft7- Gullivct's Ttwcb,1674 oymbolicrbstractionand iuxtrposition, 83-.6r6G7, r8y symbolicasociation,cheracterizadonbn 67-8 vocrbularyof, r45{ rymbolists, symbolq recognizh&t3; 3o,169; uscof, 36,7c-lr 77,t4g4, r@, 17% r8rr, r83,r93-rh r9b synBcticslots,ro6 ro5{ Eyntrx,t7, ggiteealsoscntcnccs ttlc, rr-2, z1rg3,, !7r 7r1; rction rnd plot of, 73;chrractcrs, oo susFn7r-3; dcpcndcnt

sionof disbclief, zt, z6 26, u9;dcscripdon b lf; hgh dictionuscd,lor-3; lrndscape of, 7:; precision of detailnceded, zz, zq-5,26, r8-3q 7r; rcmoteness of timc rndr/orsp.cc,7r, 7tr 7\ Jg rrr-tz; scningof, 7t, uscof 73;style, 75,ror, 163; superlatives, 73 Talc of Ttn Citics, A (Dickcns), 84 tastc, wrircr\ T g4ttori rs limit on hissubjecg 4r Teylor, Peter,"The Frncy Womrn," r7-E trching:of litemmre,tctr, 13r+, ,9-+r; of writing, rrl,
1254, t9g4

tcchnique, E, rJ,3J,4r, rt5-t, r34; cffect on subjcct mrtter, .nd uncertrinqr principlg t3o-4r; emphasis on, in contcmponry non-rcrlistic movcmen$, r3G7; cxcrcisct in, r9g-:oo, rou-6; mcthodr of lcarning, 14r-64; supprcssion of, in rupr-rcdisnr, t35-6 televisionshowq 4q 8r tempo of namtive, 59 Thackerrn Williem Mrkcpetcg r3: "thrt" cleuscg ro41 lheme, 56, 57, 8er, 1767, t7g; beering of point of vicw onn 77; choicc of,67,7o-4 defined, 7o; exploretion of, 43i recoSnEngrrli.s story "gaaar" 56, 168,r99; sceelso meening of fiction "Thcseus" (Gide), 75, rEr third-personJimited (subicctive) point of view, 7d 9o-u,

lniler
155-7,16$ chift to' from omniscicnt point of vicq 76, r57, r58, ro'6 third-pcrron-obicctivc point of point of 76-7,gtr99, roo,156,

22' "The Cclebratcd JumPing Frog of Cdrvcns C.ounryr"

22

r-rcro (Cdvino), ro rrt, r43,r93 Ullrar (Joycc), r3o' r+r principle, uncertainry &awing on' 69 urrcon*ioug fiction, xi, 47-5q unconvcntional 85; t514; non-profluencc, 85 tcealsodeco* unended, rtrucrivc fiction; mctrfiction Undcrstmdhgfictror (Brools & Werrcn),trr Paary (Broob t Urderstaading Wrrten),4r Urder tbc Yolcano(lowry)' tt 6ction, 85 unended unrclirblc nrrntor, 99, r5t Updikc, Jolq toZ vdueq u nbicct of fctioq l4' 3r, 43,6r, 6,1 vcrbe:rctivc vr. prsivc voicg roo; ruxilirry, gt; infinite
tqFl

163; ruthorirl, 76' t57'9^zo31' syrsq 7d r5t-9, ro5 ThomaqDyhn, roy (writcrlr), 16,374,5r-z' drought 7o,77,78 tfuillcrs,4o Thurbcr, Jrmcs,lg8 in tdc, 7r, rcmotcnceq time,/space ?r,7r 7$ rrr-r7 of, 7, i6 timing, scnsc Titien, 5r Tolstoy,flo, rrg r4t, ry7' t67' 186 r9r; ArilKttair,n, ttr {J, 63r r9r; Cbiklbood" 15;"Hov Much Lrnd Docr r ManNced?,'rrr-1; nrrrativcvoicc,roortt6' t57t t57 rSgiRcnencotim, Tot* loncs(Ficlding),87,t3t tovrr" point of vicq 77,t5t 'toy fictiott,' 8r clerration of, rgrr trashmetcrids, Tdstrtn SDeadr($crnc)' 4 87, r33 triviality, 6 ror Trollope,Anthonn t3, 4i{ Tropisms(Sarrrurc), r 36-7 tntth, ro-t t, 38,,18, 73,774' zoti kindsof, rr9; re$rrcmentofr rr9; ia for,63,79, 8o;serrch fictioq 84 unconvcntionel 889 Turncr, loscphM. W., r3r "Turn of thc Scrcw,Th" (Jamcs), r8r Twain, Mark,4r, r59;"Bdrcr'r Bluejry Yun " u, r5{;

Vcrgil, rr; Acnciti,$t vcrisimilirude, :r-q r5, 16rtr9 victim story, r74 r7t Victorirn novd r9r 'Vicws of My FathcrWccping" (Banhclme), r394r, 16r visudrrts,8o,E8; r36; I 3t; to, ?-4 writing comparcd rgFx), tr, t31' t3t{, rEt vividness, !r, 974 3r; rchicviog, rnd development vocabulary: conuolo( r4r' r44-t; vs lrtinatc polysyllabic colloquialwords,9E,ror, r+4-t; ormterr4t-7

22q

Inder
c&o frigidiry); cmpathyq 65,8er, rr8; experieDcg r4-rt, 2or;inqpiration, 5r, 69; instincg7, 69;intellecq 77,78,9, rdG7,r77,rBz (seealsothought); intuitioo, r77i 7, ?7,jr,69 77,167, Iimitationsor! 42;rcsponsibiliry of, ror-r; ssne humannesg &-9' zor-r; scholarvs enist 3gy; tae of, 7,94,2or; m$t in hisorrn judgmeng 9 sitios, process of, &,677q r7e94; choice of genre,67, of sryle, 67,7r, 7r-5; choice 67, 75-7;choiceof theme, 7o-r; faultsof dumsy writing,98-rr5;seealso 6tsn draft; revisioru )nrn, !r-r, zj4 $, !?,7\ 7#i co,ntrolof psychicdisrunce, rrz; dependent on sccepurrg3 of lie, z6 3o;diction iq ror; cxerciseq r97;in genrecroasing, lq 74-$ p,reci$oNl of deail needed, zt, t5{, foi style, 75,rot, 161 ?,laury, Rogerr,lp Zdr, Eoilc, r35

voicg choicc of, Zj, rt89; bordic, ro7, rrGrT; catn obiective, rcn, 116,r57at overuse, rto; in telg zr, r4, t6i seealto D:urrcor; point of new vowels, short rc. hog, 38, ?8, zot

W citingf or Gotlor (Becten), t6z Warreq Roben Penn,4r Watsor\ James D., 14 Watg W. W., Art Ameticm Rhetoric, 18 TZcr (Becken),rr Vleaver,Willianr" 18 Welty, Eudora,q6 Losing q6 Battles, Westor\ Edward,r8r "Whet's Your Story?' (Sukenick), r34 ro41 "which" cleuseg Whitman,Wdg r5rr. Willie Mendt LorcEo;r Wifc (Ges), r34 Wilsott Leigtr,r7r Wolfe, Thome$ ro7, rrGrT Wonder,Stevig4o Woolf, Virginia, rrg r85 of, g 79 rry writer: character l; &awing on unconsciour, 69;educedoq Fr5, 2ori ego.ro$ tr?, rrg, ntt (*e

About theAuthor
was accordedwide praisefor his JoHx GenoxER of criticism,and of scholarrvorksof imagination, New York. ship.He was born in 1933in Batavia, Among the universities at rvhich he taught are Oberlin. San Francisco State, Northrvestern, Southern Illinois, Bennington,and the State University of New York-Binghamton. The Art of Fiction was completedbeforehis deathin 1982.