-el-arte-de-la-ficcion.pdf

THE

NOTESONCRAF FORYOTING\TRITER

ALMOST JOHN GARDNER\TAS as he was for his

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.

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 young onar...It is serious'Provocativ€and.funny' 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 plJt, se.tterrcestructute, -Book-of-the Month Club News

Inc' C-overdcsign by Keith Sheridan Associates,

JheART-

,fFICTION Notes on Gaft for YoungWriters

JOHNGARDNER

VintageBooks A Divisionof RandomHouse New York

CoPytight Fim VintageBooksEdition,Jrnuary 1985. @ rcSrby th6 Estateof JohnGardner.All rightsreserved undei InternationelandPan-AmericanCopyright Publishedin the United StatesbyRandom Conventions. in Cenadaby House,Inc, New York, andsimultaneously RandomHouseof CenadaLimited,Toronto. Origindly publishedby Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. in tp8+ is madeto the following for Gratefulacknowledgment permissionto repri-ntpreviouslypublishedmaterid: Farar, SrrausandGiroux, lnc.: Excerptfrom'Views of Mv FatherWeepins" from Ciry Life,'copyright@ 1969, Reprintedby permision of r6loby Donald'Barthelme. Farrar,StrausandGiroux,Inc' This pieie first appeared inThe New Yorker.Excerptfrom "i'he FancyWoman' fromThe CollectedStoriisof PeterTaylor,copyright r94r,1969,renewed1968by PeterTaylor. Reprintedby permissionof Farrar,StrausandGiroux,Inc. RandomFfouse,Inc.: Excerptfrom SettmGotbic Toles, by IsakDinesen,copyrightiqr+ by HarrisonSmithanil 'Robert Haas,Inc.,cofyright renewedI96ub-yIsak Dinesen.Reprintedbv peimilsionof RandomHouse,Inc. From the Iirtroductiorito Superfictionor tbe Ameicert StoryTmnsformed:An Anthology,by JoeD*id Bellamy,copyright@ 1975by JoeDavidBellamy. of RandomHouse,Inc. Repriited b! permission Simon& Schuster:ExcerptfromThe Gentlemanftom SanFrrnciscoby IvanBunin,translatedby OlgaSharae' by WashingtonSquarePres,Inc. copyright @'1963 'Rcpiinted by peimissionof Simon& Schuster. Library of Congres Catalogingin PublicationDrtr Gardner,John,1933The en of ficdon. Includesindex. t. Fiction-Technique.I. Tide. PN3355.G341985 8o8.1 %-+ooo6 (Pbk.) ISBN o-39a-7zs++-r Manufacturedlinthe United Statesof America

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

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

NotesontheFictionalProces Enors tgZl 5 Cormnon 6 Teclmirye Uztl 7 Plotting b6tl Ex*cises bgfl Inder

lzolJ

Preface

Thi$ is r book designedto 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 becomeit 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 decidcdly second-clas.Peopledon't drivc their czrsaswell, or wash their ccn aswell, or eat eswcll, or cvenplay thc harmonicaas well asthcy would if thcy had sensc.This is not to $ry poplc rrc tcrriblc rnd should be replaccdby machincs;peoplc arc cxccllent rnd admirablccreaturesieffciency isn't cverything. But for the scriorsyoung writer who wantsto get publishc4 it is encouragingto know that most of thc profasional writers out thcreareptsh-overs The insuuctionhereis not for cvery kind of writer-not for the writer of nurscbooksor thrillen or Porno or thc cheapcr sort of sci-fi-though it is mrc that what holds for the most scriouskind of fiction will gcncrally hold for iunk fiction as wcll. (Not cveryoneis caprblc of writing iunk fiction: It re' quira an ruthentic iunk mind. Most oeativc-wrfuingteachgn hevchad thc cxpcrienceof occasiondlyhelpingto produce,by rccidcntnr pornographer.The most eleganttechniqucsin the world, filtcredthrougha iunk mind,becomcelegantiunk techniqua.) What fosaidhcrrc,whatcvcruseit may bc to others,is saidfor thc clite; that is, for seriousliterary artiss. Thc instruction is presentedin nvo somcwhatoverlapping pans.In Part One, I prcsentr generalthcory of fiction" r much closcrlook at what 6cdon is-what it does,how it works-than is usual in bool$ on craft. Undcrstandingvery clcarly what 6cdon "go€sfor," 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. Needlessto sey' neithersectionof this book is exhaustive.I havc includcd here everything that, over the ycars, I have found it necesseryto sty es a crcativc-writing teacher.Some thingr ultimetely of great imPoftanceI have found it not ncccsaly to &ly; so thcy are not in this book. Let me give rn

?reface

d

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 suggestsgreat 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. Seizcthe trunk of rny scicncesecurelnrnd you haveconuol of its branches. I may aswcll edd that I do not givc much emphasishcrc to thc variors forms of unconventionalfiction now popular in universitics Sincc mctafction b by nemre r fiaion-like critique of conventionalf,ction, and sinceso-caltcddcconstructivc fction (think of Roben Coover'sstory "Noah's Brother") uscsconventionalmethods,it scemsto 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 cxerciscsar 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 designationas "Thc Black Boolq" it has had e wide circulation emongwriters and tcachers,most of them not people I knoq friendsof friends.I've gonenperiodiccommentson thc book's effectivencss, and et the edviceof othcrs who havc usedit I've rcviscd both the main text and thc exercisesagain and again.I do not publish it now becauseit seemsto me to haveat lasrreachedpcrfection-for all I know, all the changes may havcmadeit a hymn to confusion-but becauscI'm convinccd that in its prescntstageit's good enoughand, so far rs I'm amrc, the mosthelpfulbookof its kind.

!l

hefae

trnsomcadic vcrsion*I hrd m oPafttgsectiono how crcetivcuidng oughtto beuugln-+hc ProP6uscof b- rnd how muchshouldbe rcquiredof otuout-of-clzscxercises, dents,whetthe propertoneof r worbhop shouldbc .od so of the wiilo forth. I thoughtthe dirusion imporambecarse reallybc clnnot writing notion thet ml*rken "creative ryread crcetivewriting by even ooghg" rn opinionofteo exprescd teachersIn drc endI've droppcdthat scctionsinceit liesomcidcthedomainof thisboo\ whichis simplyhowto s'rite fio tio. Anyoneinterestedin hesringmy o,pinions(n m$terl nore angrntiel from how one shouldonduct e wrfuers' worbhopto whetheroneshouldwrite with I P€ncil'I PGILor r typeuniter,can6nd theurin enotherbookof mine(answen ot lcctures)' moctcommonlyrsted afterrcedinSF 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 aesthcticabsolutcsis 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 diseascthat 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 universalsdo cxist, but they exist at such r high level of absuectionas to offcr almostno guidencc to the writer. Mosr supposedaestheticebeolutesprove relative undcrpressure. They'rc lrws, but thcy slip.Think, for instancc, of the wcll-known dicrum that all cxpectarionsraisedby thc work of fiction mustbc srtisficd,cxplicitly or implicitln within

flTEORI NOTESON LTTEMRY-AESTITETrc

thc fiction-the idea,to Put it anotherw.y' thet all legitimatc questionsmisedin the reader'smind must be answered,howwer nrbtly, insidethe work. Thrs, for examplgif we arc told thn a shirifi in a given story has r Ph.D. in philoaophy'an expecution is raisedthat philosophy will somehowhelp him dohis fob. If philosophyis neveragainmentionedin the story and if the most carefulscrutiny of the story revealsno import $t wey in which philcophy hasbearing'we feel dissetisfie4 annoyed.The story has,we say, Iooeeends The writer hr done his work carelesly, cynically. We may susPcctthc wont of him, that he'sin it for the monen that he scornshis reeder'r intelligencg that his shoddy crafnmanshipb intentional end malicious-in fact that he ought to be deponed.If he preten& to high seriousness-ifhe writes not Nmy$e{f story but sorne thing evidently meantto Pastas ert-we denourrcehim s a faki a pretentious,self-deludeddonzel We're not talking here rbout superficialslips lite-h Absdottt, Absalon!4^tllrnefs descriptionof r houseasbuilt of, in one Passegcwood rn4 in anoth"r place,stone.For mistakesof thi,skind, es for slip of the tongue, the sympatheticrerder makessilent correctios The mistakesthet ofiend in e would-bewort of ert .re seriour slipo in reasoning,as when someider or event is inuoduced that ought to changethe outcomebut then b forgonen' u never recognizedfor what it s, by the writer. And so it hr cometo bJaxiometicthat r work shoulderffiwerwery questirn it raises,that all of r work'e elemensshouldfulfill themselve* 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 believeshe'scompleted. new work, he ought to loot it over in the light of this generalprinciple.But the fact remainsthat thc luppfu aestheticlaw is far from absolutg since from tlrc bqgl""l"g of time greet unfuershavechovmimprtiencewith i:

Aenhaic ltu ard Ardtt c Mlnery

t

E"ery rcadcrof Homer'sltiadb stirrealto sk whetherAchillc lcally lovesBriseusor simplythinls of her-+s Aganremnon does-esr war priza The point b importantbecause it pro foundlyrffectsour iudgmentof Achillc'chancter. If he both hvesBriseusandcpnsiders her his righdul prize (asof counc sheb), we haveadeguete motivationfor hisrvithdrawdfron t{revnr, r withdrawelthet mustresultin the deethof ftirnd!. If hc doesnot lovc her,lre b lik.ly ro soemto us petty md vindictive,r sulkychild too sensitive, evenfor r Grech about hb honor.Criricalgd will andHomer'shighvaluetionof hb herohrd usto es$rmc tlut Achillc doesloveBdserudrough dso,rs thenrenty-fourthbookmrkcscleer,hecxaggemtcc tho vdueof honorof thesonbestowed by othersBut erctpt onog b-"dy, thrcughthe mouthurd p,cnntof view of e sccondery chrnctcr (Achilles'friendhtroHoc), Homcrrcfr$cssny d irv€r to otu questioo. It's esif the whoh mattfr scerndo him bcnestheph dignir'', mcrctcr-tablcgoslp pbrhepc,s torm scholars heveergud Greekherocsthoughtit unmenl)rto c.rl veqymucheboutwomenOr, on the otherhand,pcrhapwitb $ a*p Tnseof whatb right rnd hb Grcekcouirty oi love'r placein the all-cnrbncingordcr of Zers (r subiect-ue*erlin 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 givesrs only whathnokks thinla-.or clrirm he thi"t t in r rituetionthlt rright inclin€hin o llF{nd offerg in hb osn voioe,noclue Tate another,more modernexamplaIn Slnkespcercl Hlrnlf wc mmrally askhow it b thrlwhen shippedofi o whrt b mErntto bc hb deatb the rsually indecisivcprincc with thcir oump€tlrd-cn evcnt Trnqgesto hobt his cnemies thettekcsp1".. sagean{ rt leastin thesurvivingtcrr, g€tt 9ff oo resl qplanrtion.If prcsod,Sihakespearc might sayth.t- tro erpectsrs to recognize thatthefor out-foxedb anold modfh lioemture-h could mdrc up 6G tiremG dcreibif bc hrd

6

THEoRY NCnEsoN LITEMRY-AESrHETIc

to-and that the point throughout b hot Hrmlct'r indccisivcncssin gencral(any princc wonh hb salt cm knock off r pair enxof hfucncmy'sfawningundcrlinp) but hissclf-dcstructivc violrtof that dilemma, iety ashe facese specificmctaphysical ing law for a higher law in an uncertain univcrsc; that b' murderingr stepfathcr and king on thc say-soof r ghoct. (I simplify, of coursc.The proofs arc clcar cnoughfor thc ratior alisi Horatio; but Horatio b not Hamlet. The center of every play, as of all grert litererure,fo character;and Shakapcarcan it is Hamlct's panic, rage, and indecisivcnesthat rahe the qucstion of whet madc him act so decisivcly this once-the questionShakapearcdocs not answcr.) But thc explanation 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 tic white shark of music,he snappedstraight to thc hcan of the ma$cr, rcfusingto let himselfbc slowed for an instant by trivial questionsof plot logic or pychological consistencyquestionsunlikely to come up in the rush of dramq though they do occur to us tll we Porc over the book. Shakespeare's insti"ct told hinr, "Gct beck to thc busines bctwecn Hamlet andClaudius,"and,suddenaslightning,hc wasback. 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 itroutd in somcway givc answersto the questionsit raises-is and othcn valuelcs. But the examplcof Homer, Shakespeare, suspcrdcd. bc czn comctim€s laurs ecthctic docs suggestthrt taking mcens coursc laws of Suspendingrccognizablcacsthctic say to hb may risks,end thc teachcrwho wishesto phy it safc 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 dependsheavily on feeling,intuition, taste.h is feeling, not somerule, that tells the abstractpainterto 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 proportionsof alternatingelements, so that dialoguegoeson only so long beforea shift to descriprion or narrativesummaryor somephysicalaction.The greatwriter hasan instinctfor thesethings.He has,Iike a greatcomedian, an infellible senseof 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 greetestwriting. Obviouslythisis 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 subtlesrimplicationsof what hc's said,get at the uuth not iusr of his characters and action but also of his fiction's form, rememberingthat neatnesscan 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 backgroundback. The first and last imponant rule for the creative writer, then, is that though there may be rules (formulas) for ordinary, easilypublishebleficrion-imitation fiction-therc are no rules for real fiction, any more than there are rules for serious

8

THEoRY rcnrs oN LTTEMRY-ADsrHsnc

vlsual art or musical composition There rre techniquahunilredsof thern-that, like carpenter'suicls, can bc studicil and taught; there are moral and aestheticconsidentionseveqy seriouswriter mustsooneror later brood on r littlg whetheror not he broodsin a highly systematicwey; thert ere common mistakc-infelicitieq clodpole wayr of doing things-+hrt 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 somen€w work that breals thc nrlc yet pcrsuadesrs' Inve tioq aftcr dl, b rn's mainbusines*and oneof thc greatioys of evcry artist comeswith making the outrageous.cceP&$le' e3 when the painter mrkc sturply clashingcolors harmoniousor aedition inuoduccs-conrtincr vnitcr in the ingly--a ghosc mis is not m sry thet no one rcally knoun what fiction b or what is limits are; it b simply o recognizethat the valuc or "saying power" of any.piece of literaturc hes to dq findly' with the ctrancter and penonality of the ani* who crcatd ftJtis instincts,his knowledgeof ert and the world, his mar tcry. Mastery holds fast Whrt the beginning writer needq discouragingas it mey bc to hear, b not a set of nrles but urastery--emongotherthings,ma$eq'tof the an of breakingsocdlcd nrles.When m enist of true ruthority sP€e}c-+omeonc Raeine,Dostoevsky,or Mellikc 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 cxperiencedinough, so that we know what kinds of things ere boitng, iuvenile,ii*pt.-*ind.d, and what thingc erc not. To rcadwell, oneelsoneedsa cenainkind of mastery.) On reflectionwe seethar the greatwritcr's ruthoriry consiss of two elemena.The first we rny call, loosely,his sanehumar ness;that is, his tru$wortfiinessrs a iudge of things' I stability

AestbabLtu ntd Attittc Mynny

g

rootcd in thc mm of thosc crmplex qualitiesof his charactcr rnd personality (wiedorn,generosiry,compasio4 snength of will) to which we respond,aswe respondto whet fubestin our friends, with instant rccogrition rnd admiration"sayin& "Ycs, you're right, thaCshow it is!" The secondelement,or perhapsI 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 meansunivenity 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 finestteachcrsthen living, SherwoodAndersonandGenmdeStein, It is true that somewriters have kept themselvesmore or les innocentof education,that some,like Jack Londonnwere more or lessself-madcmen; thar is, peoplewho scratchedout an educationby readingbools baween work-shiftsbn boats,in loggng campsor gold camps,on farmsor in factoric. It is true that univenity educationis 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

commonfor eventhe most scrious,"academiC'writes to loolc n'theprofessionof English."And it's with fond admirationat truermoreover,that life in the univenity hasalmostncvcrPro' duced subiectmatter for really good 6ction. Thc lifc has too much trivia" too much mcdiocrity, too much soapopra but consider: No ignoramus-no wrfuerwho haskept himselfinnocentof cducadon-has ever producedgreetert. Onc uouble with heving read nothing wonh readingis that one never fully underthat standsthe othersideof one'sergument'ncverunderstands 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 thc countlesssorrowsof their movc to C.aliforniato 6nd work, hc knew nothing about the &lifornia rancherswho employed rnd exploited them; he had no clue to, or interest in, their reasonJforbchavingasthey did; and the resultis that Steinbeck wrote not a great end firm novel but a disappointing melodremain which complex good is pitted againstunmitigatcd, unbelievablc cvil. Obfcctivity, fair-mindednas, the qistcmatic purzuit of lcgitimatc evaluadon,thesc arc someof thc mosthighly toutcd valuesof universitylifc, and evenif-'+s is no doubt truHome profesors arc asguilty of simplification rs John Steinbcck was' the very fact that these velues are mouthedmusthavesomeeffecton the elertstudent.Moreover, 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 my experiencc,this is not commonelsewhere.In most assemblia, pcople all arguc on rhc samesidc. Look at small-town papcrs.Tmth is not much valued where evcryonc egrecso-n 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 profcssorsmey bc in gcneral,every greatprofessoris a manor womandevotcd to truth, and every universityhasat leastone or two of them around. But what mako ignoramuscs bad writen is not iust their incxperiencein fair xrgumcnt. All great writing is in r sensc imitationof greatwriting. Writing a novel,howeverinnovative 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'smode,we saywhen we havcfinishedit, "Now thm is e noeel!"We sayit of Anna Karminaand of Uniler the Voleano,alsoof the mysteriouslyconstructedMoby-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 effectsachievedin 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 substitutefor 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'sselecriveproc€ssr onc hardly knowswhich way ro turn. One endsup with some crank book on how Shakapearewas really an erheisr,or a Communht,or a pen-nameusedby FrancisBacon.Outsidethc univeniry it scemsprectically 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* the writer unfamiliar with the highesteffestspossibleb Yirte dly doomedto searchout leser effects Adminedly the manwho haseducatedhimselfh in a bcaer positionthan the man not educetedat dL But his work b surc 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
AestbeticLmutotd ArtisticMlxery

q

ume university world that the honct understandingof litcm. turc is a consciousdiscipline.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 organizationof 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-educatedrvriterq often qpres impetiencewith English profesors. The critic'r work-that is, the English profesor's-is the endpis of wh* hasalreadybeencrrinen. It b his businessto qntematizewhat he readsand to presenthis discoveries in the way mostlikely to be beneficialto 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 snrdentstnow ig but though t€arsnrn down his cheekqhis purposeis 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 choosenot 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 somethingintersting to sry. On the otha hrn4 one crn dazzleone's studentselmost endlesly, or eor coru"ge one'ssnrdenc to dezzleone another,with talk about dlusion andsymbolin the work of ingeniousbut minor writers. Subdy and insidiously,standardsbecomeperverted."Good" es an resthetic iudgment conresto mean "tricky," ,,acldemic,, ttobscure.t' This perversionof sandardslea& to the secondevil: Thc literature program westesthe young unitert timc. Insteadof dlowing him to concentrareon imponrnt books,fiom Homer'g Iliad to John Fowles' Dmiel Mfitirr, it cluners his reading

r+

NOTES ON LTTER.ARY-AESTHETICTHEORY

houn with trivia, old and new. To the cxtent that I glvcn programfeelsobligedto trclt Englishand Americanliteraturc in their historicaldevelopment,the offenscis likcly to be compounded.Though no onc will deny that writers likc ThomCI bt*ry orssxlr GeorgeGabbe havcboth thcir innateand their historicalinterest,they haveno morc relcvanccfor the scrious young writer than has,for instancc,JamesD. Watson'slittlc bookon thediscoveryof DNA. Probablyless. But thc studentis no helplessrobot in thc program.Suange to say-+ince writers so often speakhanhly of Englishpro' fcsors-young writcn arc almost always the drrlings of the departmcnt,cspeciallyif they'regood and seriousyoung writcrs; so that it's almostalwayspossiblcfor thc writcr to work out somcspecialarrengement'gctung the councshe needsand rvoiding thoselikely to bc useles to him. (Who can hatc r studeniwho wants'Drntcinstcadof Drydcn, Joyccinstcadof Jonathrn Edwards?)And in any event, no law rcquirc that 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 imfor thc seriousyoungwriter, of formal education.' 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 answcr hcre-how widc cxpcrience,from Zanzibarto the Yukon" 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 that by thc agcof four onc hasexpcricncednerly wcrything

Aesthetic IN

arrd Ardstic Myxny

I,

one needsase 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 ectionsby meansof which they comcro know themselves and rcveal rhemselves to thc reader.For that onc needsno 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 differenccberweenthe bener dramadcactionand thc worse.It is this kind of knowledge.-to r€nrn to our carliersubiect-that leadscoma$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 Frocesseserc inscparablc.Evcry rcal wrirer hashad Melvillc's experience.Hc works at thc problem of Ahab and thc whale (thc idee of an indiffercnt or malevolentunivcrse),hc happcnsto rcad Shakcspcarcand somephilosophybooks rr thc sametime, and becauscof his rcading hc hits on hcrecoforeunheard-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 becausceachtme anist mcls down and reforgcsall past aestheticlaw. To lcarn to writc well, one must begin with e clear undcrstendingthat for the anist, if nor for thi critic, aestheticlaw is thc .i".y. To thc grcar enist, anything whatcver is possiblc.Invcntion, thc spontaneous generadonof ncw rulcs, is central to mc And sinccone docsnot learn to bc r literary anist by sturlying first

IWMS ON IJIBRTRY-AE}TIIEITICTEEOnI

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

2

BasicSkills,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 sentenocvrdery, peregraphstructurc, rnd so fonlu It is tnrc drat punctrntion (for instance)is o subdcan; but its srbdcry lies in suspcndingdre rulec rs in 'Toq don'g knorr, e god, damned,thing," or "He'd secnher bcforc,heuns sureof ie" No cditcr shouldcver havcto hesitrtefor rn instantover what thc ndc to be kept or suspcndedir. If hc whhc, the tcachermay d€al 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 freshmancomposition Thc tcacher,if hc tnows what he's doing, is too valuebleto be wa*cd in drb va/; anddre snrdengoncehe 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

cover thc fundamentals,oncc and for ell, in two weks. TItc prop€r book, in my opinion, is W. W. Wan's An Amaican Rhetoric,the moeteccureteand efficientbook on composition availablc,also chc most interesting and amusing.Usually thc smdentcan do and corrcct the exerciseshimself,though occesionallyhe mey needto takc a problemto his teachcr.If hc findsthat hc ncedshelp frcquentln it's r fairly clcar sign that he'll ncvcrbc a writcr. the writer hasmastcredthe rudiments.How Let us suppose shouldhe beginon fiction?What shouldhe write about,and how can he know when he'sdone it well? t'Write about A commonand usuallyunfortunateensweris what you know." Nothing canbe morclimiting to the imagination, nothing is quicker to turn on the psychc'scensoringdc,vicesanddistortionsystcms'rhantrying to write truthfully and interestingly about onc's own home town, one's Episcopalien mothcr, one's crippled youngcr sistcr. For somc writcrs, the advicemay work, but whenit does,it usuallyworksby a curiousaccident:The writer writeswell aboutwhet hc knowsbecausehe hasrcad primarily fiction of iust this kind-realistic f,ction of thc sort we asociatewith TDc Nc'usYmkn, thc At' 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 unit of thought-his primary consciousor unconsciousbasb for selcctingrnd organizingthc dctailsof his work-is gezrc' This is perhapsmost obviousin thc caseof music.A compccr writcs an opira, a symphony,a conccrto' e tonc Pocm' a suitc of country dances,a songcycle, a sct of variadons.or a strcemof-consciousnespiccc (a modcm psychologicalrdaptation of

BwicSkillt,Geme,ml FictionssDrcan

rg

thc tone pocm). Whrtever genre hc chooscs,md to sornGcxtent depcndingon which genrche chooses,hc writcs within, or slightly varic, uaditional sffucrurrunera form, fugal structurc, ABCBA melodicstructure,andso forth; or he may creet€, on what hc balievc to bc somefirm basis,I new srnrcture. Hc mry croosgcnres,introducing country/dancesinto 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 proc€sses, 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 somethinglikc mclody. Anyhing, in fact-as thc Dadaistq Spikc Joncs,and John Cagepoinredout-might bc rurned into somethinglike music:thc screamof e tnrck-tirc, thc noiscof r windowshadc,the bleatingof a sheep. Wc seemuch thc samein thc visual ar$. In eny culturc ccrain subiectsbccomeclasicd, repeatedby 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 vcntruresof 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.Somctimesit risesout of genrecrosing, aswhen ProtestantFtemish 'pr€sente secular family ponrait in the uienguler painters organizationof C,atholicholy-family painten; sometimesit rises out of an elevationof the PoPular'or of trashoes on Gioao's cemprnile,in Matisse'scut{uts' or in the uash collager of Roben [auschenberg;and somaim€schang€ comcqrthc uual czse--
Blsic SkillsrGmrerandF*t;n

t Drenn

2l

cottricsl of sci-fi, fantaqf, comic-booktanguegpand imagery, movie mclodrama"and nearly werything else,or Donald Berdrelme'r transformationof such culturel trash ss thc research questionnaire, the horror*how and animatedqffioo& the travclogue 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, comesrbout incidcntally.It alsocomesrbout inevitably.The realisricwriter may setout to conjureup the personalityof hisaungcreatingfor her, or copying from lifg somesrory through which her chancter b reveded,and rhus he revealshis suong feelingr about his aunt; that rs, he expreseshimself.The fabulist-the writer of nonreelisdcyarns,tales,or febles-mey s€emtt first glanceto bo doing somethingquite differuu; but he b nor. Dragong tikc bankersandcandy-storeowners,mustheve6rm andpredictablc characten.A ulking treg a trlking refrigerator,e alking clock mut speakin o wey we learnto recognizgmustinfluenceevents

22

TTIEORY NOTESON LTTERARY.AESTHETIC

in ways we can identify rs flowing from somcdefinitc motivrtion; andsincecharactcrcencomeonly from oneof rwo placc, bools or life, the writer's aunt is aslikcly to show up in a feblc asin a realisticstory. Thus the processby which one writes a fablg on onehand,or a realisticsto{F on the other,is not much difierent.Let us look morecloselyat thc similaritiesrnd diffcrcnces. In anypieceof fiction,the writer'sfirst fob is to convinccthc readerthat the eventshe recountsreally happened,or to pcrsuadethe readerthat they might havehappened(givcn small changes,in the lewsof thc universe),or clscto engegethc reader'sinterestin the patentabsurdityof thc lic. Thc realisticwriter'sway of makingeventsconvincingis verisimilitudc.Thc tdc or somccharwriter, telling storia of ghosts,or shapc-shifters' usesa differentapproach:By the quality 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 the mostclumsyfamoussentences suspension of disbelieffor the moment,which constitutes Poetic faith." The yarn writer-likc Mark Twain in "The Glebrated County" or "Baker'sBlueiayYarn" JumpingFrog of Calaveras -uses yet anothermethod:He tellsoutrageous lies,or hassome charactertell the poor narrator someoutregeouslie' and he both the brillianccand the falsehood emphasizes simultaneously lie asconvincinglyashe can but tells thc of the lie; that is, he also raisesobiectionsto the lie, either thce obiectionsthc readermight raiseor, for comiccffect,literal-mindedcountrybumpkin 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 the writer in effectarguesthe readerinto acon verisimilitude, cepmnc€.He placeshis stoqyin someactualsetting-Cleveland, San Francisco,Joplin, Misouri-and he usescharacterswc would be likely to meetin the settinghe haschosen.He givesrs

Baic SkilbrGeme, ml Fictiona 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 experienceof his charactersthat \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.Thefact that the story is true of coursedoesnot retievc the novelist of thc responsibilityof making the charactersand cvcns convincing. f'Would a motherreally say thari" l_._":"9by secondwe ask, "Would a child really thinh rhar?"and if the noveiisrhasdonc his work well we cannothelpanswering,,,yes." If hc hasdonc hiswork badln on the otherhand,the readerfeelsunconvinced the -c-v-elwhen writer presen$evenrshc actually witnesed in Iife. Whar hasgonewrong,in this case,is that thi writer mised or forgot to mendonsomething importantto the development of the scene.For insrance,if a fictional husbandand wife ffc rrguing binerly and the wife suddenlychangesher tactics,spealcing gcntln evcn lovinglS the reader c"nnot understandor believethe changeunles someclue is providedasto the reason for it. The cluemay be an evenr,perhapsa noisein anotherpart of thc house,that remindsher thai the ihildren arenearby;ir it may be a thought,perhapsthe wife's reflecrionthat this is how her motherusedto,arguewith her father;or the clue may be a gesture,as when the wife, after somethingthe husbandsays, turns and looksout the window, providinga pausethat allows her to collectherself.When the rlafisr'sliork convincesus, all effects,evenrhe most subtlg bave explicit or impticit ceuses. This kind of documentadon, momentby momentauthenticating detail,is the mainstaynor only of realisticfiction but of ail fiction. In other words, while verisimilarfiction may be described generallyasfiction that penuadesus of its authenticirythrough real-worlddocumentarion, usingrealor thoroughlytifeme loJations and characters-realcitiesor citieswe ierieve to be reat althoughtheir nameshave been changed,real-life characters.

24

NmES ON LTTERARY-AESTHETICTITEORY

with actualor substitutednames,and so forth-thc line'by-linc bulk of a realist'swork goesfar beyondthe acctnte namingof streetsand storesor eccuratedccription of peopleend neigb borhoods. He must Present'moment by rnomenq ooncr€tc imagesdrawn from a cerefulobservationof how peoplebehavg andhe mustrenderthe connectionsberweenmomenB'the cxact gesruret,facial expresions,or turns of speechthat' within an,t giu"n s".o., mooJhumanbeingsfrom emotionto emotion,from 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 suspenddisbelief.Isak Dinesenbeginsone of her tales: "After the deathof his masterLeonidas,Angelino Santasilliaresolved that he would never egainsleep.Will the narrator be believcd when he tells the readerthat Angelinokept this resolve?Nevertheless,it is the case."No realist,of coulsc'could tcll this story sinceno amountof argumentwill convincew that a charactcr really might stay rwake for weeks,months, years.The talc writer simplywalkspastour obiections,grantingthat the evenc he is aboutto recountareincrediblebut winning our suspension of disbeliefby the confidenceand authority of the narrator's voice. Yet aftcr establishingthe impossiblepremise,onc that opensthe door to further improbabilities-in the caseof Isak of Juda+at the end Dinesen'stale,asit happens,the appearance of the narrative,countinghis silver in a smdl' dimly lit roonrthe tale writer documentshis story momentby mornentby details of exactly the kind realistsuse.The openinglinesslightly alter natural law, but granting the elteration,what follows is madeto seemthoroughlyprobableand ar leastpoeticallytrue by the writer's closeanentionto the naturelflow of moral cause .nd.f."t, a flow minutelydocumentedwith detailsdrawn from Angelino walks,telks' the sleepless life. As the story progresses, and thinks more and more slowly. Sometimeswhole dap prs We'tclieve" betweenthe beginningsandcndsof his sentences.

Basb Skills, Geme, anil Fiction as Dteon

z,

the narrativcnot iust becausethc ulc voicc hascharmedrn but dsq and more basicallRbecausethe chrracter'sgestures,hb preciselydescribedexpresion,md the reactionof othes to hb oddity all seemto 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 gr€at diffcrenccbetweenthe useof authenticetingdetaii by a rialisr rnd the useof the sameby r tale writer. fhc realistmust tuthe.nucatgcontinuallS bombardingthe readerwith proofs; the criter of dl * sunptifn penuadingus penly byihe b..oty or interest of his language,using authenticating-detail morc m -qnringly, give vividnes to the tale's key momens. Thus, for example,oncethe writer of'a talehasconvincedus,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 understandiay languagecor"Ie.l rectly, there was a litde incident happenedGrr. S".o )rearsago,the lastmanin this regionbut me movedrway. 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 leevesrustlingsolon'ety in theuees,andthinking of the homeawayyonderin the set€s,rhar I hadn't heardfrom in thireen years,when a

26

NOTES ON LTTBMRY-AE$THETIC THEORY

blucieylit on thrt housc,with .n aoornin his mouth,snd '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 'possumlooking 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 signifiesgratifica'It tion, you undcrstand--andsap, loola like a holc, it's locatedlikc a hole-blamcdif I don'tbelieveit il a hole!'" Baker,wc undersmnd,hasbccn out in thc wildernes too long and hasgone e little dory--or clse (more likely) he's pulling the leg of thc crcdulousnarretorwho reponshisstoqyasgospcl. Eithei way, no onebut the nerretorimagina for r momentthat what Bakeris sayingis rruc. What makesthe lic delightful b the painsBakertakesto makeit crediblc.The cabinwith the knotholc in thc roof exists:It hasr histoqyand physicalfeaturcs-in 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." In all thi malor genrcs'vivid detailis thc life blood of 6ction. 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 saidto be happeningis really happening.Beforewe turn to thc technicalimplicatiorrsof thh facg lct us look, briefl5 at a fcw

BwicSkillsrGerre, md Ficrtona Drecn

,7

morc cxamples, sincethe point is onc of grcat importancc.Takc ashortscenefrom PeterTafor's "The FancyWoman." Georgc has brought Joaephinc,the "fancy woman" or prostinrtc hc lova, hometo meet the family. Josephinehas been drinking and Georgeis determinedto soberher up. As he plshedJosephinconto the white, iumpy beasthe musthavecaughta whilf of hcr breath.Sheknew that hc musthave!He washoldingthe reinscloseto thebit while sheuied ro arangc herselfin the flat saddle.Then he graspedher ankleand askedher, ,,Did you takea drink upstain?"Shelaughed,leanedforwardin 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 shoulderwhenit stompedonerearhoof. Georgesaid,"Confoundiq I'll soberyou." He handed her the reins,steppedback,andslappedthe hone on the flank "Hold on!" hecalled,andher horsecanteredacross thelawn. - Josiewasclutching the lcatherstrapsdghtln and her faccwaselmostin the horsc'smanc.,,f couldkill 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-plankwoodenbridge,rnd sheheardGeorge's hone on rhe other sideof her. Sheturned her facet-hat wry andsawGeorgethroughthc hairthat hungoverher cyes.He wassmiling."You dirry basrard," shesaid.

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

28

NoTEsoN 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 stompedone retr hoofr" we rre .t onceconvinced by both the horse'sactionandthe woman'sresponse. SinceJcic bdtzzy andpresumablynot 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'shorsebeforesheseesit, and by the fact that, turning to look er hin\ she seesGeorge "tluough the hair that hungover her eyes."Examiningthe scene carefullS we discovertlut somethinglike 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 osseougpulmonatefislr, 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-unclewho wasa fish,on my peternal grandmotherbside,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-unclelived 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 pushourselvesover the softer layersof vegetationuntil we could feel ourselvessinking 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 scrapedup by hissharpsnougalwaysrummagingaround, moreout of habit than out of the needto hunt for anything. Pardy we believe,or forget to disbelieve,what Calvinotells us becauseof 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 muddyshallowsamongthe rootsof protoconifen), the vivid image of the fish-animelspushing themselves "over the softer layen of vegetationuntil we could feel ounelvessinking into rhe dampness,"the specificiry and eppropriatenasof the measure'h few pdms' lengtls," the column of liale bubblc, the great-uncle'shabit of "breathingheavily the way old folks dq" the "little cloud of mud scrapedup by his sharpsnout,alwaysrummagingaround,more out of habit thenout of the needto hunt for anything." C,onsider,finally, the piling up of authenticatingdeails in Ivrn Bunin's"The Gendemrnfrom SanFranciscor"e nore conventionallynanated,serioustale.The passage pres€nts.n oc€an liner crossingthe Adantic. On the secondandthird night therewasagaine bdlthis time in mid-ocern,during the furiousstormswecping overtheoceuqwhichroaredlike a funeralmasrndrolled 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 night andstorm,could herdly distinguishfrom behindthc 6ery cya of the ship.Thc Devil 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, whitenedwith snow, but it remaincdfirm, majesticrnd tcrible. On its uppermostdeck, amidstI snowy thc cozy,dimly whirlwind thercloomedup in loncliness pondcrlightedcabin,where,only half awake,thc vessel's ous pilot reignedovcr its entire mass,bearingthe scmblmcc of e paganidol. He heardthe wailing moansand of the siren,chokedby the storm, thc furiousscreeching of that which wasbehindthc wall and but the nearness to him, which in the last accountwasincomprehcnsiblc by the thoughtof thc removcdhis fcars.He wasreassured largc,armoredcabin,which now andthenwasfilled with mysteriousrumblingsoundsand with thc dry crcaking of blucfircs,flaringup andcxplodingrrounda manwith who was cagcrlycatchingthc ina metallicheadpicce, distinct voicesof thc veselsthat hailcdhim, hundrcdsof milcsrway.... Onc cansccat r glanccthet thc detailsarc symbolic,identifying thc ship rs r kind of hell constructedby thc pride of modcrn 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' makesusbclieveor forget not to bclicvcor (in thc yrrn) acccpt the lie cvcnrs we laughat it. If we carcfully inspcct our cxperienccas wc rcad, wc db' coverthrt the importanceof physicaldctail is that it creetesfor use kind of dream,a rich andvivid play in thc mind. Wc rcedn fcw words at thc bcginningof thc book or thc panicular stoqy, rnd suddcnlywc find ourselvcssccingnot wordson a pagcbut a

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 charactershaveto makq listening in panic for somesound behind the fictional door, orulting in charactcrs'succeses, bemoaningtheir failures. In great fiction, the dreamengagcsus 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 charactcrsand 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 entcnainsusor distracsusfrom our troubles,not iust that it broadensour knowledgeof pcopleand places,but rlso that it helpsus to know what wc believc,rcinforcesrhosc qualitiesthrt arc noblestin us,lcadsus to feel uneesyaboutour faultsandlimitations. This is not the placeto pursucthat suspicion-thatis, the placeto work out in detailrheargumentthat thc ultimarevalue of fiction is its morality, though the subiectis one we musr rcturn te-but it is r goodplacero norea few tcchnicalimplicationsof chcfact that, whateverthe genremay be, ficdon doesin work by crcatinga drcamin the reader'smind.Wc mry obsenre, first, that if thc cffcct of thc dreamis to be powerful, thc dream mustprobrbly bc vivid andcontinuous--uividbecauscif wc arc not quitc clear about what it is that we're dreaming,who and whcrc the charactersare,what it is that they're doing or trying to do and whn our emotionsandjudgmen$mustbe confuscd, disipatcd,or blocked;md continuousbecause a repeatcdlyinterruptedflow of action mustnccesserilyhavclcssforce than rn action direcdy carriedthrough from its beginningto is conclusion.There may be exceptionsto this generalrule-we will consider that posibility later-but insofar as the generalrule is pcnuasivcit suggesathat oneof the chief mistakesr writer can

,2

TIrEonv NOIESON TJTERARY-,IESTIIETIC

srekeisto rllow or force thc rcader'smind mbe distrecte4cveo momentarily,from the fictiond dr€an Irt us be sure we hsve the principle clear. Thc rniter pres€ntse scene-let IE srly . scenein which rwo rattlesnakes are locked in monel combet.He mekesthe scenevivid in thc the reederto "dr€em" 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 cen muster,how the headshover, iaws wide' slowly swayin& urd then suike; how the teeth sink in; how the tails switch and lasfugropefor a hold,poundup drst clouds;how the two snekes hiss,occasionally*rike and misq the rwo ratda roaring like noto$. By detail the writer achievesvividnes; to meke the scenecontinuous,he ukes painsto avoid enything that might disnact the readerfrom the imageof fighting snakesto, say,the trtannerin which the imageis presentedor the cheracer of thc cniter. Thrs is of coursenot to saythat the writer cannotbreak from the sceneto someoth€r-for instencgthe conservationist nuhing toward the snakc in his ieep. Though cheractenmd locale change the dreamis still running like e movie in the teader'smind. The rvriter distractsthe reader-$reals the filnr' if you will-when by somcslip of techniqueor egoisticinuusion he dlows or forcesthe readerto stop thinking aboutthe story (stop"seeingt'thestor|) andthink eboutsomethingelse. Somewriters-John Banb for insancoqrake e point of interruptingthe fictionaldreamfrom time to timg or evendenyiog mr readerthe chanceto cnter the fictional dram that his expcrieaccof fiction hasled him to exp€ct.We will briefly cxrmine the pu{poscand vdue of suchfiaion later.For now, it b cnoughto seythat suchwriten erenot writing fiction at dl" but eomethingelx,maafiaiot Th.y give ttrc readeran erperiencc drat asumesthc usud experienccof fction asirs point of deprrnug and whatevereffecttheir work mey havcdependson their u8 consciousviolationof dreusuelfictionalefrect.Whet interrests

Baic Skills, Gexrer ord Fi6{ton os Drecn

tt

in their novelsb th.t th9'' .rG not novelsbuq instcad $tistic oommcnts0n 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. icct, we've raiscdthe specterof e grert moressof rulcs: Don't try to write without the basicskills of compositioqdon't tty to write "whrt you know," choosee g€nre;creater tind of drcem in thc reader'smin( and rvoid like the plaguedl thrt might briefly distractfrom that drcenr---cnotion whereinr multinrdc of rulesareimplied. But nothingin aUthis, I paticntly enswe&hasanythingto do with aestheticlaw 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 maiorgenreshaveonecommonelemenqthe 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 readercan be distractedfrom 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 premiscof courseis that beforeonecanworlr well with metafiction, one needssomcundentendingof 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, chooser gcnrc end tr)r to write in it. Sincewe're living in an agevery rich in genres.-+incea given snrdentmay havc encount6redalmostanything, from taleslike Isdr Dinesen'sto Neu Yo*er redistic fiction, from surred, plotlessfictions-

34

NOTDS ON LITERARY-AESfITEfIC THEOR]

in-question-rnd-answer-formto philosophiczlly cnriched and dramaticallyintensifiedprce rcndcring;sof somethinglikc thc visionin CaptahrMaroelcomics-such instructionsto the writet may producealmostanything.Set off in this way, thc writer ic stuc to cnioy himself,first ri{fling through genrcs,discovering how manyandhow complexthey rre' then-tonguc bctwccnhis Thc approachhasthc tccth-knocking off hisbrilliant example. what frcedom hc has' of reminding thc student advantageof how vrst the poesibilitiesare,and thc advantagcof cncouraging him to find his own uniquepath. The reasonthe approachsccmsto me not idealis thrt, cxccpt in the cxtraordine{Fcase,ir wastesthe writer's timc. It inscrucs him to do somethinghc cannot rcalistically bc cxpectcdto do well-end hereI mean"well" in thc alwap urgent ardstt sensc,not thc morc casual,morc gcntlcmanlyway in 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 asprofessorcanrcll you, I think, that he worls very differently in his two styles.No one is more careful,more scrupulously honcst,more devotedto his personalvision of thc ideal, thrn e good professortrying to write a book aboutthe Gilgttttesh,Hc may writc far into the night, he may evoid parties,hc may fecl pangsof guilt abouthavingspenttoo little timc with his family. Ncvcrthelcss,his work is no more likc an aftist'swork than the work of e first-classaccountantis like that of an athleteconten& ing for e championship.He usesfaculties of the mind more easilyrvailableto us; hc has,on all sidesof him, ste1n,checks, safeties,rules of procedurethat guide and securehim. Hc's I mansurcof wherehc standsin thc world. He belongson sunlit walkways, in ivied halls. With the artist' not so. No critical study,howcverbrilliant, is the fiercepsychologicdbatdce novel ir. Thc qualitiesthat makc. true artist-nearly the samequdities

BasbSkilkrGexrcr ord FilrtionasDrean

,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 cxaminetionsare 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 reasonablcthing 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 somctimesI 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 discourageor undermincthat mighty wilL I would bcgin, then, with somethingred-smaller than a shon story, tale,yarn, sketclr-and somethingprimary, not secondary (not parody,for exrmple,bur thc rhing itself). I would begin with someone of thoseneccssaryparts 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 rcmemberedthat we do not really meanit asan excrciscbut mcanit esa possiblebeginning of somemagnificenrwork of arr. A one-pagepasagc of dcscriptior\ for example;dacription keyed to someparticular gcnrc-sincc dacription in r short stoqydoesnot work in thc s:rmcwey 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 clcmenrby clcmcntthroughthc neccsarypara of fiction, he shouldmakc thc cscntial tcchniquessecondnanuc, 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 end so awesomelysimple,that we ere estounded,al "orplo, we're dwap astoundedby great an This mianq of coursg that he must lerrn to seefiction's elemensasonly a writer dos, or en occasionalgreat critip: c thc fundamentalunits of an ancient but still vdid kind of 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 by describinghow an exercisein descriptionmight work. To the laymanit may seemthat descriptionservessimply to tell us wherethingsare happening,giving us Perhatrsomeidee of whet the charactenare like by identifying them with their surroundings,or providing uswith propsthat may later tip orer or burn down or explode.Good dacription doesfar more: lt is oneof the writer's meansof reachingdown into his unconscious mind, finding clu€$to what questionshis fiction must rsk, and with luck, hintsaboutthe answers.Good descriptionis symbolic not becarsethe writer plants symbolsin it but because,by workrng in the proper way, he forcessymbolsstill largely mpteriousto him up into his consciorsmind wherg litde by litde as his fiaion progresses'he cen work with them and finally understandthem. To put this anotherway, the organizedand intelligent fictional &eam that will eventuallyfill the reader'l mnd begiw asa tugely mystuious ilremr in tbe witef s minil. Through the processof writing rnd endlessrevising,the writer makes rvailablc the order the reader sees-Discovering the meaningandcommunicatingthe meaningare for the writer one singleact. One doesnot simply describee barn, then. One describesa barn as s€enby someonein somepanicular mood' becrusconly in that way can the barn
Baic SkillsrGeme, oil Fiaionoshectn

,7

Considerthe 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 exerciseshouldrun 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 aPPer€ntl)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 coursebe told what the emotionis-telling irporunt ctoric by tly implication b r specic of frigidity. Bw tnowing the emotion,we shouldget from the descripdonno 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 heevinesqdecay.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 samettring. inA ro the writer gatherspnrt--+till only pan--of the materiebvith which he doeshisthinking. At this point the readercanno doubt gues what drc renraintng pertsare.Obviouslyone doesnot think in exacdythe sarre ways,or aboutexacdythe samekindsof thingc in e short storyr r slg andr yern; and reflectionon thrt fact leedsto the furhcr observationthag asWallaceStevensput ig "a changeof 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

is tell the uuth aboutthings,or, asPoesayssomewhere'cxPr€ss our intuitions of rerlity. Viewed in this way, fiction is a kind of But we can seethat instrumentfor comingto understanding. thereareproblemsto be solvedif that view is to be defended. The realistsaysto us: "Show me, by a Processof exactimitation, what it's like for a thineen-year-oldgirl when shc falls painfully, faintingly in love." And he folds his arms,smugin thc conviction th* he can do iust that. But questionsdismayus. Shall we tell the truth in shon, clipped $entcncesor long, smooth,gracefulones?Shall we tell it using short vowels and hard consonansor long vowelsand soft consonenB?+causc thc choiceswe makemay changeeverything.Doesfiction, in fact, haveanythingwhateverto do with truth? Is it posible that this complicatedinstrument,6ction, studiesnothing but itselfits own processesl A commonanslperet the presenttime b that that is thc qucstionthe seriouswriter spendshis whole life trying to work out by meensof the only kind of thinking he trusts;that is, the fictional prmess.For the moment,we mustlet that answcrstand -with only this reservation:Great fiction can makeus laugh or cry, in much the way that life can, and it gves us at least thc powerful illusion that when we do so we're doing pretty muchthe samethingswe do whenwe laughat Unclc Herman's fokes,or cry at funerels.Somehowthe cndlesslyrecombining elemensthat makeup worla of fiction havctheir roos hooked, it seemginto the unive$e, or at leastinto thc heartsof human beings.Somehowthe fictional dream persuadesus that it's r clear,sharp,edited versionof the dreemall around us. Whateverour doubts,we pick up booksat train stations,or withdraw into our studiesand write them; and the world-or so wc imagine.+omeselivc.

3 InterestandTiuth

Anything we reedfor pleasurcwe 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,encouragingus to rise beyond,and forget, our most immediate,most childish pleasures--+olorin painting, melody in musig story in fiction-and learn to take pleasurein things more abstractand complex.Those sophisticated pleasures arc real enoughand can be intense,but somethingmey havegonc wrong whenthey cometo be the first pleasures we seek.To read or write well, we mu$ steer betweentwo cxtremeviews of aestheticinteresr;the overemphasis of thingpimmediatelyplersurable(exciting plot, vivid characterization,fascinatingetmosphere)and exclusiveconcernwith that which is secondarily but at timesmorelestinglypleasurable, the fusing artistic vision. Though fu cannot be said of all reachersof lireraturg it is cornmonto 6nd teachersindifferent to the kinds of poetqyand fiction thet go most directly for thosevalueswe asociatewith 39

40

NOTES ON LTTEBARY-AESTHETTCTIIEORI

rirptr entertainment-popuhr tyrics, dnrgsole paperbecks' andso forth. The reNsonilny in somecasesbc mobbery' but probably i*t * often the ceuseb tlrc sensitivertader's too frequent experienccof disappointment--+hcboring s.mcn€ss found at is extremein the scriptsof televisbn Westgrrq cop 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 nothing of the Beades,crn be dedicatd energttic Poctcm9rc interating than many of the weery rophimicategtnre'confcr mrs, md nndy rordemicswc €ncounterin drc "litdc magr' zineq" rnd thet drugttorc fiaion can often hrvc more to offer than fction thought to bc of r higher cless.Thc rcuh of nrch 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 ?*lzmy, or the Suugnsky brotherq science-fictionwriters; a eventluiller writers like John lc &n6 rnd Frcderict Forsyth; the creatorsof thc arly Spiilerilm comics or Houail tbe Duck.lntheory it may be proper that teachersignorethrillers' sciencefiaion, and the comic bools. No onc wans C.oleridge pushedfrom the currhulum by a duck "tnppcd in a world he nevermade!"But whenwe beginto list the contemponry "seriots" writers who 6ll highschoolend literanuc cours€q'Hoqtnil the Dack canlook not ell that bad. The snobberyor limited rangeof teachersis one of the reasonswe forga to think aboutinterestin the senseof immediatc appeal;but enothercluse may be more basic.The busines of g{ucationis to give the studentboth usefulinfonnetionend life cnhancingexperiencgone largely measurable,the other not; and sinci thc lifc-enhancingvaluc of . coursein litcrature b ditficult to measuresincq moreover'many peoplcin a position to put pressureon educationalprogramshaveno real cxperiencl

lnterestrndTnttb

4r

in or feeling for the errFir is often tempung to treet lifeenhancementcoursesrs coursesin useful information, putting them on the same"obiective' level ascouni€sin civics,g€omF try, or elementaryphysia. So it comesabout thst bools erc taught (officidly, at least) not becausethey grve ioy, thc incompareblyrich experiencewe ask and expectof all true arg but becausgasa curriculum commfuteemighr put it, they "illustratc maior thernesin &nericxn literaturer" or "prescnt r clearly smtedtrint of view and can thus servcasa vehiclefor euchctrriculum obiectivc as (r) demonstratingen aweren€sr of thc ruthor's purpose,(z) readingcriticalln rnd (l) identilying organizationdpencrnsin literary selectionsusedto support r poinr of view." One cannotexactly sry that srrc{rteachingb pernicious,butto treet grcer worla of literarure in drb uny seemsI linle like arguingfor preservationof dolphirq whgleq c{rimpt andgorillessolelyon the gmundsof ecologicalbelance. 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 eccidentalsideeffect of leadingto the notion that the chief virtue of good poetr'' end fiction is insuuctional.If wc look et the famousNew Criticel enthologiesdesignedto teach rn"llois (for in$ance, Undnntndkg Fiction nd tlnilaxouting Poetty, by CleanthBrools and Roben PennWerren), n'e qrnnot help noticing that subdn no doubt unwiningln the rw thors suggestthat what makesa pieceof literature"good" is thc writer's thoroughrnd orderly explorationof ideas,hh full de velopmentof the imptcationsof his theme.What theseeuthors suggestis in imporant wryn nuc, though ill-consideredboob ""grinst interpretation"(asonc of themis entitled) havedriven close enalpis from many classroorr: Howerrer dazzling and vivid the chare$ers,howcverstarding the action, no piecc of

42

THDORT NOTESON LTTERARY-AF.STHEflC

fiction canbe of lasdngintcr€stif 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 cngrgcdin suspnsefulactions.To writo fiction without rcgerd for immcdiateiffcrcst, puqposclyctrocing thc nrost colorlcs cheracterspocsiblc,e plot cdculatcd to drivc away thc poor slob intercstcdin sceingsomcthinghappen,and suppresingdl tcxnrnl richncssend varicty-to writg that s, esif fiction wcrc much too scriousto bc cnfoycd-is to raiscsuqpicionthat thc writcr b as inscnsitivcto ert's truc naturq and is value to 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 mediatelyintcresting,and intcrating in the samedegree,to all humanbcingt.And nothing can bc madeto be of increst to thc readerthet was not first of vital concem to thc writ€r. 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 lost), dislikethat which thrcatenswhat we crrc abougand fecl 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" tcrials. Mark Twain' saddlcdwith r cast of charactcrssclcctcd by Hcnry Jamcc would bc quick to maneuvcrthcm ell into wclls. Yct all writcrg givcn rdequetetcchnique+echniquc thet 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 deniesthat humanbeingshavefree will (the writer who rcally deniesit, not jokingly or ironically pretendsto deny it) is one who can write nothing of interest.Aside from a gro. t€squerythet must soon grow repetirious,he cannot endow characten,places,and eventswith real interest,becausehe can find no real interestin them in the fint place.Suippedof frec will-robbed of all capaciryto fight for thosethingsthey aqpirc to andavoidthosethingpthey fear-human beingsccascto be of anything more than scientific and sentimentalinterest.For thc writer who vicws his charactersashelplessbiologicalorganisms, mereunits in a mindlas socialstructure,or cogsin a mechanistic universe,whatever valuesthose charectersmay hold mrxt necessarily be illusions,sinccnoneof the charactenicen do anything aboutthem, and thc usualinterplay of valueagainstvdue that makesfor an interestingcxplorationof themcmustherebc a cynicalandacademic exercisc. If it is true that no two writers get aestheticinterest 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 rousedis that the writer communicatewith power and convictionthe similaritic in his characten' cxpcrienceand our own-then it mustfollow that thc first busi" nes of the writer must bc to makeus seeand feel vividly what his characterssecand feel. However odd, howeverwildly unfamiliar the fictional world--odd as hog-farmingto e fourtb generationParisiandesigner,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 extremepmition. Thcrc rrc limis to rhc cxrentto which peopleof oneculture can imag-

41

NgtDs oN LTTERARY-AESTTIETICTHEORY

inativdy embrecethe expericnceof peoplefrom another,end I more cautiousstatementof the argumentI'm offering would bc that the writer should make his characten' world sensually evailableto a wide rengeof readers,knowing in advancethat 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 readenwhoeehackground is similer to thrt of the characters.Only a wrircr from somegrsat culturd center like Parisor New York crn rfford such a position.The man from Wyoming, if hc crilrot corlln municatehis experienceto New YorL, is unlikely to get pub lished. So the writer who limiu his audienccoo narrowly L 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' enebleus to experienceu directly and intensely rs posible' thoogh vicariorslynwhat hb charactersexperience.How can the writer bestdo thb? Somesf the erswer shouldby now be obviots. The writer must of necesity write in a style that falls somewhereon the continuumrunningfrom obiectiveto subieaive;in other words, from the discursive,esayist's style in which everything b spelledout as scientificdly as possible,to the poetic stylc in which nothing (or practicallynothing) is explained,everything is evoked,or, to useHenry James'ternr""rendered."The esap ist's style is by netue slow-movingand laborious,more wide then deep.It tends toward abstractionand precisionwithout much power, as we seeinstandy when we comPareany $vo style wc onediscursivqonepoetic.ln the essayist's largc was doornay in the man might write, for instance,"The littlc e stooP had to rnd apparendyill et case-+olrrge thet he

lnterexrndTruth

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 metaphorsor similesappearithe other lights up is imagrnaryworld by lightning flashes.In contemporaryfiction the essayist's syle is to someexrentout of fashionat the momenqor, rather,is usedalmostexclusivelyfor purposesof 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 changedmuch. 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'smind. The writer's charactersmust standbeforeus with a wonderful clarity, suchcontinuousclarity that nothing they do suikesus as improbablebehaviorfor iust that character,evenwhen the characterbactionis, assome times happens,somethingthat 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'sbehaviorwhen the characteracs freely. So it is that Trollope discoversto his astonishment, or so he tells us, that Mrs. Eustacestole her own diamonds.Though her action wasnot in his originalplan, his deep,inruitive knowledgeof the character,developedover 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 &nowledgeof somepersondirythat literally doesnot exist? Beginwith the crucial observationherethat, €xceptascreetures of the imagination,chrracers in fiaion do not exist It ic

46

THEORY NOTESON LITEMRT-AESTHETTC

truc thrt Mn. Eustaccmay h basodon, say, Trollop's Aunt Maudc.But exceptin the writing of a biography (and, strialy spcaking,not eventhere), a writer cannottakc a characterfrom lifc. Every slightestchangethc writer makesin the character's backgroundand experiencemust have subde repercusions.I lm not the samepersonI would havc beenif my fathcr had bccnrictr, or had ownedelephants.Trollope's Aunt Maudecan no longer remain perfectly herself once she'smarried to Mr. in waystoo com' Subtledetailschangecharacters'lives Eustace. plcx for the consciousmind to grasp,though wc nevertheles graspthcm. Thus plot not only changesbut creatcscharacter: By our actionswe discoverwhat wc rcally bclicve and, simultrneously,revealourselvesto others.And seninginfluencesboth chmcter and plot: Onc cannotdo in a thunderstormwhat onc docson r hot day in Jordan.(One'scamelslips,or, from homesicknes, refusesto budge; so the asasin gocsuncaught,the Prcsidentis shot,the world is againplungedinto war.) As in the on every universeeveryatomhasan effect,howeverminuscule, and Spaceat any otheratomosothat to pinchthe fabricof Time point is to shakcthc wholc lcngthandbreadthof it, so in 6cdon cvery elcmenthas cffect on cvcry other' so that to changea character'snamefrom Janeto Cynthia is to makc the fictional groundshudderunderher feet. Thus it appeersthat to makcussceand feel vividly what his charactersseeand feel-to draw usinto the characters'world as if we were born to it-thc writer must do more than simply andthensomchowexplainand authenticate makeup characters thcm (giving them the right kinds of motorcyclesand bcards, cxactly the right memoriesand iargon). He must shapesimultaneously(in an expandingcreativemoment) his characters' plot, and setting,eechinextricablyconnectedto the others;he must makehis whole world in a shgle, coherentgesture'es a potter mak€sa pot; or, asColeridgeputs it, he mustcopn with his6nite mind,theproces of the infinite "I AM.' We arenow in a positionto look at the problcmof aesthetic

I

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 $ey cdl rhemselveqwho feel impatientwith maditional cxpectationsof character and plot. Character, these writers sometimesclaim, is a pan of thc traditional novel'sunnecessery b'aggagc andought to bc discarded.Thc novel,they.rgo*-.nd they would saythc sameof shonerkinds of fiction
48

rollsoN

LnDRART-ADsrItErrcrHEorI

of the anist"--or p€rhetr nothing morc then m interestingcoc' struction,anobiectfor our snrdyandamusement This view, now cornmo&hasimportant virnrc. It ocourrgc the writer to think in new weys, broadeningthe fiaiond erperience.If l,ois lane end Supermaowere to wanderinto r sceneby Henry Jarnecwhat would they think of it and how 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 daily life be changedin Brooklyn? Agein, if plot is no longer imporant (sinceits iustificationend ctntral interestb its reve lation of the potentid in characterand situation), why should fiction haveprofluencH)ur sensq,aswe read,that we're "getting somewhere"lIf the pornait of the arti* b all that really counts,why not an anist who simply chas with us, Pl")tsvith nsrperhapswen insultsus,creatingnot an actionwe cenfollow to its endbut r small,highly flavoredimiation of Eternity? Thc longer we think alongtheselineq the more interating the eer' thetic possibilitiesbecome.If the ertilt's revelationof himselfir hb style-not iott hit style in choooingwords and phrases,ser tencerhythmsand ways of building paragraphs(or desuoying the whole ideaof thc phrue, the sentence,the paragraph)'but rlso his style in choosingdetails from redity or dream; ele' mcns, that rs,of characteranil seaing-what happn* in tenrs of restheticinteresgif the writer ofrers not his own materials but someoneelse's?Thus Borgesgrvesusthe imageof a brillirnt modernwriter whose$ert opusis, word for word, C*rvantes' Don Quhote, and Dondd Banhelme,in his short story "Pangual,' borrort (and fmmotes) e landscapedacription that in frct hasto do not with Paraguaybut with Tibet. Theseare of coursethe argumens raisedagainstconv€tF tional fiction by pcoplemoreinterestedin metafiction None of the argumensagainstconventionalfiction will hol4 and looking 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 traditionalistanswerto 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 traditionalscriousfiction 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-upmaterialsin 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 enebledto 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 smudgedby 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 everywherethe samgit make$no difrerencc). A powerful pan of our interestaswe readgrert literrture b our scnsethat we're "onto something."And pen of our borcdom when we read bools in which thc vision of life secrmpehrt'mindedis oursensethat we arenot. Aristode'sideaof the energeicaaion is not rcally refuted by

5O

NOTES ON LUERARY-AESTHETIC THEORY

PoCs "C,esk of Amontillado" or Kafta's "Metamorphosiq' though thoocworks may lcad rs to understandthe theory in e ncw rre)t, a way Aristotlc neverthought of, working ashc did from thc practice of Greck tragedians,but one to which hc might without too great an cffon adapthimself.Poc end Kefka bcgin not with cxtcrior situationswhoocpotentirl is to bc ecnrrlizcd in thc progressof thc work, but with situatiorsthat are' interior. in onc casclitcrally and in thc other expressionistically' Wherer Sophocles'initial situationn OeilipasRer is r plaguc in Thcbcs rnd thc king's dark history, as yet unknown to thc king hirnsclf,Poc'sinitial situationis almostcntircly e pychu logicalshtc,the ccntralchuecter'shungerfor revengp(whether 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 day Gregor Samsawoke up to the realizationthrt he was likc hcightensor intensifia reality by l cockroech,"the expressionist turning the mctaphorto fact. In placeof the clasiczl writcr's clcar distinctionberweenthe outsideworld and thc insidc world-"situetion," on onc hand,t'character,"on thc othcr-the two modcm writers sccout€r rceliry and inner realiry asinterpcnctmtingrThc world is whateverwe feel it to be,so that thc situetion chamctcr must deal with is partly character.Eithcr way, thc unfolding of the story is the actualizationof is initial potential. Two ccntrrl tenc$, for the uaditional point of vicw, rrq notion that true literary an is "the rcp€tif,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 cteat€scvcrything at oncc,his charaffers,their acdongand their world, eachclcmcnt dcpcndcnton the others-and, second'the concomitrnt notion that en imponant pan of what interestsrrsin good fiction b our 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 elemencnb 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 proccssby which heworks eventuallylcadshim 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 proccsshad sornckind 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 ecparetcfrom 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 remarkablesubtlcy of fiction ase modeof rhought. The fictionalproccssb the writer'r way of thinking, r qpecial caseof the symbolicproccssby mcansof which wc do all our thinking. Though it's only an analogy,end in someways mb, leading,we might saythet sheelemcntsof fiction areto a writer what numben erc to a mathematician,thc main diffcrcncc bcing that we handlefictional elementsmore 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 argumentwe 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 relationship(anotherabstnction)bcrwcendying whitc rhinocerosesand dlng tigers,ctc., and risc, finally, to thc abstraction "dying wildlifc." In the sarnewcy, e writer consciouslyor urr consciouslyab*rectsthe clementsof fiction.

t2

NOTES ON LITERARY-AESTHETIC TITEORY

By thc elementsof fiction I meanall of thc discrae panicles of which e story is built, particlesthat might be removed undamaged,from one story and ptacedin rnother; for example, particlesof the action,"event ideas"suchrs kidnapping'pursuit of the elusivelovedone,t murder,los of identiry, andso on; or paniclesthet go to makeup character,suchasobesityend each of the things obesitymay imply, or stingines, or lethargy; or paniclesthat go to makeup setting rnd atmosphere.In isolation, eachelementhasrelatively limited meaning;in iuxtaposition to one enother, the elementsbecomemore significent, forming abstractionsof a kind-trigher units of poetic thought AII the armrre madeup of such fundamentalelements,which we find repeatedin painting rfter painting, symphony efter symphony,arrangedrnd built up (as complex moleculesare built up from atoms)in an infinite variety of wap. From painting we might take the exampleof the mountain (one element) and the tree (another)that in juxtapositionhaver standardbut variablefunction: The maiesticmountainis silhouenedagainst th. rky and comparedto e singlg equally isolatedtrec in thc foreground,the oneremote,unchanging,and divinein connotation, the other accesible,ever-changing,and humanized.We in is clasical form find this juxtapositionof elemensexpressed of the late worlr masterci in several in Titian, Pousin, and other paintingsof 19oz-19o6 of Cezanne-theMont-Sainte-Victoire -we find the traditional fuxtapositioningeniouslyvaried, the uee mlnteriouslydominatingthe mountainand ueated in such a way (swirling bruslsrokes, vagueoutlinc) that it seemsat 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 fictional elementsthat exisris finite. like the numberof wordsin the English language.Like the ree and the mountainin our examplefrom painting, or like words in the English language

InterexandTnnh

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 unconsciously,as plumbersand roofers uselanguage.No new elementsare likely to be discovered;this is what we mean,ot oughtto mean,whenwe saythat "literatureis exhausted." 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 consciousor intuitive recognitionof the netureof narretive, and his acceptance of the shacklesimposedby his decision to tell e story (insteadof, say,to write a philosophy.bookor paint a picture). By definition-and of aestheticnecesity---a story containsprofluence,a requirementbestsetisfiedby e se. quenceof causallyrelatedevents,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 reachedthe stageof infinite repetition; moreevensmight follow, perhap from now till Kingdom C,ome,but they will all expres the samething-for examplg the character'sentrapmentin empry ritual or someconsistently wrong response to the pressures of his environment.Resolution is of coursethe classicaland usuallymoresatisfyingconclusion; logical exhaustionsatisfiesus intellectually but ofren not emotionally, since it's more pleasing ro see things definitely achievedor thwaned than to be shownwhy they can neverbe either achievedor thwarted.Both achievemenr and failure give importanceto the thing sought;we csn feel aboutit aswe feel about values.Logical exhaustionusually revealsthat the charrcter'ssupposed exerciseof freewill wasillusory.

5+

THEORT NotEs oN LITEMRY-AESTTIETIC

It rmght be objectedhere that no lew requiresan to be "pleasing."A story that raisesexpectations,then shows why they canneitherbe satisfiednor denied,can bc asilluminating, 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 character'sexerciseof free will was illusory raisessuspicions, which may or may not be iustified,aboutthe author'shonaty and artisticraponsibility.It may be that the writer wasassurconclusionto his by the inescapable prised and disappointed aswe havebeen;yet we cennothelpwonderfictional'argument ing how much real interesthe felr from the beginningin his that he hasused characters andevents:The conclusionsuggests them rather than caredaboutthem, much as a preacheruses old storiesandstrawmento drive homesomepoint. In rousing andevents*suchis our suspiour concernaboutthe cheracters cion,right or wrong-he hassetus up, treatingusnot asequals but as poor dumb muleswho must be holleredand whipped into wisdom.Second,we suspectthe writer of a kind of frigidity.By thenatureof our mortality,I pointedout earlier,rre care aboutwhetwe know andmightposibly lose,dislikcthat which threatenswhat we careabout,and feel indifferenttoward that which hasno visiblebearingon our safetyor the safetyof what we love.Though we do not readfiction primarily in order to 6nd ruleson how to live or, indeed,to find anythingthat is in the engageourselves directly useful,we do sympathetically strugglethat producesthe fictionalevents.Readinga pieceof fiction that endsup nowhere-no win, no los; life asa treadmill -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 areweariness anddespair,andthoseemotions,thoughvalid and perhapscveniustified (finally) by the natureof the universe, arc les usefulto the conductof our livesthan arethe emotions we exercise in otherkindsof fiction.Not evenAristotlcwould

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arguethat fiction ougbt to be cathartic; he saysonly that zuch fiction is most satisfying.But certainly more is involved than simplcpleasureor displeasure. At leastin comparisonwith thc resolvedending (Aristotle would havesaidif the questionhad comeup), the endingin logicalexhaustion is morallyrepugnant. Wc have said that by definition and aestheticnecessiryI story containsprofluence,and that the conventionalkind of profluence-thoughother kinds are possible-is a crusally rclatedsequence of events.This is the root interestof all conventional narrative.Becausehe is intellectuallyand emotionally involved-that is, interested-the readeris led by succesivg seeminglyinevitablesteps,with no falsesteps,and no necessary stepsmising, from an unstableinitial situationto its relatively stableoutcome.It seemsa 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 leasrsomediscussion of thc matterworthwhile. A basiccharacteristicof all good art, then-all man-made works that ere eestheticallyinteresdngand lasting-is e concordof endsandmeans, or form andfunction,Thesinequanon of narrative,sofar asform is concerned,is that it takestime.We cannotreada whole novel in an instant,so to be coherent,to work as a unified expericncenecesarilyand not iust accidentally temporal,narradvemust show someprofluenceof development.What the logical progressof 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 paragraphto paragraphand 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 pag€smey still interest though it haspractically no movement.A.nd of coursenot all fiction needmove at the samepace.Runnersof the hundredyard dashdo not take off in the samewey runne$ of the maranovel would thon do. If the openingpegesof a thousend-page serveequally well es the openingpagesof r shon $oryt thc likelihoodis that the novel-openingis wrong. (This is not quite a firm rule, admittedly. A long novel may begin with greet urgency,then graduallysettle into its long-distancestride. But the writer's timing in his openingpagesb a signalto his reader'r expecmtions.) In any case,any narradvemore than e few prges long b doomedto failure if it doesnot s€t up and satisfyplot exPectrtions. Plotting, then-however childish and elementaryit may or seemin comparisonwith the work of surgeons,philosophers, nuclear physicists-must be the first and foremostconcern of of eventswithout the writer. He cannotwork out his sequence at leastsomenotion of who the charactersare to be or where the actionis to takeplace,andin practicehe will neverdesigna plot without somenotion of what is elementsimply. To saythat plot must be the writer's first concernis not to sey thxt it b 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 will effciently and elegentlyexpressit. Though characer b the emotionalcoreof greatfiction, andthoughactionwith no meening beyondits own brute existencecan haveno lastingePP€d' plot is-or must sooneror later become-the focts of every goodwriter'splan. Thc writer works out plot in oneof threewap: by borrowing someuaditionalplot or an ectionfrom red life (the method Doetoernky,end many of the Greek tragedianqShakespcare,

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other writerg ancientmd modern); by worting hb way bect from his $ory's climax;or by groping his way forc/xd from an initid situation.Sinceusudly one doesnot work out plot dl at one, but broods over it, mentally trying dtemativeg rting notegcarryingthe ideein the backof one'smind asonercadsor doesone'slaundry,workingand reworkingit for daysor monthl or, sometimeqyears,one may in pmcticework both backward and forward or even in dl three of the posible wap simultaneously.Whateverh"pp* in lif*a curiors fact one comc acrossin one'sreading (why ir b that pit vipen can sesin thc derk), s snatch of conversation,som€thingfrom thc ncmr. peper$ a fight with one's landlord,--all this becomespossiblc materialfor the shapingof the plcA or for cheracers,s€ning, md themeas they may influencethe ploe In e later chaper ("Ploaing"), we will examinein 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 happenedan4 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,someof themcontradictory,if not mutudly excle, sivg someversionssuictly fabulour-as when Helen's moth€r, I*da, is rapedby Zcusin the guiseof I swan,or aswhen Parb vunds before the thneegoddese* auempting to choosebotween thenp-other versionssuitablefor modernrealistictreetment.A givenwriter may find his intereststined by almostrny of the story'smaineventsTroy umsa rictr, cosrropolitanciry; in its ruins, archeologissfound iadc, rulong other thing* ploving

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that Troian traders had contactsas far awey as China. Thc Achaians,on the other hand, whom Helcn lcft when shc fled from her husbandwith her Troian lover, Paris,were cowherds, goatherds,raiders-from the Troian point of view crude barbarians.How surprisedHelenmusthavebeen,to saynothingof how Parisandhis fathcr thc king felt, when her peopledropped cverything,calledtogcther relativesfrom far and wide, left thcir lcan-tosand harsh,stonetowns, and cameafter her with r thousandships.That moment,her alarm at the news, might maker story. Again, whcn the Achaianspulled their famous of theTrojan hone,which the Troians trick, thepeace-offering draggedinsidethc wallsof the city, unaw,ucthat it wasloaded with Achaiansoldiers,Helen is saidto havegoneout at night 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 seperatcnarrativcunits,or episodes. tic cvent,he borrows from legendor makesup on his olvn exactly asmuchashc nccdsin order to makethe climacticevent (a) meaningfuland (b) convincing.For instance:If wc ere (a) fully to understandHelen's surpriseat the arrival of her relatives (if thc evcnt is in this primarf senseto havemeaning; implications),and if we're nevermind the largerphilosophical (b) to bc convincedthet her relativesreally did comein such astoundingnumbers,the writer must somehow6nd I wa)r to showusclearly ( r ) what thesestrangcpeoplcthc Achaiansare likc that they'd rcactin suchI wey, (r) what the Troiansarc like, and espcciallyParis,that he shouldmakcsucha blunder, and (l) why Helen did not anticipateher kinsmen'sr€sPonse. the writc All this, if the story is to bc vivid and suspenseful, mustfind twal ro showus dramatically,by cnactcdsccnesrnot

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authorialessa)'s or lengthy setspeeches by the characters.If thc is story to be eficient andelegant(in the sensethar mathemetical proofs are elegant), the writer must inuoduce no more backgroundeven$or major characters than strictly nece$ary (and,obviously,no less),and mustintroducethesematerialsin the smallestpossiblenumberof scenes, eachscencrhythmically proportionateto 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 Achaiansarelike andwhy Helenwill not edticipate their responseto her flight with Paris,the efficientand elegantwriter doesnot usetwo or threescenes. By scerc we meanhere all that is includedin an unbrokenflow of action from oneincidentin time to another(the sceneat the breakfast table,the sceneout by the chariottwo hourslater, the scene betweenHelenandthe priestin the temple,or wharever).Thc actionwithin a sceneis "unbroken"in the sensethat it doesnot includea maiortime lapseor a leapfrom onesettingto another -though the characters may,of course,walk or ride from one placeto anotherwithout breakingthe scene,the camera,so to speak,dollyingafter them.The actionwithin e sceneneednot be "unbroken"in the sense that it includesno flashbacks or brief authorialinterruptionsfor backgroundexplanation. The sceneis not broken,in otherwords,whena character's mind drifts from presentsurroundingto someearlierscene,which is thenvividly set beforeus for the time the flashbacklasa.The efrcient and cleganrwriter makeseachscenebearasmuchasit canwithout clutter or crowding,andmovesby the smoothesrr swiftesttransitionspossible from sceneto scene. In additionto wuching the rhythm of hissceue-thetempo or pece-the writer pays close attention, in constructingthe scene,to the relationship,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 sceneand the story asa whole. Let us say

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thet at somepoint Helenstepsbehinda curtain to look for a loot brooch, and becauseshe is there she happensto overheara convenadon.Sincethe function of Helen'ssteppingbehindthe curtain is relatively slight and mechanicd,the good writer gets her behindthe curtain asquickly aspossible(havingset up the lost brooch earlier,so that her action seemsinevitableand natof the curteirLor unl). If he dwellsat lengthon the appearance emphasis moment's it, in the she steps behind Helen'sgestureas spot in the a dull is disproportionateto its function andbecomes narrative,or annoyingly misleadingsincethe tuthor's hoo-rah leadsus to expectsomelarger out' aboutHelen'sdisappearance comethanwe get All these considerationsthe author bears in mind, consciouslyor intuitively, as he constructshis sequenceof events teadingto the climax (Helen'ssurprise).If his story plan is to be successful,he must rightly analyzewhet is logically neces' $ry to the climax. If he showsus what the Achaiansare like and what the Troians are like, but fails to realizethat he must alsoshow us why Helen doesnot guesshow her kinsmenwill behave,the climaxwill lack inevitability and,thereforerporrv€r. Agdn, if the planof the story is to work, the writer's solutionsto the problemsinvolved in authenticatingthe climax must be credibleandapt. If Helenlosesher broochby throwing it at her husband,Menelaos,partly becauseMenelaosis a drunkard and t lezy o$ and partly because,againsther will, she'sfalling in love with their guestParisand his fine city ways, the curtain scenemay be convenientlyexplained,but we arelikely to doubt that Menelaos,evenwith the help of his brother AgamemnorS could organizethe huge,stern-mindedforce that goesafter her. Thus in thinking about ploq the writer must alsothink about characterandits effecs. He must think, at the sametime, about why it is that the story interestshim. Whether he is using a traditiond plog en action dram from life, or somethinghe's madeup, no writer chooseshis story by pure whim or the mechanicalcombinetion

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of randomelemenc.For the good writer, nothing is easierthan makingup poasiblestories.If pushed,he canspinthem out hour of rfter hour, eachoneof themtheoreticallysound---asequence evens leadingto someclima& or, in longer narrativc, an epi" sodic sequenceof climaxes.(Helen's surpriseand helplesnes might naorally leadto e secondclimx, 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, psychologicalclimax, Helen's srprisel What the writer's interestmeansis that the climactic eventhassruck somechord in him, onethet seemsworth exploration.ICsby thc whole proces of fint planningthe fiction and then urriting itcleboratingchencte$ and detailsof sening, fi"ding the syle that seemsappropriateto thc feeling,discoveringunanticipated 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 authenticatewhat I earlier celled the story'sFtimary meaning:Helen'ssuqprise. The surprisei: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, secondalysensethat we qpeakof the "meaning"of worls of an The lerger "meaning" of e story, we shouldpauseherc to note, may or mey nor comefrom our ebstractionof or rhought about what I've calledabovea conclusiveemotion.But it does dways come (at leastthis is true in every caseI can think of) from feeling.In the classicca$e-esin rhe Helen srory we're in the proces of makingupit comeswith 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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well, uc know whet the Achaiansarelike and what the Troiars rrc likc, how the Achaian community, though et first glance crudeandbarbaric,hasa profoundsenseof kin responsibiliry, a scnseof justiceandpropriery that it is willing to extendevento invited guests(Paris,when he go€sto Menelaos'houseand first 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 comesthat the Achaianshipshave bcen sightcd.In other kinds of story, the secondaqyor larger mcrning mey bc releasedin other ways.For example,it may be our fccling rbout the wholemovementof the storyr not the final cmotion of the character,that we abstractto an affirmationof vrlues (secondarymeaning).In the naturalistmode-fiction likc Dreiscr's-the charecterfights fcrociously for something but is finrlly beatendown by overwhelmingforcc and endsin sorrow or despair,not fully awareof what hashappcnedto him. It is not the despairthat we ab,stractto someuniversalvalue, 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, somcstetementon 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 sensethat 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 scnsitivcreadcrcan abstractout the metaphysical implicationsof fictionalcvens;bur fiction'smcar ing canno morebecome,by itself,metaphysical rhana cow in r 6eldcanevolveinto a Platonicidea. Perhapsrn analogymay bc of help herc.In orthodoxChristianiry the believeris told that all formal codes,eventhc shifting cods of situationalerhics,aresupplanted by "the penon of Christ " "I am the Wzy," Christ sap, meaning,by onestandard interpretation, that if the believerwill giveup hisheartandsoul to Chrl*, letting Chrisr'spcrsonaliry"entcr in" like a daemonic force, hc canthen act rightly in cvery situation,becattsein fact he is no longerthe agent;Chrisris-a divinity who can do no wrong. Thc believer'sactionsflow nor from any theory of right and wrong but from what an obiectivcobserver-a sympathetic non-believer,say-would call an ingestedmetrphor: the life andpersonalityof Christ.Long anddcvoutstudyof Christ'slife and worls has givcn the belicvcr a model of behaviortoo subtlc and complex for vcrbal exprcssionbut ncvenheless truswonhy. In thc sameway, fiction provides,at its best,trusrwonhy but inexpressiblcmodels.We ingesrmetephorsof good,wordlasly learningto bchavemorc likc Levin than like Anne (n Anna Knanina), morc likc thc transformedEmma (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 sceksout. We havc seid that Helcn's suqpriscat thc errival of thc Achaiansis to bc, in the fiction wc are making up, an implicd discoveqyfrom which sprinp, for thc rcader and perhapnfor

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Heler! someaffirmationor recognitionof a value.The quction we havenot quite answeredis: How doesthe writer's working out of plot leadhim to Helen'sdiscoveryand his own discovery of what he meanslHaving analyzedwhat 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 makesup 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 Achaiansmight havebehrvedasthey do-for examplgthe poosibility that, to. man,they are greedyfor the treasuresof 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,or the posibility (ab,surdbut traditional) that they arearousedto actionby Helen'sb."oty.Taken siogly, none of thesepossibleexplanationswill wash, becausewhat they sayaboutredity (what they "mean") doesnot suike us as true. Our experienceof humanitymakesit hard for us to beliere thrn that many Achaians (or membersof any other group) could be so suongly motivatedby greed,though somemight ioin in for that reason;we cannotbelievein charismaso powerful 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 mom€nts)' Menelaos' charisma, and Helen's beauty--+ffers persuasivc causc.By the sameprocess,the writer fig*o out why the Troians do what they do aod why Helen doesnot guesswhat she shouldhaveguesed. SinccHelen,in this story is thc centrd charactcr,her neturc

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rnd mcivetion will be of specidimporunce to dre convincingnes of the lie. One posible choice,it might seemet fnt glencc, is to make her an innocent victim. Shelteredand coddle4 brought up emongwomen,manied in her girlhood to mighty Menelaos,shehasno real knowledgeof 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 recognizethat the centralcharactermustacq not simply be actedupo+ is thc singlemost conrmonmistakein the fiction of beginnen.) We carehow thingptum out because the characterczres--ourintercoms from €st empathy---and thoughwe may know morethan the characterknon6, enticipatingdangenthe charactercannot see,rye irn{erstandand to somc degreesympathizewith the character's desirg approving what the character epprovcs (what the charactervdues), evenif wc sensethat 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 senseof 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 charactersof 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 elaboratcin detail here the posibilities-her wish, ass child of Zeugformorc intelligentandsophi*iertedcompen)r,hcr honor

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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 of hcr motive,its rclationshipwith thc differing communiry endits origins.We may valuesof thc Trojansandthe Achaians, fully rcalizcthc implicationsof her motiveonly at thc moment of recognition,the climax*how (for cxamplc)hcr dcsircfor is caughtin thecrosfire of conflictingcommuniry indcpendcnce value-but long beforethat momentwe mustbc shownclearly' not iusttold, what her drivingmotiveis.To be shown,we must bc shownby action;the proof mustappeerin plot. Wc mustbe berwccnHelcn'sidealandthe functional shownthe reladonship bclicfsof Troians,on oneside,Achaiam,on the other,and this too mustappearin plot. Someactionof Helcn'smight elicit onc enotherfrom Paris,carly in the story' rcectionfrom Menelaos, in the andsomething natureof Helen'scharacter,or somcthing in the natureof that carly cvent,shouldgivc us clucsasto why Menelaosand thc Achaiansend pcrhap Hclen undercsdmates hcr potentialsccurirywith Parb and the Troians. overcstimater Finally,if Hclcn'smotivcis to bc perfcctlyconvincing,we must be shownits origins;and that too meansplot. Shc might remcmbcrfrom her carly childhood,for cxamplc,lnmc event involvinga belovednurse,oncee quecn,now a slavc-an event character. that hclpcdto shapeHelen'sdefiantand indepenCent proofsfor e'e4/ significant All thesccvcnts,thc authenticating 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 story'$Iargerelementswill haveits own implicaions and excrt is own subtlepressurcon the story.Thc old slavchc invcnted in supponof Helen'scharactcr,if shc'sto do thc work required of hcr (motivateHelen), mustbc r vivid and intercstingcharacter;otherwiscwc cannotunderstrndwhy her influenceshould bc so powerful. But once a vivid and intercstinl:characterhas

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bccninuoduced,he or shccrnnot rirply be droppcd,forgottcn hcnceforward.Oncethe charactcris goncJrrngcd, lct ussaywe mis the chrracter;or, to put it anotherweyl we expcctthe character'srcturn, 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 shecomesback?Shc can't iust standthcrc. Forcedby the neccssiryof his srory ro bring hcr back and provide her with somcaction, howcver brief, thc writer is forccd to think up somcfurthcr meaningfor thc chencrcr (it mey help to ask,in this case,how the slave'sdefiantindependence 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 skeletonthat is his plan. Hcre too hc b partly in control of andpanly controlledby thc fictionalproccs. Again rnd again,in the processof writing, hc will find himsclf forccd to new discovcrics. He must crcatc,sffoke by stroke,powerfully convincingchrractcn and sertings;he must more and moreclearlydc6nefor himselfwhat hisoverallthemcor idcais; and hc musrchomcend aestheticallyiustify his genreand stylc. Charactcris crcatedpanly by an ascmbly of facts,including actions,panly by symbolic association. Thc first needsno commcnt.Menelaosis, san rathcr older than Hclen, a famous warrior, I poor rhetorician,e srern king but one eesilymovcd to teerc.Thcsearcsimply facts.Thc wrirer makesup or borrows from lcgcnd asmany of them as he necds,supportsthem with appropriatchabitsend gesturc, rnd showsin thc bchavior of othcr charactcrswhcn thcy dcal with Mcnclaoethat thc king b who andwhat he scems. But often our deepcstsenscof chrracrcr com6 from symbolicrsociation. Wc frcquently lcrrn about fictional charactersrs 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 living or dead,suchasGandhi,Charlesde Gaulle,or personag€ Frank Sinatrq then tells the other players,"I em a deadAsiarq" t'I ame deadEuropeanrt't'Iame living American,tt or whatever. The playen, in order,try to gues the nameof the penonageby askingsuchguestions$ "What kind of smoLeareyou?" "Whet kind of weather ate you?" "\Mhat kind of animal are you?" "Wbat part of the humanenatomy?"And soon.The playerwho b it arswen not in tenns of what the penonagemight have liked to smokgwhat wenher he might haveprefered, etc., but what the personagewould Deif he were incarnatednot es t human being but :ls, sI, e certain Lind of smoke-
IaterexodTnab

69

think out every implicetionof everyimagehe introduccsat thc time he introducc it. He writes by feel, inruitively, imagining the scenevividly end copying dom its mostsignificantderails, teeping the fictional dream alivg sometimeswriting in r thoughdesswhite heatof "inspiratioq" dawing on his unconcciouqttusting his instincts,hopingthat when he looksback at it later, in cool obiectivity, the scenewill 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 revisionsandgetting 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, perhapswhen 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, sometimesto Picaso or the Great $ramid, sometimes to the posible philosophicelimplicetions of Menelaos'hp (r detail he introduced by impulse bccauseit seemedrigh$. Readingin this suzngeway lines he hasknown by hean for weels, he discoversodd tics his unconrcioushassentup to him, perhepscuriow accidentdrepetitions of imagery: The brooch Helen threw at Menelaocthe writer has dacribed, he discovers,with the samephrasehe usedin describing,muchlater, the sealon the me$egefor help sent to ttreTrojans'dlies.Why? hewonden.Jusrasdreamshavemeaning, whether or not w€ cen penetretethe meaning,the uniter assumes that the accidentsin 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 characterdeepensand flowers. In response,Menelac slighdy

70

NOTES ON LTf,EMRY-AESTTIEf,IC THEORY

with the petience changes; so doesParis.Slowly, painstakingly, a Beethovenfrom men of equalgeniusbut les that separates divine stubbornness, the great writer builds thc large, rockfirm thoughtthat is hisfiction. What heppensin the writcr's developmentof characters happensalsoin his developmentof atmosphercand setting.Thc megalithsandwallsthat form the salientfeatureof the citiesof antitheticalto the floweredwalkwaysandthc top the Achaians, Icsstowcrs of llium, gro$, more stern, more alarmingin their which he usesas solidity with eachrevision.Menelaos'scepter, I can€,takeson daemonicforce. Sincesomcwhere neerthe end of his planningof the 6ctior\ the writer hasknown pretty clearly what the generalidea or theme of the work is to be. By theme here we mean not "message"-e word no good writer likes appliedto his workbut thc generalsubiect,asthe themcof an eveningof debates may bc World-Wide Inflation.Sinceearly on, it hasbeenclear that in our Helenstorythethemchashadto do with community andindividualvalues.(Anotherwriter, makingdifferentchoices about plot and character,might wcll haveemergedwith a diffcrent theme,suchasLife venusArt-the Achaianson oneside, theTroianson theother,with Helenin the crossfireasboth wifc 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 sharpensrnd 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 com€up 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 someappropriatesymbol,and if so, what? And precisely what doesthis symbolimply? The thought of tradition brought down from fathersto sons-a thought reinforcedby the inevitable prominenccof old King Priam,Paris'sfather,in the stoqy's later segments-maylead him to museon Helen's lincagc,half human,half divine.Grantedthat the writer would havc difficulry believingin the literal rape of Helen'smotherby Z.uC what might thc symbolicdoubleheritagemean?What legitimacy can be found for thc metaphor? Finalln the writer must6nd for hisstory whrt seemto him the mostappropriategenreandstyle.Herc too hischoiceshavc implications.In origin, the story of Helen is of coursccpic-e deadform.What happens i( throwingczutionto the winds,thc writer decides to reviveit? As practicedby Homer,the epicwas e quecrson of seriousyarn: The poet tells, often, of impossiblc thingsandmakesno bonesaboutthe 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 distancinghisstoqy in timc and spacgor of penuadingus by tone and atmoephcrc that we shouldsuspenddisbelief.When humanbeingsarc involvcd (Achilles'talkinghorseswarninghim of his death),thc poet spcaksseriously.We must readthe eventascxpresionistic truth, as when Gregor Samsawoke up and discoveredhimsclf changedto a cockroach.When the godsare involved,the poet mey speakin a way morc troublesometo our modernmind-sct For Homer and his eudience,the godsare simpln somehow, outsideforcesthat can daemonicallycnter 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 makesup humanlikebehaviorfor them,sometimesapologizcsby comedyfor thc anifice, yet meenswhat 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 sexualseduaion The €rcnt b comic, the effect penly t"agic; and to makethingpmore confusing, thce samedivine artificescanfeel soraowwc repccg not at dl the comic wailing of clowns.Thoogh on refection wc mty understandHomer'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-consciorsobieaivity foreign to thc odgind epic sryle. He cznnot writc an epic but only an cerir€st parody that worts chiefly asr snrdy of the anistic minil or asr Gommenton 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 seemsfruidess. What happensif 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 easilyadaptablcto the tale'sbesicrules The setdng of e tale b customarilyremotc in eirh€r time or spaceor both and is presentedwith a mixftre of vaguenesand gencraliryon one hand and with meticulouslycxact deteil on the other. Thc vdter's carein supplyingexactdetail encoureg€s credencqand the remotenesqtogaher with thc vegucn€ssend genemlity, tendsto preventthe readerfrom consideringthe reality or utrrediry of the setting.The landscapeof e tde b of a kind likely to inspire the rEader'swonder-lonely moors,sunny meadouq, wild mountains,dark forests,desolatcseecoests-andboth netural and man-madefeaturesof the sening are frcquendy of great eg9 suggestinga past chargedwith traditions and vdues that imposethernselves on the will of the cherecters Tde charactersere designedto be convincingwithout mg. gestingcomparisonwith real people.They behavein recogniz" ably human wa1n, but they may be superneturalbeingq anrl

IntercstnilTruh

?,

evenwhen they scemto bc in mostr€spcctslike 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 remoten€ss.Thry may bc counts,king:, knighs, rich merchants,peasams, cobblers.Often they are entirely evil or entirely good (the superlativeis conr mon in the tale-"the richesg" 'the fairesq' "the oldest" "the wls€st'). Although charactersmey 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 secondhand,perhapsby rncient oral tradition. The characten'actions-the plot of thc ule-may or may not obey the laun of causeand efrectop€rrr tive in the actud world, but evenwhen they do nog they sem netural becanseof their psychologicalor 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 seemspromising.The supernaturalelenrensin the Helen tradition fit naturdly with sle prcsentarion,thorgh the esential gothicismof the genre might incline us to tneet Greek godsandgoddesesasrather 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 errphasison oldnes and tradition might nanually qpring intercring ideas and developments not guessed in advanceby thc writer. Yet we notice certainproblemsthat 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 necesserydoom 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, shescesthet they arc all filled with armedwomcn who look cxactly likc herself.The posibilities in this ere Perhapsintcrestingand might encoumgethe writer to work back from the climax to fill in the logical necesitiesof this dilferent conclusion;but herewe encounterthe secondlargeproblemin prcscntingthestoryof Hclcn asa tale. Though it's pardy I matt€r of the individual writer's intuition and taste,it may scemthat thc new cnding clashestoo noticcrbly with the Grcck story as wc know it. Indeed, the wholc tonc of thc talc genre clashesrather fierccly with our 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 King Hcnry) havepartsrs minor characters;onc might posibly writc r talc aboutNapolconendJoeephineior onc might writc e ulc including Charlemagno-rs&lvino docsin Thc Nonesistent Knight (not a purc talc but a gencrichybrid). But Grcck uadition secmssomehowtoo full of sunlightandsharpimagcry' too chargcd with Homeric immediacy,to rccommodatcthc moodof e talc. Thc only possiblcsolutionnpcrhaps,would bc to 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 scriousr story comically. Such adaptationsxrc not impmsiblg though thc proicct mey seemunpromising.Thc yarn-spinncr might bc, for once,an old woman,andher purposcin tclling thc sory might bc subdy fcminist. Making Helen hcr heroine,a shrcwd woman who at cvery turn comically ouwvitshcr malc t'supcriorc,"shccscapcto frccdom.Here,if not sooncr'thc yern

IntercstotilTrutb

75

might go derk, becominga generichybrid (yarn crossedwith realisticstory): Helen'sultimatefailure,tonally conflicting with all that went before,might give, howeversubtly, an angry,revolutionarytone to the conclusion.The reader'sindignationat the unhappyendingmight be madeto releasethe meaning
16

NorEsoN LTTERARY-AESTHETICrHEoRI

considering.First penon locls ns in one character'smin4 locts us to one kind of diction throughout,locks out posibilities of going deeplyinto variouscharacters'minds,and so fonh. What b somaimcscalledthe 'third-person-limitedpoint of view," or 'third personzubiective,"hassomeof the samedrawbacksfor r 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 in which the story is told by an unnamednarrator (a personaof the euthor) who can dip into the mind and thoughtsof any characer, though he focusesprimerily on no more than two or threc, givc the writer greatestrange and freedom.When he pleases, this narrator cen speekin his own voice,filling in necyet when backgroundor offering obiectiveobservations; essaqy the sceneis intenseand his presencewould be intrusive, he 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 deecribes,or may be simply a particularizedbut unnamedvoice. The choice of point of view will largely determinedl other ehoiceswith regerdto style-wlger, colloquial,or formal dicand so on. tion, the lengthand characteristicspeedof sentences, What the writer mustconsider,obviouslnis the extentto which point of view, and dl that follows from it, commentson the cherrcteq ections,and ideas.Volgo diction in the telling of the Helenstory would clearlycreater white-hotirony, probably dl but unmanageable. C,olloquialdiction and relatively short would havethe instanteffect of humanizingonceelesentsnces vrted charactersrnd evens. Highly formal diction and all that goesalongwith the traditional omniscientnerrator might seem ly for dre seriousnesof the sory but h ir"di"t

brwestotdTrutb

77

can easily backfre, providing not suitable pomp but mere pompousn€ss. And somechoicesin 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 someunnamedryokesman 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 communityvaluesversuspersonalvdues.

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 $yle can.ll h"lp him discoverwhat it is he wants to say.We haveseenthat the processis at every stage both intuitive and intellectual The u/riter chooseshis subiect beeuse it appealsto him--a matter of feeling$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 geoeralseoseof how the world works, his impulsesand feelings.Having conrc this far, we cln get better perspectiveon our original quctionr rbout aestheticinterestandtruth in conventionalfiction. Both for the writer and for the careful reader after him, cverythingthat happensin r well-constructedstory, from major eventsto the mosttrifling turn of phrase,ie a ma$erof acthetic interest Sincr the writer haschosenevery elementwith carg and hasrevisedand rqpeetedlyre-revisedin an rttempt to rcadr somethinglike aesthaicperfection,eveqyelementwc encount€r is worth savoring.Evely characteris sufrciendyvivid aodintcrestingfor hisfunction; eve{ysceneis iust long enougb itst rich enough; every metaphor is polished; no symbol sands om crudely from is nntrix of events,yet no resonrncegocscrrrF plaely unhear4 too dyly mufled by the literal Though we

78

IrroTDsONLmRART-AESII|EnCTHEORY

rtad the work againand againand agin, wc ctn nsvcl sccmto get to the boaom of it. Natunlly suchsubtlery-a story containingsucha trcasury of pleasures-isachievedet somccost.To work so beautifully, it cannotwork asquickly 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 with rn openingasslowasthat of Mann's"Deathin Venice,"an opcningthat might seemtediousto thoscwho readnothingbut Houaril the Duck. This clearlydoesnot mcanthat the scrious writcr shouldmaker point of beingtiresomeandintcllcctualto drive awry dolts.If he respecsthe teader,if he honestlyconsidenwhat he himselfwould likc to read,the writer will choosc and the mostimmediatelyandpowerfullyintercstingcharecters evcntshe can think of. Hc will go for, asthcy say,dramaturgy. No two writers, as wc've recognizcd,will think of quitc thc semccharacrcrsand eventswhen thcy look for what appcalsto them.Somewritersenjoy storiesof 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 cntertainment,he cannotfail to have,at leastfor somegroup of serious,dcvotedreaders,both immediateandlastingintercst. 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 iudgment, however unconsidered,may wcll bc accuratc.We havc scen that even such r relatively trivial decision as the choiccof diction level canalter the storyt implicationsin striking ways.Thosewho claim that ficdon hasno rclationshipto truth makc much of this. They point out that if we useshort sentences, short vowels,and hard consonants,wc get a totally differenteffect,on any subiect,thanwc do if wc uselong sentcnces,long vowels, and nasalor liquid consonents.No one

InterestEnilTrcth

79

would deny that this is truc. But what necdsto bc noticcd b that thc good writcr makeseach choicc he makcsbccarsc it seemsto him appropriate. A fictionalclemcntcrn bc appropriateor not by only oneof two standards: It is appropriatcto thc work asen .n obiect without refcrenccto realiry, or it is ap propriatc eswe test it egainstour senscof thc actual.It secms doubtful that art's clementscen cvu be eppropriatconly to onc another.Thc colors in e painting without rccognizablcimagc may be seid to be appropriateonly to one anorher,but it is humanemotionthat iudgcs,tcsting againstitsclf. As for fiction, in any casc,it scemsfair 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 feelsappropriateto 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 distinguishtruth from a pcanut-buttcrsandwichcan ncvcr write goodfiction. What hc afFrmswc 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 reasonis that when thcy rc writing they'rc bcner mcn than when they bcat their wiva and childrcn. When hc wrircq the manof impctuousbad characterhastimc to rcconsidcr.Thc fictional proccsshclpnhim sey what hc might nor havcsaidthat samenight 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. None of this high-mindedrhetoric is meantto deny the fact that fiction is a kind of play. The cniter worls out what he thinls asmuchfor the ioy of it asfor any other reasonYet the play hasis usesand earnesmes.It b sometimesremarle{ nc by enemiesof fiction but by peoplewho love ig that whereas scientistsand politicianswork for progres$the writer of fiction rcstat€swhat 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 discoversnothin& 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 their livesaroundeternalveritiesfor thousandsof yeers.It may 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 devotedso muchtime to. But the fact remainsthat an produccs the most imponent progr€sscivilization 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 the door to the mordly nec€ssar''future. The age-oldidea of human agnity comesto rpply even to the indigeng even to sleveqevento immigrants,now recendyevento women Thts is not to s8y th6t great writing is propaganile.But becaruethe fictiond proc€ssselectsthosefit for it, end becausea require 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

InterenotdTrutb

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 thosewho creete"toy fictior5" goodor bed--TV entertrinments to tekethe perrsioner's mind off hrisdisrndexistencgself-regar& ing aathetic jokes,po6hsuper-realism, where emotionb ruld out and ideais thought , or nostalgiafiction, or pomogr& "olge phy. The true writer's ioy in the fictional proc€ssis his pleasre in discovering,by meanshe can trusg what he bclievcssnd c.n effirm for dl time. When the lasttrump plays,he will be list* ing, criticizing, fgudng out the prop€r psychic distance.h shouldbe added,for honesty'ssekg that the true literary rrti* andthemanorwomanwhomakc "myfiction" maybethesamc p€rsonin different moods.Even on the subjectof high scriour. ness,we mustbewareof reckles high seriorsness.

4 Metafiction,Deconstruction,

andJazzingAround Not all fiction, old or new,worksby the principleswc'vc becn 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 not in the modernsensc-rounded, complcxhumanbcings.Tla Diaine Comedy and Beouulf have,at leastin thc fuistotelian scnsc,no "plot"-no causallyrelatedscqucnccof cvcns. And mmy greatworkg from the Gilgameshto PmadiseLosr-if not Pound's Ccntor-proceed not by rcndercd rctiors, as Hcnqy Jameswould haveeventsproceed,but by sct speeches. Changesin narrative method rcfect changesin thc way humanbeinp see-or think they ought to scc-the world. In a suongly authoritarianage,an agein which kings and counsellors arc revered es innately bener than ordinary men and womeq pcopletendto seefiction asa vehicleof instruction.By rncansof fiction, thingsthe authoritiesknow to bc true arcsugercoatedand passed down to thosefor whom the truth is not so visible. It is hard to speakfairly of authoritrrian age, both becrusethcy're naturally repugnantto the democraticspirit rnd becausethey arc forever watching from the wings, hoping to 8z

MaafctionrDeconstrwtion, enilImkS Arowd

83

*ize thc stageagain.But Jomeof thc greatestliteraturc in the world comcsout of sucheges,and we needto understand how that litcrerureworksto undcrstandhow our own worksandwhy our own, too,is fatedto suffcrconstantchangc. 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 secondsecion, the monsrer's motherattacksthe Danc, hopingto evengeher 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 sccondsections.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 unr€eson,onewho wersageinstell order end lovcschaos.Grcndel, in otherwords,leprescntsr 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 pocmsccmscausally

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 havefound somecausalway of btingng in the dragon.Causality *as ti.ply not what interestedhim; he wasshepinga Po€rn that would illustratg or demonstrate,the relationshipbetween the soul'sthreeparts,showingthemat their bestin Beowulf and at their worst in the monsters.Readersfrmiliar with the poem will realizethat the po€t wasdoing much morebesides;but ths whole ingeniousstrucffe works by the principle lve been pointing ouq not dramatization(in Aristotle's sense)but dlo. The poetwhotruty dramr' goricelexpressio+or demonstration. tizes a conflicg carefully exploringcausal-eventchainq cannot be surewhat the end of his story will be until he getsthere.For hirn, fiaion b a meansof discovery.For the dlegorisg on ttp other hand,fiction is largeln though perhapsnot exclusively,e meansof expresingwhat the writer alreadyknows. A literary work neednot be allegoricalto be r dernonstration ratherthan an exploration.Any narrativethat movesfrom scen€ to sceneand episodeto episodenot accordingto the exigencies of causeand effect but accordingto someebtract schemeir likely to be a demonstration. The picaresquenovel which conventiondly follows someherofrom onesocid seaingto anotlrer and another,demonsuatingthe folly of eachsocialcontext, ie esentially asabstractand instructionalesPilgrinls Ptogress.& s novel in the shapeof e fictional biographymey proceedaccording to the requiremensof someab,stractdoign. ln Dntiil Coppnfield, for instance,episodesseemto progressrandomly, like real life, until onenoticesthe controlling concernwith love md marriage.Dickenschoosesevents,in other wordq for their relevanceto an ebstractcentral quesdon.At Dickens'point in the developmentof the novel,it is hard to tell whether we att dealingmainly with explorationor mainly with demonstration (Obviorsly both areinvolved.) ln someDickensnove\ swh as A TaIe of Tuo Cities,we sens€pretty suongly the prercherly method,demonsuationesopposedto exploration;in otherg c-

MaafutionrDeconstruction, and Iming Aroaul

85

pcclatty lrtc novels lfte Grcat Erpectdions, we mey feel thc nro impulsa warring in the writer's mind. Gtdoguing nerretivesasone thing or anotherwould servc no usefulpurposeat the moment.What countshereis the general observationthat fiction hasfor centuriesexistedoB I continuum mnning berweenauthoritarianand existentid. Gnain books,like the lliail, servedtheir original audienceas,in cffect, tru*wonhy hittory, lawbook,evenbible; others,like Apollonioc Rhodioo'lrgonmtica,show only comicor ironic respecfor the traditions and acceptedpettems of their culture and seemto offer no answers,only difficult questions.One kind of narrativg the kind I describeaseuthorirerian,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 needchoweverexistentiallyhe may in fact haverrrived at his ending. For some contemporaryreadersand critics, e nerrative that seemsto 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 holocaustand Americanfirebombinp, not to mention atomic bombinp, napdrq and the rest. It is perhapslargely for this reasonthat we haveseensince 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

ism,tt ttmetafictionr"t'deconstructivefictiorq" rnd so fonh. To get e clear senseof the kinds of interestend truth avaibble in unconventionalfiction asit is presentlypracticed,it will be uscful to bcginby clerring up the critical languagc.For our Pr€sent discusion,let usscrapthc terms"post-modcrnism"end "fabulationr" since "post-modcrnism"scts up only r veguc entithesis to l'modcrnism,"meaningonly, in effecgmorelike ltalo Glvino than like Saul Bcllow, and sincc "fabulation" seemsto mean nothingbut "unconventional." "Mem6ctionr"u criticsgenerally usethe word, is r morepreciseterm. It meansfiction that, both fiction.fu we haveseen'convenin stylcandthcmc,investigates tionalfictioncanbe aninstrumcntfor examiningtheworld; and, like any humanlydcvisedinstrument,it can malfunction.Like a it can persuadcus of thingsthat faulty microscopeor telescope, ate not true. For example,the conventionallove-story ending as we find it in JaneAustencan subtly penuadcthe careless reader(thoughJancAustenneverintendcdit) that for every womanthereis someoneperfectman.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 way: Saythat, at e ceftaintime in e certaincountry, somewriter e hero whose lerhaps imitating someonehe admires--creates 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. Again and again(in this same,thrilling book), wc seeour hero giving orden he secredywisheshe didn't needto glve, making painful decisionsthat, for cenainlofty rersons,hecrnnot €xplain

Maafction,Deconstruction, tnd IwkS Aroand 87 to his friends end loved onc. The effect on the readerof this lonely,lofry herocould be veqf $ear indeed-but nor neccssarily healthy.If suchheroesoccur in very manyplap and novcl$ if the appeal of such a characterbecomc widespread,then democracy,even common decency,is undermined.We havc becntaughtto admire,submitto, or behavelike thc well-meaning Nazi officer, the business-worldtyrant, or rhe moral fanatic. Nothing in the world hasgreaterpower to enslavethan docs fiction. Oneway of underminingfiction'sharmfuleffectsis thc writing of metafiction:a story that callsattentionto its methodsend showsthe readerwhat is happeningto him ashe reads.In rhis kind of fiction,needlesto 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 reasonsI've suggestcdit is cspeciallypopular at the moment.In the Argonauticr" Apolloniosrepeatedlyierks the readerawakewith someseemingly perversemisuseof epic tradition, or with someunexpeced, slighdy frigid joke, or somesceminglyneedless,ponderous comment.But when we've finishedthe poem,we can nevcr againlook with the sameinnocentadmirationat the mechismo of Homer's cpics, or praisethe warrior's shamcculture abovc the civilizedman'sguilt culrure.We find a gentleruseof metafictional techniquesin Sternc'sTris*cn Shtnfu or Fielding's Ton lones.In recentfiction, worksthat call insistcntattention to their anifice are everywhere-loncsco,Beckctt, Barth, Barthelme,Borges,Fowles,Glvino, Gass,andsoon. It is usefulto disdnguishbetweenmetafictionand fictional deconstruction, thoughtechnicallythe laccr term cncloses the former.All metafiaionsarcdeconstructions; not all deconstructionsaremetafictions. No commoncontemporerycriticzl rerm raiseshacklesmorc 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 dazzlingcloud of languagelie certain more deconsuuctionists' or lessindisputablefacts: that languagecarriesvalueswith ig sometimesvalueswe do not recognizeas we spak and would not subscribeto if we noticed their presencein what we sayi and that art (music,painting,literatute, etc.) is language.That languagecarriesvaluesis obvious.Again and againthis book speaksof the writer as"he," though many of the bestwriten I havereador havetaught in writing clasesare female.English' is covenly malechauvinist.It is also,asthe Iike mostlanguages, novelistHarold Brodkey poins oug covertly Christian.Nearly all our mostresonantwordsandimagescarry r traceof Neoph tonic Christianity.Evensoinnocenta word as"friend" hasovertones. In feudal times it meant one's lord and protector; in Anglo-Saxontimesit meantthe oppositcof "fiend." We can of courseread a book about friends without ever consciouslyinvoking the undercurrentsof the word; but wherethe friendship growsintense,in this storywe'rereading,we erealmostsur€to encounterimaga of light or warmth,flower or gardenimagery' hunger,sacrifice,blood,and so on. The veqyform of the story, its orderly beginning,middle, and end, is likely to hint at r Christian metaphysic. Deconstructionis the practiceof aking languageapert, or taking works of art apart, to discovertheir unacknowledged inner workings.Whatevervaluethis approachmay or mey not haveesliterary criticisrg it is one of the mrin methodsof corr tcmporary (and sometimaancient) fiction. Deconstructivefiction is parallelto revisionisthistory in that it tells the story from the other sideor from somequeeranglethat cass doubt on the generally acceptedvdues handeddown by legend.Whereas by directly celling attentionto fictionb metafictiondeconstructs uicks, deconstructivefiction retellsthe story in sucha way that the old versionlosescredit. Shakapeue'sHnnla canbe soeneg r work of this kind. In the revengetragediesShakcparc'r

MaafictionrDeoonstntction, cnd lmkg

Aromd

89

sudiencewasfamiliar wirh, someghostor friend or other ploe devicelaln on the herothe burdenof avengingsomecrime.Thc genre fu by nature righteousand self-confidengauthoritariao: There is no doubt that vengeanceis the hero'sduty, and our pleasureaswe watch is in seeingirsticc donq howeverpainful the experience.Shakespeare's Hamla deconstructsell this. Despite Horatio's certainty, we becomeincreasinglydoubdul of the ghost'sauthoriry asthe play progresses, so that we become more and moreconcernedwith Hamlet'stestsof peopleand of himself;and evenif we chooseto believethat the ghost'sstoqy wastmg we becomeincreaingly unclearaboutwhetherHamlet would be right to kill the king who usurpedhis father'o throne-at any rarer Claudiusbecomeslessand lessthe stock villain, and Hamleg as he proceedsthrough 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 some€xtent, a deconstnrctive impulse.Thts is of courseonly natural: If the busines of the first man is to crqlte, the businessof the secondis at least partly to corec. Throughout the history of Western civilizrtion, we encountera few greatmomensof creation-momentg when the deconstructiveimpulseseemsrelatively slight-and r greatmenysuetchesof time that seemmainly devotedro taking the machineryapan and putting it togetheragan in somenew wrong way" Though the Beowulf-poetwes deconstructingold paganlegendsof heroic derring-do,his main impulseseemsto 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 NOTESON LTTERARY-AESTTIETIC

fic intcrct in metafictionrnd thc interestin dcconstruaivc fiction (when the lastis not castin metafictionalform) differ in 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 deconstruction-other than metafictionel,that is"--canachievegrcetcr retellingtheBeowulfstory from cmotionalpower.For example, the point of view of thc monsterGrendel,onc getsnot only whatevcrcmotionalcfrcctcen be wrung out of Grendel'stragreadcrmay feel in cdy, but alsowhatevergrief the cxpericnccd sceingthc grand old forms of Western civilization rcvealedas rather shoddy,ccrtainly manipulativeand tyrannical,and prob' ablypocticlicsin thc 6rst place. Nonc of this is mcantto suggcstthat dcconstructivefiction is better than metafction, or vicc versaror that cither of theseis bcttcr or worscthan conventionelfiction. That cachhasits valucsis evidentfrom the fact that eachhasis earncstadherents, somcof thcm rcady to kill et the faintcst hint that what they lovc is not lovcduniversally. What wc cnioy wc cnioy; disputeis uselessAnd onc of thc thingt humanbcingsmostcnjoy is discovery.Wc may go along for ycars without cvcr noticing that thc third-person-limited point of vicw is cssentiallysappy.And then onc dey in metaficlaid tion onesccsthet point of view mocked,all its foolishness showsus, barc,and onelaughswith delight.Thc metafictionist for instance,that thc third-person-limitedpoint of view forces 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 Chief of Policc,comesin to standwatching.Alex is distrescd-

Maafction,Deconstruction, andlrnkg Around gr he doesnot want their afiair known, lest the police chicf shoot him; but alsohe doesnot want to be impolite, becausehis mis. tres, GencvieveRochelle,is a beaury.lf we start off this story in rhc sensible omniscientpoint of view,asChekhovwould,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 dancersnoticel And so on. In thc omniscientpoint of view onc might write: Onc Saturdaymorningwhen Alex Strugetskywastaking his dancingclas, he happencdto look over, while. balancingon his toes,and seehis mistress,Genevieve Rochelle,wife of the local Chief of Police,standingin the doorway.Good grief, thoughtStrugatsky,blushing, lookingaroundin horror at the facesof 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,mendoningnothing not directly presentin thc character'smind. It wesa Saturdaymorninglike any other,the middleagedfat womenof hisdancingclasslaboringrround him, the piano punching out uh-azc, uh-nlo, the teacher floating through the motions,sour-pused,when suddenln unsteadilybrlancingon his toes,Alex Strugatsky lookedover et the brightly lit doorwayand saw-her! Hc swunghisheadaround,studyingcachfat linle facein rurn,but sofar no onehadnoticed.Would theyrecognizc hcr if they saw her there?Probablythey would. Hc imaginedhimselfcrying out, "No, please!please!"and beingshotin thehead. Needles to say, there is r place-in comedy-for such silly hpteria. But it's odd to think how seriousall 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 metefictionistmay showus,by cunningly misusingthis point of view, how third penon limited makesnercisistsof rs all. Alex has gotten away from his dance clas rnd b sitting with Genevievein her cer: He did not mind, he thought, her slow wry of drawing the cigarenefrom is packor evenher long hesitation beforeshereachedgropingly for the matcheson the dasb it all, and the but the archedeyebrowthat accompenied way sheneverevenglancedthroughthe windshieldto see if anyonewaswatching-those wereinexcusrble!He felt himselfshepinga frown andcaughthimself,then covered his mouthwith one hand,Iestthe frown sneakback. part and All this analyzingof everylinle gcture on Genevieve's 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 happensexceptby somehowputting it into Alex'shead. It might be arguedthat a cleverwriter of metefictionscould makefun, if he wisheqof any of the standardpoints of view. That is true andnot true. It is probablythe casethat any human activir,y can legitimately bc made fun of, and that a clever metafictionl* could make us leugh et the noblest devicc of Dostoevskyor Mann But the smartwriter of metafictionsis seleaive aboutwhat he pokc fun at, end pert of our interestas rre readhis work comesfrom our recognitionthat the folly hc pointsout is significant;that rq it ls not only silly, oncewe look at it closeln bm it is in somesensep€rverse:It pusheswront vrlues. Theoretically all non-conventionalfiction cnn be described 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 makesno 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,cheapones),certaingreatfakeprofound movia lfte Tbe Magicim and Lr Sttada.There can be no point in makingup an aesthetictheory 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-heanedreaderwill askis that the transformationbe astonishingend interestingand thrt thc story in someway appearto makesense, keepusreeding.Or the writer may usee castof clown character-eagerly heroic nitwits like the Keptone Cops,or fiendishdaemonicplotten with hails full of suaw, like the Marx Brothersstealinge pianq etc. Where plot is concerned,anythingcan happenthat wantsto, so long asit holdsinterest;end seaingmay changeaswhimsicdly asit did from panelto panelin the Krczy Kot comics.l^?tirng aroundmay cover enything from parody to whimseyto heavy Europeansurrealism.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?"Somethingdrearyoccursto 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 hardestkind 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 serviceebledrudgewho writes eboutmoreor lcs lifclike pcoplc who, laboring through cnergeicplos, find thcir destinicsand stir usto affirmation. Metafction, deconstructivcfictiono 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 srilboat,or disorienting,Iikc en unpleasantdrcamcomcdivc, or somcthingelsc, all good fiction has rnomcnt-by-momcntfrsIt 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 unconvcntionel fiction, that b not so.Mlntcry is is soul.Somctimcswhcn wc loot closely et rn unconyentionelpiccc of fiaion, wc dir cover thar in fact it's a simpleachievcmcntof gcnrc-crossingfor instrnce, thc folktclc and thc early Hollywood murdcr mystery-but we may bc discoveringmore thrn thc writcr kncw. As wc'vc seen,conventionalfiction takesimmensclycareful 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 rcquiresincxhaustibleimagination(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.Occasionallythcy showup in twq asin Gilben and Sullivarqand the two fight likc devils.

II NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

nr-

Lommon Errors

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 dramatizcdaction in which we aregiven the signalsthat makeus "see"the secingr characters,rnd evens; that rs,he doesnot tell ts aboutthcm in ebntracttcrmq like m essayist,but givcsus imagesthat rppeal to our seru€s-preferablydl of therq not iust thc visud senscso that we seemto movc emongthe charactcrs,leanwith drem qgeinstthc fictional wdh testethe fictional gazpachqsrnellthc f,ctionel hyacinttu. In bsd or unsatisfyingfictioq this fictiond dreamis interruptedfrom timc to time by somemistakeor 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 characterss puppetsin e stage-sctworl4 sinccpuppea and r stagpscr .tt alsothingswe censccrnd to sorn€cxtentcrnpathizewith. Evar thc mct'obicctivC'6ction, asRobcrt Louis Stcvcnsonca[ed il, isstill 6ction,still dremetizrtion 97

98

NotrEsoN THEFICTIoNALPRocEstl

If thc principlc of vividnes and continuity i clcar, we can tum to somctcchnicalimplications. A scencwill not bc vivid if the writcr grvestoo fcw daaih to neitherwill it bc vivid if stir endguidcthc rcader'simaginadon; thc Imguagcthc writer uscsis abstractinsteadof concretc.If thc writer says"creaturcs"instcadof "sntkcs," if in en eftemPt to imprcssuswith fancy talk hc usesLatinatctcrmslikc "hoetilc maneuvcrs"insteadof sharpAngloSaxonwords likc "thrlsh," sand "coilr" "spitr" "hiss,"and"writher" if insteadof the desert's and rocks he speaksof thc snakc' "inhospitableabodc,"the rcadcrwill hardlyknow what pictureto confureup on hismental screen.Thesetwo faults,insufficientdctail and ab,suaction wherc what is neededis concretedetail,arc common-in fact dl but uqiversal-in ametcruwriting. Anothcr is the failurc to run straightat the image;that is, thc nccdlessfiltering of thc image through some observingconsciousnes.Thc amateur fightingin amongthe writcs: "Tuming, shcnoticedtwo snakes thc rocks,two snakes rmong [n rocl6." C,ompare: "Sheturned. wcrc fighting." (Thc improvementcanof coursebc further inr' proved.Thc phrase"two snakeswerc 6ghting" is morc rbstract than, say, "two snakeswhipped and lashed,striking at erch othcr"; andverbswith auxiliaries["wcrc fighting"] arc ncvct ts sharp in focus as verbs without auxiliarics,since the formcr indicatcindefinitetime,whercasthe lattcr [e.9.,"fought"l suggcst e given instant.) Gcnerally speaking-+houghno laws are absolutein fiction-vividness urges that elmost cvcry occrrrenccof suchphrasesas "shenoticcd" and "shesad' be sup of the thingseen. in favorof directpresentation prcsscd Thc technicalimplicationsof the continuity principle-thc idca thrt thc readershouldneverbc distractedfrom the image or scenHannot be trcatedsobriefly.In the work of beginning writcrs, especiallythoseweakin the basicskills of Englishcompocition,thc usualmistakcis that the writer disuactsthc readcr of course,canspeak 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 snekesto thc problem of figunng out what thc scntencemcens.Thc distracrionis dmoor cenainto bc emotionalrs wcll as intcllccual,sinccthc rcrder hascvcry right to fcel thrt thc writcr'r busincsis to cry whet hc meansclcarly. In good fiction, the rerdcr ncver hrs to go back ovcr I scntenceiust to find out what ir says.Hc may read r sentencctwicc becauschc likcs it, or hcausc, through no frult of thc author, his mind briefly wandercd,musing,pcrhaps,on thc largcrimplicationsof the scene;but if it's rhc ruthor'gcarelesnessthat mekcshim rcad rwicc, hc hasa right to fcel that the authorhasviolatcdthc fundamentalcontractin dl fiction: that the writcr will derl honcstly and rcsponsiblywith the rcader.(This, it shouldbc mentioncd,docsnot rule out uscof thc so-calledunreliablenanator, sincethe unreliablenrrrator is r charactcrinsidcthc 6ction.) Clumsy writing is en cvcn morc cornmonmistakein thc work of .mateurs,thoughit showsup cvcnin the work of veqy good writcrs. Someof the morc frcquent forms of clumsywriting shouldpcrhapsbc mendoncdhcre, sinccfauls of this kind arc r good"dedmorc scriousthan thc amateurmry imagina They alicnatcthc expcriencedreadcr,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 sensitivercadershrinkseway r little, aswc do whcn anintcrestingconvcrsationalist pickshisnose. Thc mostobviousforms of clumsincss, rcally failurcsin the basicskills, includc such mistakesas inappropriateor cxcesive use of thc pasivc voice, inappropriatc usc of inroductoqy phrascscontaininginfinitc vcrbs,shifts in diaion lcvel or the rcgular uscof disuactingdiaion, lack of ecntcnccvaricry, lrck of scntenccfocuq faulry rhythm, accidentalrhyme, 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 yesterdan" "The Germansweredefeatedr"or "The proiect wasabandoned," the pasive voice is virtually useles in fiction except when usedfor comic effect, as when the writer mimics some fool's slightly pompousway of speakingor quotessomeinstitutional directive.The ectivevoice is almostinvariably more direct andvivid: "Your parrot bit me" esopposedto (passive)"I wasbitten by your parrot." (The choicein this casemay depend A timid soul'fearfulof giving offensemight on characterization. well chooe the passiveconstruction.)In e story presentedby the conventionalomniscientnarretor-an obfectiveand largely impersonalformal namativevoice like, say,Tolstoy's-the paseive 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 heknowshe'sdoingit andhasgoodreasonfor what he does. $ntences beginningwith infnite-verb phrasesere so common 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 badwriting, suchintroductory phrasesregularlyleadto shifa in temporalfocus or to plain illogic. The bad writer tells us, for instance:"Firing the hired man and burning down his shac\ Eloisedrove into town." (The sentenceimpliesthat the action of 6ring the hired mrn and burning down his shact and the ectionof driving into town aresimultrneous.)Or the badwriter tells rs, "Quickly turning from the bulkhead, Gptain Figg spokeslowly and carefully." (Illogicel; that is, impoesible.)But evenif no illogic or confusionof temporalfocusis involve4 the too frequentor inappropriateuseof infinite-verbphrasesmakc the writer snnot bd writing. Generallyit comesaboutbecause 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:

CownonEnmt gert€r. 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 gan€r. Turning to Johq shesmiledat his embanessment." The goal, sent€noevadety, may be admirable,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 John"; by inuoducing qualifiersand appooitionalphrases: slipped---or,rather, yanked--off the ganer, a fraye{ mournful pink onc long pastis prime, gray elasticpeekingout past the ruffes, indifferently obacene"(etc.); or by finding someappre priate subordinateclause,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-verbphrasecenbe an excellentthing 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-verbphrasechop the action into fits md starts and loseswhst effectivenesit uright have had, properly set. Diaion problemsare usuallysymptomaticof defectsin the c{raracteror educationof the writer. Both diction shiftsand the steady use of inappropriatediction sugg€steither deepdown bed uste or the awkwardnessthat comesof inexperienceand timidiry. Therc seemslitde or no hopefor the adult writer who producess€ntenceslike these: "Her cheeh were thick and snroothrnd held a healthy natural red color. The heavy lines under then4 her iowls, extendedro the inrersectionof 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 slightly bookish.The sccondsentencccontainssimilar mistakcs Thc dictionlevelof "extendcdto 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 may be slightly more hopefor the writer who usessteadilycle' vated diction--sentenccsthat pomp along likc thcsc: "Thc uniquesmell of urine and saltwatergrcetcd him as hc stcppcd through the hatchway.Hc surveyedthe 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"), Latinatelanguagewhcre 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 asopposcdto 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).Scrioustrleq 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 Melvilleshouldremindus: Thc moming wes one pcculiar to thrt coast.Everything was mutc and calnr, cverything grey. The seq thooghundulatedinto long roodsof swclls,seemedfixed,

Comtnon Enms

rot

and umssleekedat the surfacelike waved lead that hss cooledandsetin thc smcltcr'smould.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, asswallowsover meadowsbeforc storms.Shadowsprcdeepcrshadowsto come. scnt,foreshadowing Or loolcat an exampleof Isak Dinesen'swc of thc talc's tnditional high stylc: The big housestoodasfirmly rootedin the soil of Denmuk asthe pcasants'huts, and wasasfaithfully dlied to 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 residentsof the country houseswere 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 amateursso regularly fall into grotesqucimitation of it suggcsa that it strika someresponsivcchord in us.By readingcarefully and cxtensivelnby writing constantlyand gettingthe bestcriti. cismavailableto him, the writer who beginswith no fceling for dictioncaneventuallyovercome 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 sentenc€s, consciously€xperimentwith therq sincehe crn soefor himselfwhat the ditr"*rlty rc and cen soc for himself when he has beatenit: Where vui€ty b lacking, scntencs dl run to the sameLngtb quqf over ud over the sameold rhythms,and hevethe sameboring structura Subiectvcrb, subject-verb,zubfect-verbobiec-tsubiect-vcrb.What thc den writer learnsas he beginsto experimentis 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 sentenceawkwardly stretchedout by r 'that'or'which" clause.For example, "Lerping from the couclr, he seizedthe 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,

subiect,verb,obiect

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

ComnonEnmt

ro5

writingthe'tlnt" or \'hich" clauscteedsm enticlimrx.(Il NewYorker"supcr-realisr" fictior4thb styll*ic fatnes msybe rvimre.) Often the searchfor vui*y leadsto anotherproblerrnthc overloading of sentences andthe los of focw Looh $ th€sc sent€nc6:"The darl watersof thc PersianGulf were veqy peacefulas the pinkishglow of pre-dawnlight turnedthe horizon'sgray cloudsto shades of orchidend lavendcr.The cleer,coolair breezed acrosthe dec}sof the munrnothwhitc shipasit movedalmootsilendyttroogh rhew$er." [n a somc whatfranticattemprto gergusro,thewritcr prcla hissentenoe like a Japanese commuteruain. Perhap1 greetwriter migln get awaywith this (in prosefiction DylanThomasrnd [.ewrenceDurrell haveuied it), but it seeme not too lilely. As r rule,if a s€ntence hasthrecqfntaticslor, rs in The manwalkeddown the road ---e writer may loadoneortwo of the slos with modifiergbut if the sentenceis 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 maniecalgoodcheer rnd chaneringto himselfin what seemedto be Slavonian, 2t wdked slowly down theroad. Or hemry loadup slot z:

The old manwdked slowln lifting his feet cuefulln rometimcs ticking oncshoeforu'ardin whatlookedlike

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESII

T06

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

Thc old man,stooped,bent dmost doublcunder his load of tin pans,yct smilingwith a son of maniacdgood checr rnd chsttcringto himselfin whar scemedto be Slavonian, 2 walkcd slowln lifting his fcet carcfulln sometimcskicking onc shoeforward in what looked like r dance,then slammingdown the foot bcfore thc solecould flop loose ag;ain,grinningwhenit worked,pleasedwith himself,but mrking no rcal progrcssdown 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 scntenceaboveto somcthinglike "thc b*py, crooked road." This sort of playing around with scntenccsis onc of thc chief no writer can things that niakewriting e pleasure;ncveftheless, is hclp but rccognizethat 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 femousoncg writc with no consciousnesof the poetic effecrs 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 I am not spcakingnow of thc intentionah iuxtapccd stresscs, arhythmic writer, thc kind who ncver allows himselfr passegc

CsrmonEnors

rc7

that standsout asrhythmically beautiful but on thc other hand nevermakesus stumblcor danccfor our footing likc r calf on icc. In realisticfiction, suchwriters er€ueren 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 of his speechin with the rhythms of the charactcrs,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 automaticallyto 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-andthewriter, likc mlnelf, who would sacrificca character'searsfor 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 JamesHamisandmaiminghiswife.r The writcr thusunintendonallyproduccsa form of qprungvcrsc -that is, iammcd strcscs one after enother-whcn what he needs,to reflect the moment'srush, is lighter rhythms,anap€sts or dacryls.For cxample,hemay write: tlttl 'Stop, thicf!" BonesDankscrie ,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 drcmeuicdmukingp, seepp.rjr5r.

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 scnt€ncc 'When the rig blew,everythingwent flying sky-higtr-me too." Notice here that the rhyme is offersive becauseboth rhymewordsrttblew" end t'toor" aresuesedpositions;that is, the voict 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 flyingme too." In this versionthe word "blew" givesaway stressto '*y-high" endthe "blew-too" rhymedropstowardbackground cffect. Now, however,we have r new stresed rhyme-'tkyhigh" and"flying" (well, closeenoughfor rhymein prose)-en
Conmon Enmt

tog

with 'shot" dre "fiying-+ky-high" rhymc seenr ecceptabh The sentence's tndtnte openingQooselyiambic) eccelerates to is allegromid-section("flying andeverything"), andtheo su& denly the sentenceop€nsout like e huga slow firework, witb r€peatd iarnmedstres€sto bdance the quicknes earlier md the "sky-high" rhlmre rising lite a ctown. This kind of poetic effect in fiction distracs only in .n acceprsbleway. Thc rcadcr may peuseandrcad the sentencenricg savoringthe wry sound echoessensqbut 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 seeinghow 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 problemsmay show up in crude forms,but experiencedwriten can makemistakesof the samebasickinds.The amateurwriter tells us, for insunce,that Mrs. Wu is a crabby old womanand explainsthat one reasonis 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,complainingto her sonin SanDiego. Experiencedwriters can makethe samemistake-usually,if not invariabln out of a too greet fondnes on the wrirer's pert for the mellifluoustonesof 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 1aouand I call rediry-from the

I IO

NO(ES ON THE FICTTONAL PROCESII

shadowsandphantomsproducedby his deliriumtremcns. His scnseof rcspnsibiliry, his courage,his nobility of hcan, his nativc chivalry, dl thesewcre askeen asevcr; but hiscye for mundaneuuth wasnot what it might hevc bccn.And sq bclievinghe saw something,and thinking himsclfcdled upon for heroicection,he thrcw dovm the botde,snatchedout hisrcvolver,ran into the houscwhcrc th. grl had iust gonc, and once againprovcd himself a fool. Voice, oncea writer mestersit, canbe a delighdul thing, but no smart writer dependson voicc alonc to sail him past all cvib. Compareanotherversionof the scenewith thc dnrnken detcctivc, this timc dramatized,not explained: Wherc thesnakecarnefrom he did not sce.A roar 6llcd his mind, the sky fashedwhitg and asif thc doorway to the underworldhad opened,therelay thc snake,r foot across,maybethirty feet long, grecnish-golden. It moved quickln grecefully acrossthe 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 rcalcs,glints of violet rnd vermillion.Hatchet-headraised, tongueflicking, it movedwith thc assurencc of r familiar visitorup the sidewalktoward thc step. With a yelp, without thinking, Gainc thrcw dovm thc bonlc, pushedopcnthe door of hisside,half-jumpcd,helffell 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. Though we run acrosscxceptions,philocophicd novcb whcrc cxplanationholdsintercst,the temptationto cxplain b onc thgt

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 reasonto do othcrwisc,hc shouldprobably lcavccxplanationto his rcviewersand critics. The writcr should cspeciallyavoid commenton what his charactersare fccling, or ct vcq'r lcastshouldbc surc he undcrsnndsthc commonobiection summcdup in the old saw'Show, don't tcll." Thc reason,of course,is that set bcside thc complcx thought achicvcd by drama,explanationis 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 charactcrleaveswhcn 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,makcsusyawn andsctthc book dowrr. Greles shifs in psychicdistancccan alsobc distncting. By prychic distanccwc meenthe distancethe readerfcelsbetwcen himselfand the even$ in the story. C,omparcthe following examples,thc frst meantto cstablishgrcat psychic distance,the next meantto cstablishslighrly 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. 4 God how hc hatedrhcscdamnsnowstorms. 5. Snow. Undcr your collar, down insidc your shocq freczing and plugging up your miscrablcsoul . . . When psychicdistanceis 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 aoUiesnr, if you wil!,-we approachthe normd ground of the 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 liale for scenesof high intensity, drrvs back for trensitions' 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 get odd new effests.He man for instancgkeepa wholestor'' rt setting,grving an eerig rather icy efrectif one psychic-distance dre settingis like that in examplel, en overheatedefrect that only grat skill can keep from mush or sentimenality if the sating is like thet in examplef. The point is that pychic disuncg whether or not it is usedconventionally,must be cotluolled.) 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 cxperienceas a writing teacherand sometimeeditor of boolc and literary megpzinesAmong very bad vriten ev€n worse fauls appear--*wo or three spring immediatelyto mind anil mey aswell be mentioned:geningthe eventsin an actionout of order, cloddishlyawkunardinsenionof detailg and certainpersistentodditiesof imitadon or spelling ffieuh to eccountfos erc?t by a theoqyof activity by the Devil. The first of these I refer ti.ply to the presentetionof rhould needno explenadon. r scriesof rtions where by somenre{ts the write,r'-pethrp

ComnonEnmt

tt,

bccausehis mind b focuscdon somethingclse-g€ts ercnr out of sequencgforcing the rcederto go back and straightenthern out; or, to put it anotherwry, wherc the writer momurtarily ruspendsmeaningin his sentence(almoet.l*)o r bed idea), forcing thc readerto nm on faith for severalwords,hopingthat out of seemingchaossomesensewill emerge.Two cxample* First: "Turning,
rr4

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

of keepingcvcnt 4 in front of fully understrndsthe advantagcs cvcnt D and all thc cvent chainsassensibleand clear as falling dominocs,hc crn-and should-do whatevcrfeelsbestto him. Who knowswhet'sgoingon in theearlynovelsof JohnHawkcs? And ya few writers haveevcr creatcdmore powerful and cohcrentdrems. Prrctically nothing nccdbc said,cither, aboutthc cloddishly awkward inscrtion of dctails.One thinks of thoscmoments,so commonin evenprofcssionalfiction, when the writer findshinr' sclf struggling (asif for the first time) with the age-oldproblem of smoothlyintroducingthe looksof hiscentralchanctcr. (Shc happenspasta miror, seesher facc in a clockface,happenson a friend who gushesabout 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 magicianforcing cardsinto the handof his assistant audience,but really all that needsto be said--or ought to be 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.Clurnsily inscrtcddetailsmusteitherbe revisedinto neatly insencd detailsor they must be revisedout of the fiction. As for the third of the rmateursinsI mentioned,odditicsof imitadonor spelling,the lesssaidthe bencr.I meanthingslilc, in dialogue,"um, uh . . ."-*ometimes usedby good writers in waysthat don't standout and distractfrom the fictional drcrm, but usuallyusedby emateursin waysthat makethc rcadertear his hair. fu long asone hasa neretot available,one can avoid funnyJooking dialogueby simply saying,for example,"Carlos slightln '[ don'tknow.'" (No needthenfor an said,stammcring likc "um" or r "d-d-d-don't.")And thenthereareodd qpellings 'Yca" for "Yeah" or "Yeh," spellingswherebyfootballplayers like Jcsus("Yeaverily"). or drugpushcrs startsounding writing belongundcr thc hcadclumsy kinds of of these All

Cutnon Enon

rr5

ing "Learningthe BasicSkills" end rre mettcrsso obviousto thc cxpericncedrcadcr or wrfuer that they seemat fint glancc to havcno placein a book for seriouswriters. The reasonsthey 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 occrsionsgold 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'smind from thc fictional dreem,"endnothing in whrt I'm sayingis morc fundamentalthen the conceptof the uninterruptedfictionaldream. Let us turn now to three feults far graverthan mereclumsincs$-not faults of techniquebut faults of soul: scnrimentality, frigrdity, rnd mannerism,Faults of soul, I'vc said; but I don't mean those words as a Calvinist would. Faula of soul, like faula of technique,can bc corrected.In fact the main work a writing teacherdoes,and the meinwork the writer mustdo for himself,is bring about changein thc writer's basiccharacter, hclping to makehim that "rrue Poet," as Milton said,without whom therecanbc no truc Poem. Sentimentality,in all its forms, is the attempt to ger some cffcct without providing due cause.(I take it for grantedthat the rcaderunderstands the differenccbetweensentimentin fiction, that is, emotionor feeling, andsmtimentality, emotionor feeling that rings false,usuallybecauseachievedby someform of cheatingor eraggeration.Without sentimenr,fiction is wonhIess.SentimentalitSon the other hand,can makemushof the finest characte$,acdons,and ideas.)The theory of fiction asr vivid, uninterrupteddreem in the reader'smind logically requircsan asenion that legitimatecausein fiction canbe of only onekind: drama;that is, characterin rction. Onceit is dramatically atablishedthat r characteris wonhy of our sympathyand lovc, the story-teller hascveqyright (eventhe obligation,somc would say) to give shaqpfocusto our grief at the misfortunesof that characterby meansof powerful, appropriaterhetoric. (If

I 16

PROCESII ONTIIE TICTTONAL NO|rES

thc emotionalmoment has been well cstablished,plain statcmentsmaybe iust asefrective.Think of Chekhov.)The rault b ruong sentiment,not sentimentality.But if the story-tellertries to makeus bu$t into terrs at the misfornrnesof somecharacter we hardly know; if the story-teller appealsto stock resPonsc (our love of C'od or countqf, our prty for the downtrodder\ the presumedwarm feelingsall decentpeoplehavefor children end smallanimals);if he tries to makeus cry by cheapmelodrama"telling us the victim that we hardly know is all innocuce andgoodnesandthe oppressorall vile black-heanednes; or if he uies to win us over not by the detailedrnd authenticated virnres of the unfornrnatebut by rhetorical cliches,by breathlesssentences,or by superdramaticone-sentenceparegraptu ("Then she saw the gun")-sentences of the kind frvored by porno andthriller writers, andincreesinglyof lateby supposedlyseriouswriters--then the effect is sentimentality, md no readerwho's experiencedthe power of real fiction will be pleasedby it. In great fiction we rre movedby what happens,not by the or brwlhg of the writey's presentationof what happens.That is, in great fiction, we are movedby characters urd events,not by the emotionof the personwho happensto be telling the story. Sometimes,as in the fiction of Tolstoy or Chekhov-and one might mention many others-+he narrative voice is deliberatelykept calm and dispasionate,so that the emotionarisingfrom the fictional eventscomesthrough almost wholly untinged by presentation;but restraint of that kind is A flamboyantstyle like that of Faulknot an aestheticnecessiry. The trick is simply that ner at his bestcanbe equallysuccessful. the style mustwork in the serviceof the material,not in advertisementof the writer. When the ideas,characters,and actions are firmly grounded,Thomas Wolfe's or William Faulkner's style can give fitting expresionto a story's emotionalcontent. Like the formal lamentsof a Greek chorus,greatrolling waves of rhetoric can raiseour ioy or grief to e keen intensity that

CumtonEnors

n7

trrnscendsthe mundaneand takeson the richnes and universdity of ritual. What beginsin the real, in other words, can be uplifted by style to somethingwe recognize,evenas wc ree{ es et oncethe red and the real transmuted.So the passege on 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 languageordinary peoplereally speek,ceusesus to feel the lesonanceof the deathand all it means.But it's because the necesrry dramr hasbeenpresented-thelifelike ceuseslaid out in the story--'that the rhetoric works When Wolfe c Faulknerworla les carefully, as both sometimesdo, trying to make incanation sub'stitutefor character-in-action,the reader rguirms, We may squirm in the sameway, it hasoften been remarked,when we encounterthe other eruemeof manneristic , the whine we sometimescrtch in Henringwey, wherein understetement becomesa kind of self-pity. The fault Longinusidentifiedas"frigidiry" occursin fiction wheneverthe author revEalsby 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. Supposethc uniter is telling of a bloody fisdght betweenen old manand hb ror\ and supposethrt earlierin the story he hasshownthat dre old man dearly loves his son, though he can never find rn adequateway to showig so that the son,now middle-age4srill sulfersfrom his beliefthat his father dislikeshinr, and wisheshc could somehownrrn the old man's dislike to love. Supposc, further, that the writer hasestablishedthis story of misunderstandingswith 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 fescinationanddarn, andthc

II8

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

writer continues:'nTheold manwascrying like a baby now and 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!" happened,of course,is that thc writer has forgonen that his cheracten'situation b serious;hc's rcspondcdto his own imaginedscenewith insufficientwarmth, has allowed himself to get carried arweyby thc baby imrge, end, momanterilyforgening or failing to noticethe sccne'sraal interest-the fact that can hrve led to this-the writer a patheticmisunderstanding (or a at for) detail of, at best,uivid interesg snatches sealcs diny diapcn.The writcr lacla thc kind of pasionall true artiss a realwriter to He lacksthenobilityof spiritthetenables possess. enter deeply into the feelingsof imaginary characters(as he cntersdeeplyinto thc feclingsof real people).In a word, thc writer b frigid. Strictly spcaking,rri$diry charactcrizesthe writcr who presentsseriousmaterial,then fails to cerry througlr-fails to treat it with thc anention and seriousnesit dcscrvc. I woulil cxtendthe tcrm to mcana funhcr cold-hcertcdncsaswcllothe of thingsin givenwriter'sinabiliryto recognizethe seriousnes thc fint place,the writcr who tunut au/ayfrom rcal fccling, or sec only thc supcrficialiticsin a conflict of willq or knows no moreaboutlovc,bcauty,or sorrowthanonemight leamfrom r Hallmark card.With the mcaningthusextended,frigidity seems literatureandan. It is oneof the salientfaultsin contemporery sometimesfrigidity that lerds writers to tinker, more and morc with form; frigidiry that lea& critics to schoolsof obsessively, criticism that take lcss and lessintercstin chara$er,ecdon' and the explicit ideasof the story. It may even be frigidity that stees the writer towrrd sentimentaliry,thc faking of cmotionsthe writer doesnot honestlyfeel.Frigidity is' in short,one of the worst faults posible in literature,and often thc basisof other faula. When thc ematcurwriter les a bad sentencestand in his final draft, though he knows it's bad, the sin is fri$dity:

Common Enors

rr9

Hs hasnot yet learnedthe importanccof his art, thc only an or sciencein the world that dealsin precisedetailwith the causeq nature,andeffectsof ordinaryandextraordinaryhumanfeeling. When a skillful writer writesa shallow,cynical,merelyamusing book about extramaritalaffairs, he has wandered-with far moreharmfuleffcct-into thc sameunsavorybog. Mannered writing seemsat times a speciesof frigidiqy (Hemingwayat hisworst), at othertimesa species of sentimen. (Faulkner tality at his worst), but is besttreatedas a separatc fault, sincethe manneredwriter may bc neither frigid nor sentimental but simplymannered.Manneredwriting is writing that continuallydistractsusfrom rhefictionaldreamby stylistic tics that wc cannothelp associating, as we read,with the author's wish to intrudehimself,provehimselfdilferentfrom all otherauthors.The tics of manneredwriting erenot to be confusedwith stylisticdevicesthat can be explainedas clearly in thc serviceof subiectma$er (characterandacrion)or designed to expresssomenew way of seeing(the specialeffectsof some difficultbut clearlyiustifiablestylewc mustlearnto tunein oq as we do to the stylesof GertrudeStein,Virginia Woolf, or, more recently, Peter Matthiessenin Far Tormga\. Neither shouldthe tics of manneredwriting be confusedwith thosc odditieswe associate with inherent stiffnessor nervousn€sq comparable to that of an amateurspeakerwho forms his scntencescarefullyand somewharclumsily,as in the painstaking, somedmesclunky stylc of SherwoodAnderson.[,ook, for orample,at the first nvo paragraphs of his "Deathin the Woods.' Shcwasan old womanand lived on a farm nearthe town in whichI lived.All countryandsmall-townpeople havcseensuchold women,but no oneknov'smuchabout them.Suchanold womancomesinto town drivinganold worn-outhorseor shecomesafootcarryinga basket.She mayown a few hensandhavecggsto sell.Shebringpthem in a baskctandtakesthemto a grocer.There shetrades

t20

NOTES ON THE FICflONTL PROCESII

theurin.Shegetssomesaltpork andsomebeans.Then she getsa poundor rwo of sugarandsomeflour. Afterward shegoesto the butcher'sand asts for somc dog meat.Shemay spendten or fifteen cents,but w{ren shedoessheasksfor something.In my day the butchers 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 nearthe fairgrounds.We hadit until we were sick of it. It nevercost e cent. I havehatedthe thought of it ever since, It's hardto believethat Andersonthinls count{y peopletalk this way, and the ideathat he is imfuatingan illiterate man'sway of writing is too discouragingto pu$ue. Yet, readingAnderson's carefully stifi work, we neverget the sensethet he writes ashe doesto call acention to himself.Efuherhe csnnot writc more smoothly(but someof hisfictionbeliesthis) or elsehe wrftesin his fiction's purthis farmerishway becausethe style erpr€sses us from looking for zuperficialbeeuty,the pose:It discourages us to read him soberpolhh of entertainment,and encourages 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. The tics of manneredwriting, on the other hend,are drce from which we gather,by the prickling of our thumbs,some ulterior purposeon the writer't p.tt, a purpoceperhapsnot fully corucionsbut nevenhelesssuspect,puning us on our guerd. Think of John.DosPasoeat his momself-important,or George BernardShawwhen he pontfficates.Whereasthe frigid writer lacls suong feeling, and the sentimentdwriter appliesfeeling indiscriminately,the manneredwriter feelsmoresuongly about his oum personality and ideas-his ego which he therefore

ConmonEnms

rzr

keepsbefore w by meansof style-than he feelsabout any of hischaracters-in effect,dl rherestof humanity. Manneredwriting, then-like sentimentalityand trigidiryarisesout of flawed character.In critical circlesit is considered bad form to makeconnectionsberweenliterary faults and bad character,but for the writing teachersuchconnectionsare imposible to miss,henceimposible to ignore. If r male student writer anacls all wonnnhood,producinga pieceof fiction that embanasesthe clas, the teacherdoesles than his iob requires if he limits his criticism to commentson 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 personalcharacteris wanting. Somewriting 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.Perfectionmeanshitring exacdy what you areaimingat andnot touchingby a hair what you are not. It servesno usefulpulposefor the writer to remindhimself that "even Homer sometimesnods." Homef doesnl exceptin the most uivial wap; for instancg in his many long batde scenes,carelesslykilling off the samesoldiertwice. Chaucer,in dl his finest p@G, achievessomethingvcry near perfectioo. Racine in Pbsedra,Shakespeare n Macbeth. Serious critics sometimesrrgue 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

worla of ert-rirink of thc lastworla of C6zanneor Beethovcnthereareno realmistakes. For thisvery reason(not snobberyor malice)it is imponantto keeptrack of the faultsof writers not quitc of the first rank, especiallythosewriters closeto our own timc, whose genius half-persuadesus that their faults must somehowbevimres. 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 by crankingup thc rhetoric,originallyinventedto lostsucceses conveyideesandemotionsrlreadypresent,but now meresteam and roar and rattle, a freight train empryof its freight. Hemingwaywasasbad,thoughhis manneredproseis antitheticalto Faulkner's.(Shouldanyoncdoubt that the Hemingwaystyle is mannered,not iust beautifu\ chiseled,as it is in excessively "The Snowsof Kilimanjaro"endall hisbestshortstorics,let him try rcadingthroughten, fifteen storicsin a row.) JamesJoycc offender,ashe knew himself.His lyrical wasanotherouuageous especiallyin Ullsses,can rep€titionsof key symbolicphrases, function; they elways fully by aesthetic bc never cxplained his middle-pcriod dandyism, carry with thcm a hint of Joyce's unwillingnessto standbackfrom the work of aft-as hc himself told the world it should do-+is unwillingncsses 2n ertist to imitateGod, sitting "outside,indifferent,paringhis nails."Latc in life, Joyce was enormouslypained and frustrated by the wrong turn he believedhis careerhad takcn $w Dabliners snd Porttait. The finest shon story cver written' he claimcd, was Tolstoy's late,simplelittlc fable,"How Much Land Doese Man Necd?'That opinion,like otherof Joyce'slastopinions,is gcnerally 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. But while we're obviouslyright to keepJoyce'sdisadsfecWaken perspective, we needto noticethat tion with Finnegans in fact he saidwhat he meant.He waspointingout, quite seriously, somethingthat he'd discoveredto bc going wrong with thc age-not only in his own work but in everybody'swork. Turning back,with praisc,to his earln most unmanneredwritings, and raising for inspectionas a literary touchstonean un' mannered, simplefable,Joycewasreiteratingprincipleshc had recognizedfrom 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 ingenioustrick had begunhis Portraitof theArtin on that formula.He'd longsince offered his inemorablemetaphoron the unobuusivcartist imitating God. He waspointing oug in shoft, an imponanttruth,. truth his disciplesboth early and late,from Faulknerand Dos forward, havetoo often refusedto hear. Passos Not all original or strikingly individual writing is mannered. No styleis easierto recognizethanChekhov's,but it's difFcult to think of a writer lessmannered.It should be clear, too, that though a writer may be painfully manneredin one place,he may not be in others.Nowhere in Joyce'sfinest work-"The Dead,"for instance--dowc find the anist'spenonalityi[egitimately intruding on the story. Nowhere in Melvillcb greatest passeges, cenainly not in "Benito Greno" or "Banleby thc Scrivener,"doesMelville'svoice rise to (as Lawrencesaid) e "boy." In theseworks, and otherslike them, poetic effecn arc kept subtleandunobtrusive.No onecanfail to noticethe poetic bcauty of Joyce'sclosinglinesin "The Dead," bur the pocr{f (rhythm sosubtlconly comesfrom the rhphm of the sentences prosccan achieveit), from the preciselyfocusedimagery (the imageof falling snow,which circlesoutwerd dll it fills all thc universc),and thc last lines' echocs-merestwhispcrs-of passeges encounteredearlier.Yet it neednot be obviouspoeticeffect

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 spectacularartifice 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 ways. So,for instance,if he hassubstitutedcommasfor perio& in much of the story, trying for somesubdenew rhythmical efrect thet seemsto him approprieteto this particulernerretive, he might try reryprngkey passages in conventionalpunctuatioq then readingboth versionsover and over, makingsurethat the new way really doesadd morethan it detracts.(Detractsin the sensethat it distracs the reader'smind until he adiuststo itadiustsaswe do to the bestinnovativewritinp.) If the writer has inuoduced flamboyant poetic effectsnoticeablerhyme for example-the writer might read and reread what he'swritten, then put it away awhilendlowing it to cool, then againread and reread,carefully analyzinghis emqtion as he reads,tqying to make out whether the new device worls beceuseit givc new interest and life to the materialor whether,on the other hand,it beginsto wear thin, feel slightly creepy.Needles to sey,no final decision,in a maner like thix shouldbe basedon cowardice.Any fool canreviseuntil nothing standsout asrisky, everythingfeelssafe-and dead.One way or arrother,all greatwriting achievessomekind of gusto.The trick lies in writing so that the gustois in the work itself, and wheteverfire the presentationrneyhavecomesfrom the hrrmony or indivisibility ofpresentationendthe thing presented.

6

Techntqr.

What the young writer needsto develop,to achievehis goal of becoming. greete$ist, is not e set of aestheticlacn but anisic mast€ry.He cannothopeto developmesteryall at once;it involvestoo much.But if he pursueshis god in the proper way, he canapproachit 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 progressis likely to be.Invariably when the beginningwriter handsin a shon sbry to his writing teacher,the story hasmany thingpaboutit that mark it asamateur. 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 happenif the writer works blindlyif he hasnot beenwarnedrbout the problemshe witl encountcr rnd given someguidanceon posible wap of dealingwith the mainproblemsetfor him. But it's e commoncxperiencein uniting clasesthat whcn the writer worls with someshrrply de 6nedproblemin techniqugfocusingon that alonq he producc suchgood work that he suqprisc hinrs€lf.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 materialcanbe an advantage(though this is by no meansto say 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 concernaboutwhetheror not the characterto be createdis truc to lif+-an eccruatepicture, say, of his mother. In an exercisg onc simply makesthings up as thc asignment rcquires'and if by chancca mlkingtrec emerges, onegetsplayfully involvedin figuring out what a trec might think to mcntion.Thc tree, after all, mustsomchowbc madeintcrcsting;othcrwisethe exercisc 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 thrt his playful involvementhasturned somcwhatcernest.Consciouslyor not, heis exprcsingmorc feelingabout,for instance, childhoodfrustradonsand maternallovc than he would bc likely to springin a true-to-lifestory abouthismother.Whether r givcn cxcrciscleadsto realisticfiction or non-realisticfictionn it lcadsto fiction: to a studiedsimulation,throughrecollection rnd imaginativeproicction, of real feeling within the writer. When one writes aboutan rctual pareni,or friends,or oneself, arelockedonrsothet frequently, censors dl one'spsychological thoughnot always,oneproduceseithersafebut 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 crse,onc'sold friend Alma Spire,who wasoccasionallyprombcuow, tums out to bc "sensitivcend warmly sensual";in thc sccond,shcturns out to be a slut. Resl-lifc charactersdo sometimcs hold their own in fiction, but only those,loved or hatc{ whom thc writer hasuansformedin his own mind' or through

Teolmirye

n7

thc proccs of uniting, to imagrnarybeings.Writing sn crcrcise, thc writer b in ttrc idcd rnistic rtate, both scriousrnd not scrious.He wantsthc exerciscto bc wonderful,so that his clasmateswill applaud,but hc is not in thedark pychologicalsetof the ambitiousyoung noveliststrugglingto writc down hh cxistcnceasit is, with the ghoetof thc young JamcsJoycc 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 bccauscthe writcr dcsperately wantsit thcre but bccause he ncedsit: Thc scenciustifies somelater action,showssomebasisof motivation,or rcveals somcesp€ctof charactcrwirhout which thc projcctedclimaxof the action would not rcem crcdiblc. Ag.ro and againmc finds onsclf laboriouslydcvclopingsomcminor characteronewould 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 bccauscone caresaboutthundcrstorms but becausg if thc storm is not madc real, no one will believeMartha's phonecallin the middleof thc night. If hc brilliantly succeeds with hiscxercisqthe writer learns,consciously or not, the value of themind-setthat producedthc success. The secondimportantlessonthe beginningwriter learnsis that fiction is madeof structuralunits;it is not onegrcat rush. Every story is built of e numberof suchunits: a pasagcof dacription, e passageof dialogue,an action (Leonard drivcs thc pickupuuck to rcwn), anotherpassege 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, malcingit comcalivg infusingevery smellwith Unclc Fyodorl cmotionandpnondity (tris feer of hold-up men,perhep); hc

I28

NOTES ON TIIE FICTIONAL PROCESS

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

In contemporaryficdon, techniqueiq on the whole' more selfconsciousthan everbefore.Given any basicstory situatiorpthe murderer creeping through the bushes,Grandmother'sconversioq the lovers'first kis-the contemporarywriter is likely to know morewaysof handlingthe situationthan did the writer of any former time.Whereesonceit wls commonfor writers to work alwap in someonebasicstyle, contemporarywriters may on occasionchangeso radically from story to sto{f or novel to novelthat we canhardly believetheir productionsareall by one hand.The reesonsere of coursenot fer to seek.For one thing we havemorernodelsavailableto us.lilhen Sir ThomasMalory wrotc a mas banle scene,he had virtually no models.The re mlt is thag brilliant eshe wasasan innovator,his batdessound m modernearstiresomelyalike. The modernwriter hasa vast

Teclmirye

ng

supplyof availablemodels,from Homer'swritingp to Mongolien bandit legendsto storiesfrom the French Revoludonor Vietnem. For another thing, thanks panly to certain movementsin modernphilosophy,thc art of fiction, like rll the arts, hasbecomc increasinglyself-consciousand self-doubting,anists repeatedlyaskingthemselveswhat it is they're doing. Chekhov andTolstoy could saywith greatconfidencethat the businesof fiction was"to tell the truth." Contemporarythought, aswe've seen,is often skepticalebout whether telling the truth is possible.Thoughwe mey be fairly confidentthat an doestell the truth, that fiction's elementsand techniquesform r language that the artist can usewith greatprecision,and that the reeder hasintuitive meansof 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 ergumenrswill 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, doesnot 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 somethingthe artist takesas a given. It's nor his point of deparnrrebut his goal.Though the artist hasbeliefs,Iike other people,he realizcs thet a salientcharacteristicof an is ia radicalopenness to pcrsuasion.Even thosebeliefshe'ssurestof, the artist pots under prcssurcto seeif they will stand.He may hrve a premy clear idcr wherehis experimentwill lead,as Dostoevskydid when he sentReskolnikovon his unholymision; but insofarashe'sa true artist,he doesnot force the results.He knowsto the depths of his soul that when an artist creat€sin the serviceof wrong beliefs*that ls, out of wrong opinionshe mistakesfor knowledge--or whenhe creetesin the serviceof doctrinesthet may or

r30

NOTES ON TITE FICTIONAL PROCESS

mry not be true but cannotbe tested-for instancr,doctrinairc Marxismor beliefin the eventualresurrectionof thc dcad-thc cfect of his work, admirableor otherwise,is not the effectof or rclitruc art but of somethingclse:pedagogy,propaganda, gon. But thcreremainsonequestion,a centralconcernin all scriousmodernart, asin contemporaryscience;namely,thc implicationsof the Hcisenbcrgprinciple:To what exrcntdoesthe instrumcntof discoverychangcthe discovery,whethcr the in$rumcnt be "the processof fiction" or the particlebombardmcntof anatom? presenceamongthc group hc is Just asan anthropologisCs studyingcanaltcr the behaviorof the group,or asthe bombarding of an atomaltersthe patternit meansto illuminate,so thc stylc in which an artist exploresrcality may alter the thing explored. Anyone can discernthat, in music,emotionexplorcd tonally diffen from emotionexploredatonally;and thoughit's impossiblcto prove that the generatingemotionsin the consciousncsof the composerwerc in any way similarin the rwo qNes,composersthemselveshave often cxpressedthc opinion that having6rst chosenthe musicalform, onethen bendsone's thoughtto it, exactlyas,havingcommittedoneselfto the key of of D minor,oneadaptsthe generative emotionto the resonancc that kcy; onewould havesaidsomethingdifrerentin thc "hap picr" kcy of G major. A fcw yeers ego, or so I'vc been told, e group of sound tcchniciansconductedan cxperimentto discoverwhether they couldheightenthe "prcsence"of recordedmusicby multiplying sound,but on The resultwasquadraphonic tracksandspeakers. the way to that result a s$engething occurred.A group of composcrs,musicalperformers,and critics were asembledto then eight speakers, Iistcnto musicdcsignedfor four speakers, somcof thcn morc.When listeningto musieon eightspeakers, notedthat what they weregettingwesnot morc the musicians accuratcrcpresentationof music as we hear it in e hall but

Technique

r3r

romahing guitc new and different: One beganto be rble o locate the soundsin spacc.Thc clrrinet seemedto ccupy r panicular point or areain thc room, thc trumpet anotherareq the pianoanother-not ereascorr€spondcntto thc scatingof thc group recordedbut rreasreletedasthe head,rrmg and lep of e rculpture might bc rclated. The music, in shon, had bccomc visud, sornethingnew under the sun. Writing music for eight rpcakers,. compos€rmight thcoretically shapcmusiclhysicelly shapcit-rs no onc had evcr donebefore.Whether or not my composcrhasexploredthat posibiliry I do not lmow, but the story, if it is truc, illustretcsa 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 sameway 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 incrcasinglysharprccognftionthat 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 modernthinkcr to dc6ncthc modeclcarlymay hrve beenRobcn Louis Srcvcnsonin his prefaccto thc Chcterficldcditionof thc tmnslatedWorksof Victm Hugo.Therc Stcvcnsonpointcd 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'simaginaqyParis.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,or somerhing from the tmdi-

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,Stevensoncomparcsthe effect of early- and middlewere like vivid scenes period Turner, when Turner landscapes other hand, the work of seenthrough a window, and, on the 6omeunnemedFrench painter (one suspectsthat Stevenson may havemedehim up) who prsted reel sand on his beechscapein order that no one shouldmistakewhat he'slooking at for e red beachon which r family might arrive to spreadia picnic. creatorsof ob;ective,or All literary parodistsereinescapably the momentwe formalisgan. The perody becomesmeaningless foqgetthat the work is a literary obiect iokingly or seriously commentingon anotherliterary object. In ordinary "realistiC' would call subiectivefiction-the writfiaion-what Stevenson er's intent is that the readerfdl through the printed pageinto tte scenerepresented,so thxt he seesnot words and fictiond conventionsbut the dreamimageof, say,a tumbleweedcrosing Arizona. [n formalist fiction we are conrious mainly of thc writer's art, or of both the tumbleweedand the art that makc it might be drawn from nrmble.Fxcellentcontemporeryexemples the fiction of William Grs but to sevegoing andlooking something 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, my blood congealed,and I sankagaininto the bilgewater."If my effort is successfulthe readerboth seesthe imagein his mind-les l realist'simagethan one drawn from nineteenthcentury magazineillusuntion-and seesPoegrinning rnd waving from the wings. In the nineteenthcentury, most writers, though not ell' austed their implemensand presentedfictions unapologetically 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 becausehe feh more or les indifrereat to that relevenceor becausehe 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 courseaspoof,asen& up of the novelandof story+ellingin general,but no onedoubts that SterneintendedUncle Toby to seemto 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 detectivestoqy,thc lrcror story, the piratestory, the doppelgingersto{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 crcnaIn "Ligeia" he sugg€sts dlegorically that in pursuit of the il€el the "dr€am munory" of Platonic philoeophy (the narrator's memoryof his lost Ltg.i.), the artist murdersactrnlity. In'The Fdl of the Houseof Usher,"the resurrectionof dre lost beauty-blood-stainedand honibly hatteredwhen sheepp€arr _ls helpeddong by the narrator'sreadingof en old romenoe. Again and againin Poe'spsychologicaldlegories,the anist doc his work muchaswitchesdo theirs,by following ancientformu. Ias,creatingart's effectswith the daemonichelp of older worts of are Twentieth-centurywriters, for whom Poeanil his followers openedthe way, often haveno confidencethat aft hasrelevancc o lifa Like their colleaguesin 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." It is, aswe've seen,this samenervousfascinationwith art'r untrusnvorthycharacterthat hasled to the popularity of mctafiction, 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. the mostelegantof recentAmericanmetafictionsis JohnBarth's "Lost in the Funhouse,"the story of a boy who goesto a funhousewith his older sister and her lover, a sailor. All that il moving andbeautifully written in thc story by customarystandards,Banh interrupts with commentsfrom real or imagincd manualson the an of fiction. We likc and rffirm the story's unsophisticatedlovers, raponding to the beeury of the prose them;but the constantinterruptionof thet prosc that represents with commentson how effectiveproseis written makesus irritably consciousof the extent to which moving prooc is not natural but achieved.As a result, wc doubt our naivc rcsPolsc to the lovers,asBarth intendsus to. Wc sharc+s in ordinary fiction wc ere nevermeentto de-the doubtsand problcmsof the anist, but alsohis pleasurcin his work, and in doing so losc of our delightin thc funhouscandthe erperience the innocence of the lovers.Like the bright youngerbrother,we get no real of life's funhouse;we slip in to pleasurcfrom the sensetions and become"loct." are wherethelovers pulled Barth is not claimingthat maserful techniqucis a thing to bc avoidedbut only that, if posiblc, onceonc hasc-rpturedit 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 becomeis own cnd, subveninghigher cnds,aswhen stylc overshadowscharacter, action, and idea. Thc question is whetherthe artist can ever hold e balancebetweensubiectand. presentation.Perhapsit b in the nature of art that acntaliry mustbe murdered,asit is in "Ligeia,"and that what art bringt fonh is not somehigher reality but a blood-stainedthing that, like MadelineUsher,can flicker with apparentlife for only an instantbeforecollapsing backto derth. One curiousresult of the current, though not exactly new, fascinationwith the alteringeffect of techniqueon subiectmetter is what L. M. Rosenberghasidentified as "fictional zuperrealism."The aim of writers in this mode (Mary Robison, LauraFurman,Ann Beattie,and othen) is identicalto thet of photo-realissin paintingor the sculpturalexacicopyistDuanc 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 housein HoosickFalls,New York, goestherc to live in it and 6x it up, and hasbrief, seeminglyinconsequential conversationswith neighbon.Plot profluenceis limitedto the fact that time pases,progresingto a momcntof slight emotionalrilse (usuallysignaledby the transformation of dacriptive detailsto a full-fledgedimage the objecdficationof an unstated,trivial cmodon);the conventional divisionof narrativeinto organized scenesis scrupulouslyavoided;if someinsight is awakenedor emotionstirred,the fact is simplyreponed,like any other fact The writer makesan effort to chooseimageswith the disinterest of a camera,and whereverposible he suppresses or carefully undercutswordswith emotiveeffect.As Rosenberg pointsout, the writer doesnot allow himselfevensuch dialoguetap as "shc hollered" or "he exclaimed";even questions-suchas "'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 scientificid€rl "In omining ideology, sublimity, and mordity from their vision they erc s\rorn to 8 phenomenologistcredo. They stare unblinkingly rt what is 'really'out there,ignoring the mentd constructsthrough 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" becauseit seems to us dead.We may evensusp€ctin thc writer's suppresionof ernotiona certain unwitting dishoncty. Grtainly no one who looks at the paintingpof Philip Pearlstein,with their strong frontal lighting and accuratebut slighdy cartoonishemphasis of features-"stupid paintings,"he celts thenr--can deny e faint suqpicionthat Pearlsteinfeelsan unacknowledged contemptfor the humanform, evenwhen the paintingsare of his daughters. Eventhe composerwho 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-redismof Robison,Furmaq and Beanig writers whose abnegationof individual stle is so completethat, exceptunder the closestscrutiny, we cannottell one writer's work from another's;yet the very supprasionof sryleis a sryle--+n eesthetic choice,anexpresionof emotion. An oppositeresponseto the ctrrent fascinrtion with the elfect of rcchniqueon 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 e4presionisticthis movementproduccs,for cxample,the Tropnttnsof Nathalie Saraute. In one of the uopsrtc Srrrautc describesen encounterbetweene 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 rememb€r, by the way, when I wes youn& I amusedmyself trrnslating Dickens.Thackeray. Have you read Thackerey?Th. . .Th . . . ls that how they pronounceit? Eh? Thackerayl Is that it? Is that the wey they sayit?" He hedgrabbedher andwasholdingher entirely in his fst. He watchedher assheflung herselfabouta bit, asshe struggledawlnrardly, childishly kicking her litde feet in the ar, while maintaininga pleasantsmilc; "Why yes, I ttrinL itb like that . . ." Herg as in someof the worls of Kgfka, panicular alsteilsof psychologicelreelity are directly tr:nslated into phpicel realrty. Techniqueis not suppresedbut emphasized,yet no real divorceof actuality and the expresionof actuality is suggested" Neither is there any real divorce betweenactualiry and exprcsrion in surrealisrfiction (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 sometimesin the conventionaltde), thingshappenasif at random;only coherenternotiongivesorden At other times-here asin Kafka's drerm storic ("A C,ountry Doctor")-a progressionof evens carriesan emotiond charge not et first fully explainedby the evenrsthernselves. The pr€sen: trtion tendsto be that of convendonalrEalistic6ction; 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, onc by onc, into rhinoceroses--allbut thc nart?tor' who at thc cnd of thc story wishcshc could changcinto r rhinoccrosbut can't, and pocsibly his girlfriend, who pcrhapachangesas thc othershavc dong and then againpcrhapsthply pinc awey of Thc characte$'transformalonclincs and guilt rnd disappcars. tion into rhinocerosescannot be cxplainedcxpresionistically' 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 transformationsreflect thc workings of an ab,surdunivcrsc to which all humanrcpons€s("our own moral codc," "our philosophyr" "our irrcplaceablcsystcmof valueq" "humenisrn" even lovc) arc inadcquate.(Thc stoly b commonly intcqprctcd as hevingto do with thc acceptanccof Nezi fascism.) Among the morc intercstingand variousof the "irrealists,"t group of writers who work out of fictional convention,abandon= 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' is cssentidly absurdist:Characterssruggle with problemsthat 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 is alwaysmuted,the emotionalcffect of his work is thc sameonc wc get from naturalistfictior\ irony and pity. Onc of the things that makehis writing intcrcsting is his sceminglylimitlas abilIt goes ity to manipulatctcchniquesas modesof apprehension. nothing:Rcthey apprehend without sayingthrt, for Barthelme, ality is a place wc cennot get to from here. (Thc shon etory

l Techniqte

r39

"City Life" is in part a parodyof super-realistfiction.) Yet at his bestBarthelmecan iuggletechniqua in a way that doesexpr€st 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 understandandavengehisfather'sdeath.Thc story opens: An aristocratwasriding down the streetin his carriage. He ran over my father. After thc ceremonyI walked back to the city. I was trying to think of the reasonmy fathet had died.Then I rcmernbered: hc wasrun overby a caniage. I tclephonedmy motherand told her of my father's death.Shesaidshesupposedit was the bcst thing. I too it wrs the bestthing.His enjoymentwasdiminsupposed ishing.I wonderedif I shouldanemptto ffacc the aristocrat whosecarriagehrd run him down. There werc said to havcbeenoneor two witnesses. The materials(e.g.,"an aristocrat")are thoseof the converr tional tale;the style,flat-sutementrcalism;the surfaceemotion, absurdist:"Then I remembered: hewasrun overby a carriage." Abruptln a surrealistimagebreaksin: The man sitting in the centerof the bed looksvcry muchlike my father.He is weeping,tearscoursingdown hischeela.One canseethat he is upsetaboutsomething. Lookingat him I seethatsomething is wrong.He is spewlike 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 ous.The son is both concernedand dutiful, on one han4 and rnnoyed by the father's vulgprity and childishness,on the other ("yammer"), an ambivalence to be developedthroughout the story. Two fuxtaposedimagesshowthe contrestclearly,one showingthe father asmagical,hencevasdysuperiorto the son, the other showing him as embamasinglychildlike, the very rntithesisof "an aristocrat.' My father thronn hb ball of knitting up in the air. Ths orangpwoolhangpthur. My father regardsthe trry of pink cupcakc. Then he ir* hir thumb into eachcupcake,into the top. Cupcake by cupcake.A thick smilespreadsover the face of each 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 trec€s the driver of the aristocrat'scaniag€, I man naned Lan Bang; we leern that, iust as he is ashamedof hb father, the son feels ashamedof his own inadequacyby the aristocraticstandard("When I heard this name [Lars Beng], which in its soundand appearance fu rude vulgar, not unlike my own name,I wasseizedby repugnance. . . ."); and6nally, in companywith other listenerqthe son learnsfrom the carriage driver (an elegantman in comparisonto the son) that the father's deathwas a result of his own foolishnes--he was drunk urd attackedthe horseswith e srritch. Insteadof winning iur tice for a murdcred father, the son has learned.-+nd c-aused othersto learn--of his father'sshameandguiilf ttrereUyincreasiog hit own. Yet perhapsthis is wrong Geelity is impenetrable)" A beautiful young girl, who hassat silent and sullen through Bang'srecitation, abrupdy spedrsup (using languageslighdy

Technirye

r4r

vulgar): " Bang b an ahcolutebloody liar,' shesaid."The story ends,asit mst: "Etc." As nThe DeodFober, drc burdenof sonsgoeson and on. What is most strfting aboutthe story is dre rangeof styler orchestratedfor a singleeffect: gothic detectivefictioq surreeL iur, old-stylemelodrama(ashere): Why! . . . there'smy father . . . sitting in the beddrere! . .. rnd he'sweepingt. . . asthoughhisheanwould bunt! you? ...Frther! ... howisthist... who haswounded ... namethe man!. .. why I'll. . . fU. . . herg Father, take this handkerchief!. . . and this handkerchief!. . . endthis handkerchief!. . . ru run for a towel . . . Or again,absurdixverbalcomedy: Then we shot up somemesquitebrshesand somepatr of a Ford pickup somebody'dlefr lying around.But no animelscameto our perty (it wCI noiqy,I admit it). A long list of animalsfailed to arrivg no deer,quail rebbit, reals,sealions,condylanlu.. .. Et cetera"What holds it all togetheris the ncrrative voicg a comic-pathetictroubledmind. All of theseapproachc to fictior--expresionisq srrfreelfttt, rbsurdist, ducc interestingwort if the cniter b rny good, however shaky the philosophicalbase.Whco thc writer createssomethingnew, he can hardly help doing it at leastby endogy to the familiar creativeprocescturning stre€t soundsor elecuonicbleepsinto "musiC'by analogyto the proces by which Bachand thosebeforehim mademrsic of noteq or creatingan oral sculptue by a methodanalogousto 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 processof 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

rclrdonship (and thcrcforc hb hcan's) to thingr. Thc samcgoc 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 choorctcchniqucsaswc chooccwor& in English,cithcr to say whet we mcan,esnearly aswc cen,or to find out what heppnr whenwe choosethocctcchniquetrthoscwor&. "I hatcyor1" thc child reyr to hb father, watchingslnewdly for reection."Marriagc is s $rangething," caysthc lover, and glancc at hb love. So I proposein 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,s€ntencehandling,poetic rhFhr\ point of view, 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 the prescntationand analpis of modernsubiectmecer, and thc 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 changcfrom ageto rge rnd onc wey of comingto undcrstand our idcas and emotiom is to rtudy thcm ttuough thc spcctaclcsof somccarlier form or sct of aesthcticprcmise. 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 Mont€rinte-Victoire, Latc Afternoon," the paintertoday, whetherfrom dlsillusionmentor from a curiousbut ruthentic attachmentto thc world hc knonry, may makc a painting hc calls "Pontirc with Treetrunk" or "Chcvy in Grccn Fields."In thc sameway, thc writcr may copy 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 charactersand 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 expcrienceis more eccurate (that of Apollonios or our own), and how much experienceitself has changed.So DonaldBanhelmeplap off thc medievaltradition of the allegoricalmountain(mainly off Chauccr'sThe Houseof Fatne) in "The GlassMountain," Srrnley Elkin imitates TDe CanterburyTalesin Tbe Dick GibsonSbaur,John Banh imitatesScheherazede in Cbimna, and JamesJoyce in r senseimitatesthe 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 modernheroesmust differ from that of old-fashionedheroes (he learnsthe advantages and drawbaclaof 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#

NOTFf ON lNE NCi|TONALPROCESS

The imitationsI'vc mentioneLBarthelme end so ondr€ dl feirly sophisticated;that is, far removedfrom the bue of 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 SleepyHollow." Though we sometirnesasociateparody with collegehumor magazines or suchpopularorgtns x Motl nryazine and the Natiwul Ltntpoon, the useof parodic tcchniqug both comicrnd serious,hCIproveda rich vein for contemporaqy 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 vaudevilleroutin€s for a grim new purpose,or he may follow his modelalmoa linc for line, merely changingd*ails of action, character,rnd setting. Whether or not the resultis art will dependon thc uriterb wit Either wan the exercisewill producer clearertnowledgc of howthc writer rchievedhiseffects. Yocahtlny A huge vocabularyis not alwap en advantage.Simple lan' guage,for somekinds of fiction at least,can be more effective than complexlanguagewhich can leadto stiltednesor suggest dishonestyor faulty education.Oneof the surestsignsof limfued sste or intellectual mediocrity-though sometimesit gignelt only shynes end insecurity-is continualuseof the samepolyqyllabicor foreign words eveqyoneelseuses,fashionablewords like "serendipiry,"or "ubiquitous"; "getne|"'milial' ernd"mtt' asFrench; worn-out Germanwords biancd'when emphasized uGestaltr"ot "Sturm und or phraseslike "Weltcnschauungr" Drong";or iugon wordslike "fictional strategy."And the writer vho ues his own fancy language,mt iust that which is in style'

Technirye

r45

can be equallyoffensive.lf we sensethat, though working asr realisghe writes meinl)r for elegantverbal effect, choosinghb charactersfor the clevernes of their chatter or even violating characterout of deferenccto his ear, using "calculatC' for "think" or giving all his charactersthe right to say "da*ardly,' "connneiI f mtlr" or "my maq" we sensemannerismandtrigidity end rt onceback off. This rule like dl rules,musr be applied with goodsense.Dostoernkychoosescharactenfor 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 allegoricalemblemswith the crnning of e fim-fam mangulling his country victim. The qrsrbol that strnds out too sharply from in matrix may distract the reader'seyefrom thc fictiond dream,with thc unpleasingeffect of making the writer seemfrigid and hb sto47 disingenuong more scrmonthan honestpresentationof imagined€vcots.-.a work, in shon, in which the readerfeels manipulated,prshcd toward someopinion or view of the world not inherentin thc fictionalmaterialsbut imposedfrom above. "Normally," I've said.In a cerrrin kind of fiction clunky symbolism,or the eppearanceof woodco ellegory, can be a sourccof delighqend a vocabularyof 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 appreciateit, pan of the appealof Chaucer'sMm of Lns's Tde is its stiffness,its tigdity of ideaand emotion.Cunstancencverseemsto 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 outmodcdsct of litcrary conventions.The sameis true of Cleucer'sSccondNun's TaIe and of any numbc of modcrnperdic works both seriousand comic. By making one'ssymbolismunusuallyobvious,asin the bestmornensof Banh's Giles GoatBoy, onecansometimes get a plcasingcffectof artificcwithout 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 cmphasison tcchniqueandits impon. Normally, however,thc symbolistor allcgoristworks morc subtly. In "Banleby the Scrivener,"Mclvillc uses,es he often it dlows docs,r narratorcapableof orbicularlrnguagebecause him to introducedouble meanings-allegorizingpuns-without disturbing the surfaceof the stoqy.On its most obviouslevel, lawycr renderedhclples by thc thc srcry is of a compasionate kecping up his of both work in thc ordinary busines dilcmma world rnd dealinghumrnely with what ftms out to bc the cosmic dcspair,in fact madness,of his copyist Banlcby. On r dcepcrlcvcl, the lawyer is e kind of Jchovahfigure, Berdeby e patheticandineffectiveChristwho bindsJehovahto r new idea formal,cvcnpondcrousdiction of iustice.Thc lawyer-narrator's dlows Mclville to treat the surfacestory with full respectfor thc dignity of his charactersand their pathctic situationbut at thc samctime to work in signalsof the deepermeaning.Mclvillc writcs: This vierv [the whitc well the nrrator scesthroughone of hiswindows]might havcbccnconsidcrcd rathertamc than othcrwisedeficientin what landscrpepaintcrscdl "life." But, if so, the view from the other end of my chembersoffered,at leestra contrast,if nothing morc. In

Techniqu

r+7

thrt dircction,my windowscomrnrndcdrn unob,structed view of r lofty brick wdl, blackcncdby .g" md evcrlrstingshadc.... At first glancg thesescntenccsarc 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 languagcthat 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 'h€rnst dongsidcthe stcp leadingup into churchcsor public buildinp; thc namesof carpentcrs'or plumbers'tools,anists'mstcriab,or whatever furniturg implemcntq or processcshb characters work with; and thc namesof clmmon houscholditem* 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 samcpcoplcwho 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 namcsare more importent than thc charactersthcy dcscribc.)Abovc all, the writcr shouldstrerch his vocabulaqyof ordinary words rnd idiomswords andidionn hc scesall the timc andknowshow to uscbut ncverus6.I nrcanhcrc not languagcthrt smcllsof the lamp but relativelycommonvcrb6,nouns,and adjcctiva-"gdumph" and

I,$8

PROCESE NOIESON TEE FrcTTO}TAL

ormbler"'quagmire," Acoop' (n), "pustulg" "hippodmnrc'" 'r€rni"." The casualway to build "recalcitrant' "disueught" vocabulaqyis to pay rttention to languageas one reads Thc way is to readthrough a dictionaqf,makinglisa serious-minded of dl the commonwor& one happarsncver to rse. And of oounsethe really serious-mindedway b to study 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 immediaterisk 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 A convenient ootebookis a setof experimenswith the sentence. md chdlenging place to begin b with tlre long sentence,rrre that runsto et leasttwo prges.(For ttou4e-fmce examplesee Dondd Berthelme'spiece of shon fiction '&ntenct"--in fact one not a long, long sentencebut a fragment) Long seotenceq, learns-end mean fake long sentenceg wherein com" I not soon and colonscould bc changedinto periodswith mas,semicolons, no los of emotiond power or intellectud cohercncgbut red sent€nc€s-cro be of many Lind* eech with is own rmique effects.The sentencemey be propelledby some&ining hyst rical anotion, like William Faulkner'slong sentencein the oq" includedintrodrrctionto Tbe Soutd a*l tbe Fzryrin siondly .

Techniqre

r19

which the town librarian fnds Gddy's picture in r magazinc, closesthe library, and rusheswith the picnre, her wits flying and her heartwildly pounding,to Jason'sstore;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 mentalproc€sses thc sentenceb designedto reflect-+ome intelligent middle-agedhousewifqfor examplgwho hasread about women'sliberation in her magazinesand feels an increasingly anxiousinclination, hedgedin by doubts and on-the-otherhands,to takee nighschoolcourse-one in fower-arnnging, or ceramics,or self-awarenesr-perhapstelling her domineering mother and hu$and whar she'sdoing and then againperhap not-though money will be a problem if she taka the course secredy:Shehasonly her householdand grocery dlowancemd there are alwaln the children, thoogh Mark (let ru call him) rnight possiblybe talked into stayingafter schoolThunday nighs to play bCIketball,and Daniel,on the other hend . . . but would Danielevenmissher if shewent out, in factt--glueil every night to the TV in his room, smoking(if that'swhat the smell is) pot?-$ut it would be risky, no doubt of it; if thcy found her out-Harold andher mother-there would be scen€s, tiresomedramas;bener to fnd somemorefoolproof plan . . . or the sentenceme). be kqpt going by the complexity of its thought, or by the ometenessof 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 sentencefragments They can bc trenchangpunchy. They can suggestweeriness They crn increasethe drabnes of a dnb scene Used for rn unworthyreas,o&ashere,they cenbeboring. Benveeothesecrtremeq the endles sentenoeand thc vcryl lhort sentence,lies r world of nrriatbn, a wodd o'ery writer mustevcotuallyqplore

r50

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PROCESS

PoertcRby*tm

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

|

l--

-

|

I

-

-

-

r. Like poetry, proschasrhythmsrnd rhythmic varietio-ns. I

u

---l-

vv

|

--

l--

3. Rhythmandvariationareasbasicto proseesto Poet{y. | | | t| | | 4. All proscmustforccrhythms,justlike vcrsc.* Comparethe above.Rcadingat the namralspcedwe usefor prose,fasterthanthe naturalspeedof verscor prosepoctry' wc 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

,\

= $ressedsyllablc; = lightly strcsscd discusion,rs foltows: (or vct*, beatin thc rbscnccof sucss); sometimes, in meuical rylleblc *= O but longor slowsyllablc; = un$rescdsyllable; = unstrcsscd (by forcc) rhymc or othcr slighdy tomc unstresscd oonchcd ryllablc A= 41, hovcringsu.s ldso towrrd stres; ll = pauseor cresure; uscdin siturtionswhercwc might readtwo iuxteposcdrylleblcsrs cithcr trochaicor iambic,but so similar in stres thrt they r.cm to dividc thc crnphasis of bcatbctwcenthem,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 fiythttr, rnd the varietionsrs thc frzz soloistl syncopetcdridc.) Thc

Tecbnrqn

rjt

3, becauseof the fairly regular (rccurrenceof stressedsyllablc and thc numbcr of unstressed sllabla betweenthem, runs along more lightly than cither r or z and much more lightly than item 4 whercthe iuxtaposedsuesses slow the sentenceto . 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 basicmcesureslre monometer!dimeter, trimetcr, tetremeter, p€ntamenter, hexameter, and heptameter. Beyond this length the line tends to break into separateperts, 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 snakesthat 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

NOTES ON THE FTCTIONAL PROCESS

r52

In good prose,rhythm neverstumbles,slipeinto accidental dogg.t4 or works againstthe meaningof the sentence.Consider the following sentencepermutations. (For my conveniencg assumethat the ice hasbeen establishedby context and may be omined when we like.) ^ , i6 fi'e rlyr,Jpris ;d squJalea,,iln r. The pis thr: r@yd

\o

/

f

iie,pJntin-griilduembFng. t| - l - -

eshing and squealing, m.rfty r. eitE ,tt*ttii'g vv

|

---

r,Jpr&,

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

pi-gl.y i"ntI'' ii.. -: - / napF" 4-

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

bling,layhelplas.

Rhythmicdln item r seemsnot entirely satisfactory.Thc 6nal phrue, "panting and uembling," comesasa tind of afterthought-we don't feel propelledinto it by rll that has gone 'thrashcd and befor*and ia faint echoof the earlierrhythr& squealed,"feelsslightly awkward.Item u is worse:The echoof "thrashingand squealingph now much too obvious,gt"ing thc symmetry.Itcm 3 is bener. The sentencean ofiensive "looky cchoingphrues havebeenbrought togetherin the samcpart of the sentence,dlowing the closeof the sentenceto suroothout and run free; and by droppingthe word "and" from the phrase "pnnting and uembling," the rhythm of this segmentis slowed down ('!anting, uembling") andthe echois to someext€ntsuP presed" And + is beaer yet. Slowed by the PFse "panting, ueinbling,' the sentenccwinds down, like thc pig in the word "helples." Soundnow echoessense. By keepingout e c:reful earfor rhythrq the writer cNnoon' trol thc e*oti- of his scntenceswith cnnsiderrblesubdety.In

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 sentenceworks, is of coursethe choice of words. lt would be different if I'd wrinen, '"The old cow The openingiotris . . ." But pert of it b the handlingof stresses. upoeed stresseqintensifiedby near rhyme give appropriate hanhnes;the dliteration of an esentially nasrysound("randq" 'rnrpidly") meinteinsthir qo"lity; rnd the rhythnic hesitrtion of the long syllableet the cnd of the firs phrase

Jnr:ao followedby tte nrmbleino difrorh-to-nrnagespcrnun€rary oyllebleo unstrcsed t --t stupidly uiumphant

gro suggestiorl hopc-d de monstcr'rdumsin€ss of " ud gait (Wc scznthewor&, I thin\ r doqght t --,

I

empidlytriumphant reficr thanrs dacrylicandamphibrachic. Thur'tri'functions -orurould in metricelyGntsarr rider,rnd,givenourhrbis of io *ongly rhythmbproseesin versgthe syllablc fdlclurnsily.) The gooduniter worls om hb rhythm by a"; bc usudly hasao needof dreprnpherndiaI've invokedherefor purposcc of disctsion Yc ocrasiondlyit proveshdpfrrl to scanr linc sie mcric.l .nel)rsismerls,asan aid to daerminingwhcrc tosr ns% *rong beetsbouldbGinsqted,(E sonepau of uo'

r5+

NOIES ON TITE FICTIONI, PROCESS

stresscdsyllabla suppresed or added. Turning sentcnccs aroun4 trying various combinationsof the fundamentalelemcna, will prove invaluablcin the end,not iust becauscit leads to bener sentencesbut elso becauseovcr thc ycan it teaches ccnain basicwep of fting rhythm that will work again on other, superficially quitc disimilar s€ntcnc€s.I don't knoq mpclf-and I suspectmootwritcrs would say the same-what 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 thing;ssaid.One thing thet may be helpful to noticc b the kinds of changesthat pushunstressed ryllabla up to str€ss.Take thc 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 herc as old native metcr. Watch the permutationspushingu* strcsscdsyllablcsto strcsqor, asHopkins would say,"tptinging' thc vcrsc. t--| t--| Taffy wasaWelshman,Taffywas a thicf. t - - -.7-T\ r. Taffywasadamnfool,

fr-,-^

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 b€hind all thc i*ing thc (imaginrqy) dnurF bcatis thc samc.

TeclmiEn

rtt

Pointof Vieu What hasalrcadybeensaidon the subiectof point of view need not be repeatedherc.In contemporarywriting 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 Saltpaintingor a GeorgeSegalsculpturesimplycouldnot 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 expectationand pleesureof "conart. But in cvery temporary"or at-once-r€cognizably-innovative age,includingour own, someliterature--+ftenthe best,sinceas a rule onecannotsimultancously invent wildly andthink deeply --somc literatureusesuaditionalmethods,and hcre a ceftain correctncssis beyond dismisal. Somediscussionof 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 shesawthejug") is morecommonin bothfolk and sophisticatednanative. No fairy tdes are told in the first pcrson;alsono iokes.First personallowsthe writer to write ashe ulkg and this may be an advantage for intelligentpaoplewho interesting have speechpetternsand comefrom a culture with a highly devclopedoral tradition, suchasAmericanblacks,Jcwg and southernor down-eastYankeeyarn-spinnen;but first person doesnot forcc the writer to recognizethat written speech hasto makcup for the lms of facial expression, g€sture,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 cncouragedto write in the third penon sublective,a point of view in which all the "f's arc changedto "he"sor "she't and emphasis is placedon 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)goesfor deepconsciousnesq in the hopethat the thoughs and feelingsof the charecterwill becomethe ir mediate(unmediated)thoughtsand feelingsof the reader.The effectis somethinglike: 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 bedsomeoneof thesemornings and you'll turn white with the elfon of ig and click." Doc had snappedhis fingers,brourn, bony fingers that wouldnt go fat if you fed 'em on goosefat and white breadforamontlu The third-penon+ubiectivepoint of view hasis use*but it also hasseverelimits, 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 consciousn€ssr" where we haveen inteqpretingnarrator), howeverlimited that mind mry be, so that when the character'siudgrnensue mb taken or inadequetgthe reeder'smore conect iudgmens mtrst 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 meansof other tcchniqua; for instancgby * of the crebby omniscient&urator of Katherine fuine Poner's fiction or tho d*Hy ironic voice sometimesfrvored by Melvile, as in ?De 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 somemeasurer 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 p€rsonsubiectiveexceprthat the n:urator not only nevercommentshimselfbut alsorefrainsfrom enteringany character'smind. The resultis an ice-coldcamera'seyerecording. We seeeventqheardidogue obsen'ethe setting,end make guesses about what the charactersare thinking. This point of view can work brilliandy in frirly ehon fiction ks limits ore obvious The noblestqniters,Iike Isak Dinesenand Leo Tolston rise above the pettines and unseemlyfamiliarity of third pe$on subjective,and rvoid the savagespersiryof third penon obieo. tive, by meansof the authorial-omniscient pint of view. In thc euthoriel omnisciengthe writer speaksas, in effecg God. Hc seesinto dl his characten'heartsand minds,pr€sentsdt post tions with iustice and detachment,occasiondly dipn into thc third personsubiectiveto give the readeran immediatesenseof why the characterfeelsashe doeg but reserresto 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, omniscientpoint of view the readerccapesthe clauuophobir he may feel when boxed into e limited opinion; he se and ctlebrategshrugsoff, or deploresa 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 dernotedthe authorial-omniscient point of view--*uler of the field forcennric-vns widesprad doubgt

r58

NOTESON Tl|D TrcNONAL PROC,ES{I

lerst rmong intellecnrds,rbout thc existenceof God, rnd increasingfascinationwith Pilatc's tiresomequestio,n'What b Stephen Truth?" CharlcsDickens,JooephConrad,Henry James, Crane,and many others invented valuablealternativesto the omniscicntvoice-among othcrs,the story told through various pointsof view,filteredthroughprhaps unrcliablcnarratorslike Conrad'rMarlow, or reponedby somcpoeticor rcal voice,cvcn thc imegincdvoiceof thc community.Now that nervoustheologicaland metaphysical questionshavelost thcir widc appeal, writers likc Donald Banhelmc,Joycc &rol Oates,or William Gas fccl freeto usctheomniscient point of view whenevcrthey like, unuoubledby God'sexistence and its furor nonexistencc thcrmores.Thc euthorial-omniscient nerretor is, for them, as implimuch a fiction (or a literary traditionwithout desperatc cations)asanything elsethey 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. Onc of the problemsthc beginnermay encountcrin using thc authorial-omniscient point of vicw ir that of cstablishingit in the first placeand,throughouthisstory,movingsmoothlyinto the minds of his charecters.To establishthis point of vicw when his narrativeopens,the wrircr must dip fairly soon into variousminds,setting up the rules; that is, cstablishingthe expectationthat, when hc likes,hc will move from consciousness to consciousnes. Thc shift to third pcrsonsubjectivcreguiresa skillful handlingof psychicdistance.(On psychicdistance,scc p.rrr.) Another availablepoint of view is the so'callcd "essayist omniscient."Thc casicstway to dacribc it is by contrastwith thc authorial omniscicnt. The language of the authorialomniscientvoiceis traditionaland neutral:Thc authorspeals with digniry andpropergrammer,sayingwhat any cdm, digni-

Technique

r 59

fied, rnd reasoneblcpc$on would say. "Hrppy familicsarc all alikc." Or: "During thc first quarterof the last century, scaside rcsortsbecamethe fashion,evenin thooccountric of Northern Europc within the mindsof whosepeoplethc seahad hitheno held thc role of the Dcvil, thc cold and voracioushercdita4yfoc voicc soundsmuch of humanity."Evcqy authorial-omniscient like every other. Thc essayist-omniscient voicc, though it hes ncarly the samedivinc authoriry, is morc personal.Though wc do not know the nameandoccupationof 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. Whereasthe writer who has chosenthe authorial-omniscient techniqueneedsonly to imitatc, say, Tolstoy, thc writer using the essayist-omniscient voice must first invcnt e charactcrwith particularhabitsof thoughtandparticularspeechpatterns.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 containssuspense, difierent kinds of suspursein differcnt kindsof fiction. Take the simplestkind 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 heightensthe reader'santicipationandat the sametime holds,itself, suchintoest-through richnes of literal or metaphoriclanguege,through starding accuacy of perception,or through the deepeningthematicand cmotionaleffectof significsnteerliermomentsrecalled-that thc reederis reluctantto dashon 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'ssuspensewill 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-rnovingwithout a soundtoward the gate -how Old Bassusedto tell me about mockingbirds.'Samuel,' he'd say . . ." Irrelevantdisuactioruevenif it workg in a feeble wap makesthe readerfeel manipulated.Trug terftre can help 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 recallsearlierpassag€s in the fiaiorl asociationsthat enrich the srspensefulmoment.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 learnedthat 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 expressionpertly fear, pardy inimtion-irriution at her own tiridiry, perhap, but the expresion is one into which we're fre€ to proiect our own irriatiort" (Srspensefuldelayis 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'sfeeling and channelit back into the story.) Anothcr kind of delaymay be achievedby stylistic io"trp* sition. F:rly in "Views of My Father Weeping," Donald Barthelmeinuoducc surreali* elemena-in this caseimagesfrom 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 sequenceof 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-strouble for the touriss and feelsthe beginning rwingesof suspcnsc. Herg asin Banhelme,the suspersecom6 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 Sanrirn anguishof choicc;that is, our suspenscful just with whet will happenbut with the moralimplicrtioru not of action.Given two posiblc choices,eachbasedon somcap. as wc read,over which choiccthc provablcgoal, u'e rrvorrJr'r characterwill makeand,given thc natureof rcelity, what thc rcsultswill bc. In somerccentfiction, nomblythat of SamuelBcckcttand, often, Donald Banhelme,the writer makesironic use of thc fictional conventionof dclay, encouragingthe reader to cest forward to somepossibleoutcomeand then rcfusingto makc my progrcsstowardthat end.ln Waitingf or Godotwc aretold that thc two ffampshavecometo this barrcnplaccto wait for Godot, whoeverthat may be.Thc namp'stalk and go through circular motione-routinc lcadingnowhere-and dmc pases, in thc scnsethat thingshappn (thoughnot scquentielly):The one remaininglcaf falls from its branch on the nearly barrcn reei but Godot doesnot arrive.Our conventionalexpectrtion helpsBcckenmakchis point on stasis.In Beckett'spleyHeppy Dayswc gct muchthe samething. Thc pile of refuscin which one of the two charactersis buried gcs dcepcract by ect-by the third it is up to hcr neck;but despitcthis proof that timc b pasing, the charactcn learn nothing, make no progres. In Banhelme,the end may be achievedbut, if so, provesto be someidioticioke,esat theendof "The GlassMountain"or The Dead Fatber-e ioke that makesnonsense of the quest.ln th6c valug if any, is in thc works dchy bccomc an cnd in itsclf-the ioumcS not the arrival-and the anguishof choice proves r fool's dclusion,sinceno chorcebrings satisfaction.Thc art of suchfiction liesin keeprngthe 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 cmphasizingthc moral seriousness he prcscntshis suspectopinions;by pointing oug if posible, the measurcof 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 . writer might sayzuchen outregeousthing; wc rciect in thag in the ect of laughing,wc deny that humanbcinp arc thc helples clown-creaturcsthc ruthor has represcntc4 rnd wc cuspcct, righdy or wronglp that thc ruthor sccrcdy agrecswidr usothcrwiscwhy makcthe charactersso clownlikc?The fact that SamuclBcckctt is in earncst,or se)'she ls, may surpriseus but docs not changeour r€spottsc.To thc writcr who wishesto emulateBcckca or Brnhelme, thc only possibleadviceis 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 ambitiouswriter 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 enoughto 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 cusromarystylc of the tale, thc yrrn, thc third-pcnon-omniscientrealisticpieceof 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.Someoncwho writcs brillianrly, with cloccly observeddemil, about profer-

r6+

NOTES ON THE FICTIONAL PN,OCESS

sionaldishwashingor clerking in r grocery storg presentinghis materialin the normal style of third-penon-subiectiverealistic fiction, must inevitably sound different from another vriter who, working in the samebasicstyle, writes of circuswork or the life of profesional tornuers.Style often takescareof itself. The sameis true of the writer who mastersnot oneconventional style but many,eitherwriting eachstory in * style differ€nt from the style he usedla.sttime or mixing sryleswithin a givenstoqyin r way that seemsto him intuitively satisfyingand somehowiustifiablein termsof the story asa whole. 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; and that insteadof freeing the writer to erpr€sshinrselfit may 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

7

Ploming

When designinge profuent plot, we'vesaid,the writer worb in 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 chaptetwill examineall threeof thesemethodsasthey apply to 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 herdestiob e writer everdoes. Thoogh causalsequence givc the best (most obvious)tind of profuence,it is not the only possiblemeansto 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 dramatizelogic'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-
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 charitablebehavior,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 seemexhausted. Suche story or novelmight bc interesting,even brilliant, but it can neverachievethc power of an energeicaction because the controlof actionis intellectual,it doesnot risc out of the essence of things:It discusesredity the way a lec(though ffer does perhapsmorcvividly), it doesnot revealthe modaliryofthings.It doesnot captureprocess. A relatcdkind of profuence,which can alsoorganizcboth made-upstoriesand uaditional or real-life stories (found obplot. In iecs, soto speak),is the straightor modifiedpicaresgue uaditional or purc form the picaresqucnarrativc follows some characer, oftcn r clcver rascal,from level to level through sociery, showingusthe foiblesand absurditiesof each.The writer canmakcany substitutionshe may pleascto pump new life into hero,he thc old formula.Insteadof the customarypicaresque might uscsomemonstcrfrom thc fens-thc monstcrGrendel, from BeoaruIf, for instance+nd instcad of thc customary movemcntthrough thc strataof socicty,hc might choosce list of Grcatldeasof WesternGvilization (love,heroism,the anistic ided, picty, andsofonh) to which oneby onche introduces his skepdcalmonster.This structuring of plot is likely to bc more interestingor lessdependingon the extent to which thc raisesquestions sequencc involvingthc welfareof the character, each value, for instance,putting increasingpressureon the monster'sskepticism.Insofar as the sequenceof ideasprovides somethreat,thc reader'sinvolvementmay be almostasgreat as it is in the well-built energeicplot, though here too the final energyis mising: the powerof inexorableproces. Or againa plot may be constructedby symbolic iuxtaposi-

Ploning

r67

tion. Thc epicBeoatulf,discused earlier,worla in this way. All talesof quest,or nearly all, havethisstructure. In the 6nel analysisit seemsunlikely that an csentially intellectual strucnre can have thc same power and aesthetic validity, all other things beingegual,ase sructure that appeals simultaneouslyto our intellect and to subtler faculties, our deepestcmotionsGympathyand empathy) and our intuition of redity's process.However that may be,an intellectualstructure is easierto createthan is a powcrful energeicplot. With intelIcctual strucnrresthe writer always knows exactly where hc standsand exacdywherehe'sheading,thoughthc readermay be baffieduntil he figuresout thc key. If the writer is very clevcr at fleshingout the skeleton,coveringit with vivid detailsdrawn from life or lirerature,the rcader'sinitial baffement,combined with hisintuitivesense that the fiction hassomeorder,may lerd to the reader'set fi$t overvaluingthc work-and his later disappointment,wheri hc figuresit out Wc senseat oncc some mystcriouslogic in Kafka's "A Country Docror," and our first impulseis to aaribute this mysteriouscoherenccto some ingeniouspenetrationof 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 degreebut in kind from thosemasterswhosestructuresare intellectual,not energeicwriters like Dance,Spenser, andSwift. The question,to poseit one last wan is this: Can an argument manipulatedfrom 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,ana.Gullfuer'sTraaels,however

r68

NOTEII ON TTIB FICTTONAL PROCESS

brilliantly crnstructd evertouch dre hemof the garmcntof r play fike Kirg Leo? Or: Why b ther{ ewid n meu:kdllyinfefur to the lli,ld? From all we havesaidaboutploniog in generalit shoulil bo orident that evenin those"modern" plos in which evens hrp pen by lewsnot immediatelyvisible-as wher\ for instance,the taaooedman in the circusrevealsin the courseof e whimsicel conversationthat 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 decorousold 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;but if we begin to suspectthat the basisof profluenceis nothingbut madwhimsen we beginto be di*racted from the fictionel drerm by our questiongdoubts, and puzzlement,our feeling that the story is getting nowhere. The "mad" story--+urrealisgexpresionist,or whatever-must bc ascarefully ploaed asthe story with causallyrelatodrctions. 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 propriatecharactersendgenereting€ventsby the methodof thc old-fashionedallegorist,cacheventexpresingin mysteriotrsbut soncretetermsthe activerelationshipbetweenthc 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 cigarsmokeasphyxiationby the necessityof from time to time opening the window to let the pigeonin and out. For contrastwe might setup in the officenext dobr an identicd fet benter who doesnot havea pigeon,andan identicalpigeonwho hasnothing

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for sustcnme butrain.All of thcirneges, needles to rry (sterting with the bankermd the pigcon), ere choscnboth for theh cnrblemeticsignificanceand for their inherent interest.(By an "emblern" I mcan m image that has one signification.Thc bankermeansmaterialismand only materialism.By r "symbo[' I meanan imagethat may meansevenlffigt.) And everything in the story-seaing, didogoe enfhing else-must be selected by thc sameprinciples,both immediateand emblematicinteresa Oronemight work, asChauceroften does,by the obveneof the dlegorical maho4 choosingueditiond 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.depertmentsupervisor-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 ev€nts,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 meaningis nuch lessimposedfrom 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 translatesen entire seguencc of psychologicdevents,developinghis 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

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NOTEIION TIIE rICNONAL PROCCSS

of the Hclcn of Troy story, ccftdn basic facts rrc givcn by wcrc like, lqpnd and archcologicalcvidcncc(what thc T-i* what the Achaianswerc likc), and thc writer is to somesnent snrchwith thoscfacts.If he changesthings too noticeably,thc rcader may feel that thc writcr has madethings too easyfor 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 the writer automaticallyraisesthe expectationthat we will gct not only an interestingsoqy but an inteqprcmtionof thc faca that we too know-en inteqprctationthat must convinccuc if 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 the dinosaurage,"The Dinosaurg"is a specialcaseof the wellknown cvent reinterprcted.Becauscof C,alvino'sway of telling thc story-and alsobecausemutationb a pan of the subiectwe rrc not shockedbut 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 old storiesrctold ga much of their intcrestfrom our pleasurein the writer's 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 transcontinentaluactor-trailer; r womanpurpoaelyruns 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 understandingof the cvent rcquires-the climax becomesthe high point of r shortstoqy,e novella,or a novel.Sinceplotting is ordinrrily no hastyproc€ssbut somethingthc writer broodsand

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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 changeinto an ideafor a novellaor evena novel. But for convcniencehere,let ustreer the two climaxesI've mentioned-the wreck of the roadsidevendor'spickup and the woman'$attack on drc flagman-asideasthat 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 characteris in confict with somethingelse (anothcr character,somernimal, or some morc or les impenonalforcc), the climaaic encountermey 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 somereasonwe do not know becausc wc lack eccessro his thoughts.If the semidriver his thc pickup on purpose,the writer working backfrom the climaxis logically requiredto show dramatically,in carlier scen€s,(r) what each of the rwo focal charactersis like; (r) why thc semidrivcr his the vendor'spickup. (The wrirer might conceivablygct eround both r and r, telling us only whar rhe vendoris like; but thc introductionof a malevolenrsemidriver who simply happens into the story, bringing on the climax,hasbecomesucha clichd in modernfiction asto be almostunusable.)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 excellentstory if well done.Thc valueof the standardfeudstory alwalndepends on the writer's abiliry to.createpowerfully convincingcharacten 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 eechcharacrerbelieveswhat he does and why eachcannotsympathizewith the valuesof his antagonist; and wc must be shown dramaticallywhy the conflicting

172

rOTES (nf lHE FTCIIO!{ALPROCES'

charactersqmnot or do not ti"ply rvoid eechodru' s h rcel life even tigers ordinarily do. For the climax to bc not only persuasivebut intercting, it must come about in I way th* seemsboth inevitablernd surprising.(trn e form asstandard* the feud story, this last is exceedinglyimponant.) Needlessto say,no sqprise will be convincingif it restson chaocghowevcr commonchancemaybein life. If the semidriver hits the pickup by acrident or for some reasonwe neverlearn,the constructionof an aathetically vdid *ory b more difrculg sincethe vdue conflict that propeb the story must be derivedentirely from the central characterand his situation.In this casethe 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 representpower 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 consuiction'-a developmentabmpdy reversedwhen the semihits the pickup. W th" roadsidevendorb e redneckboaorn-landfarmer, . grower of melons,pumpkins,squash,pole beans,yamg and tometo€sin the red-clay countqf of Kentucky, southernMb souri or southemlllinois-e mancalledPigto". (Ths venion of the plot comesfrom the writer Leigh Wilson.) Consuictionsare easyto fnd for sucha man, beuzyedby the len4 the goverr ment, thc newly liberalizedBaptist ChurctL perhepsbetrryed by life in other weysrs well, at leastin his own view: His wife Alice, is worn andhaggard,sickly-other meq like his neighbor Plnky Heams,havehealthy,strong wiveq good workers And Pigtoes children Nretoo numerous(or not numerousenougb' chooeeone) andrebellious.

Plotting

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Thc urriter might leadup to the climaxwith threerelatively rhon but texturdly ricb at least moderatelysoutherngothic scen€s.In the 6rst, Ptgtoeis at breatfastwith hb wife, talking, while outside the children load the truck. The writer can quickly rnd easilyestablishPigtoeb feeling of being squeezed by life-his feelingsrbout the church, the school,blacks,hb chiltlren rnd neighbors,uxeq and the weather.But whereashb f*ily b pretty much stuck on the farm, as they are grumblingly awarg Pigtoeczn rt leastget eweyr little, seethe larger worl4 me€t strengers,selling produce from the brck of hb pickup,out by the highway.The sceneenrlswith 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,sharpimagesof how he drivesthe truclg andaboveall r dramatizedmovementfrom one world to another.Then the third scenemight show Plgtoe with two or thneesignificant eustome$'--'iruim 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 repeatedlyrevisesthe 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 supremelyfree 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. Thc risksin thisstory wc've outlinedareepparcnt.The good writcr will think them out carefully beforc he starts.The main one, of coun;e,is that the stoqy'ssoutherngothicismwill sccm old hat. Thc faa that the rtory h of r standardtypc is no reeeon not to write iq however.All fiction is derivativc,r fact that thc good writcr turns to his advantage,making thc most of thc rcldcr's cxpecations,rwisting old convcntions,setisfying expectations in unexpectedwep. Becausehis matcrid is so obviouslysoutherngothic, thc writer might chooser stylc not 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 experienceof southernlife, choosingdctails no othcr writer hasnoticed or, enywxy, emphasizcd, thus crcating a rcality as dillercnt from that of gothic convcntionas gothic conventionis from realiry itsclf. Our secondstory situation,thc womenwho purpoeelyruns ovcr a flagman,is thc oppositcof our Pigtocstoqy,sinceherethe focal chrncter is thc aggr€ssor, 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 personalrgainsthim, or shemay not know him, but seeshim asa symbol-e malc chauvinist,for instance.I am ignoring, for my convenience,thc possibility rhat thc woman might run overthe flagmanby accidcnt,mainlybccauscin that cascwc arc almostcenainly saddlcdwith a victim story. What be e set of harassing precedesthe climax would necessarily At bcst the story evcntsthat explainthe woman'scarelessness. stoqy:Thc be, abstract, duplicadon of our Pigtoc would in the r women believc onc thing-that a cenain attitude and way of behavingareeffectivc-andis provedwrong by cvents. Let us say, arbitrarily (though in fact thc givcn writer's

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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 becauscof 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 andscornsher 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, bccauseof their easyand uninhibitcdsexudity, havc no needof high artifice or polish.WhereasFanny grew up in Texas,of stern,southernBaptiststock,and fed to burlesqucin troubled defiance,guiltily but brazenly,rhe new breedgrew up in citieslike SanFranciscoandfeelsno suchinner conflict. Having worked our rhis generalapproachto his story, thc writer is rcady to start figuring out his scenes.By thc rulc of eleganccand efficiency,he will choosethe smallestnumber of scenesposible-perhaps three. Fint, thc wrirer might usc a rcenein which FannR fearfully and engrily, watchesthc rehearsalof a youngerstripper'sact. Shccan tell asshcwatches that, thoughthe act is technicallyshoddybesideher own, it is beinggroomedasa starringact andmaywell pushher from her

r?6

NOTEI}ON rlIE rICIIONAL PR@ESE

billing.In the ncxt scengFenny might crnfront the manageror 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 happensafter this-the soory'sdenouementor pull-runy---the writer 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 penuasiveimitation 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-ratefiction 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 husbandand children for a new "free' Iife, how it feelsto be suedfor malpracticeor to losean election;we do not get closcexaminationof somedeeprootedidea.The writer, in other words,hasdonethe first iob donein all seriousfiction-he hascreeteda convincingand illuminatingsequenceof 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 quesby the character'sconcern. tion or themesuggested The themeof our story about Fanny the stripper*bht bc of cource,melecheuvinism;or it might b€ Aft versusLife (or

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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 seemsto him centrelin Fanny'sstmgglehasto do with thc coftrut betweenArt and Naturq he will focuscarefully on rhc differencebctweenFanny'sact end thrt of the younger gul* i.rg.ry, etc., thrt subdy undencoreshis point of focus.Hc may pry clooeanentionto Fanny'smirror, a beautifully carpenteredobiect 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 choosesis nekedness, hc will chooseothcr denils to brood on rnd develop--+hechipping paint on the dresing-roomwalln for instance;the paychological nakednes of somechrracter; the manager'sunwillingnes 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 decorousold ianitor who clotheshis eveqymood in the moetprinstakingaiquetteend who weas, whateverthe weathcr,two sweatersand r cost Thesebecomethc "counte$," soto sperk,for the uniter's droughc They help him nnd out rnd €xpr€sspreciselywhat he rneans Themg it shouldbe noticed,is not imposedon the story but cvokedfrom within it-initially an intuitive but finally an intcllccuel rct on the pan of the writer. The writer museson the story idea to determinewhat it is in it rhat haseftractedhirn, why it seemsto him wonh telling. Having determinedthat what interesshinFand what chiefly concernsthe maior characteris the ider of nakednes (physicd, psychological,perhapaspiritual), hc top with variouswayc of telling his story, thinls aboutwhat hasbcensaidbeforeabout nalcednes(for instancg in traditional Ctuistianity and paganmlnh), broods on eveqf imagethat occu$ to hint, tuming it over and over, puzzlingon h, hunting for connectionqtrying to figure out-bdorc he

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NOTES ON THE FICTTONAL PRO@S8

writcq whilc hc writcq and in thc proc€ssof repeatedrcvi.sior -what it is hc rcally thinks. (How nakcil shouldwe bc or crn wc bc?Is opennesqvulncrability, a virnre or a dcfcct?To what crtent, with whet important qualificationst) Hc fin& himself bringng in black stripper$ pcrhapeen Indian nrippr' sup poncd by imagcrythat rccallsprimitivc nakcdncscAnd so on 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 schoolEnglishin 9n Franciscowho h kidnappcdby e group of Chincscthugs becauscthcy want him to write their stoqy, of 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 opposedto 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, understandingthc 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 proc. In this casc,thc story of a miscrablcgrng that docsnotll' ing morc lofty thrn knock ovcr en occesionalSavings& Loan Associationmay bc a story that rc outragc hb scnscof lifc rnd an thrt he refusesto 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 persuadedthat thcy really ought to bc

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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 cscapcif thcy werc mountcdon horscs,likc Mongolirn bandits.So wc might lcad to thc comic-hcroicimrgc 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 graduellymakesout whet his climax or scric of climaxcsb to be,hc mustfigurc out what hc mustdramaticallyprovc to makc thc climaxor scriesmcaningfuland convincing.Hc must figurc out his thcme-in this case,clearly,thc rcletionshipbctwccnrrt rnd lifg rnd thc moralrcsponsibiliryof thc anisr.Hc musrwork out maior dctailsof chrmcterizationrnd think out whet sonrcof his maior imagesimpty (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 somcwhcrcbcrwecn3oroooand Sorooo words) rnd both longcr end moreepisodicthrn 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 perhapsin fact ought to bc built--+f onc condnuousection.William Gas's 'nThcPcdcrs€nKid" is r mofc or lcs pcrfcct exrmplcof thc form. Discount-

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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 Jorge.The story runs asfollows: In somedesolaterural landscape (Wisconsin, perhap North Dakote), in the dead of winter, a neighbor'schild, the PedersenLid, arives and is discoveredalmostfrozento deathnearJorgebfather'sbarn; wheo he's brought in and revived, he tells of the murderer at hb house,e manwith yellow gloves;Big Hansand Pa decideto go there,taking youngJorge;when they get there,Jorge,makingr dashfrom the barn to the house,hearsshos; Big Hans and Pa ere killed, epparently-Jorge is not sure-and Jorgeslipsinside the houseand down cellar,whereet the end of the novellahe is still waiting. The streamof action is completeand uninterrupted, from the initial situation (the causeof the sequenceof 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 what he must,heskept his word andsohasachievedidentity' or human $atus. But the continuous$ream neverthelesshas iu progresion of increasinglypowerful climaxes,each if we look closely,symbolicand ritualisticaswell asintenseon the level of pure action.The writer, in other words, hasorganizedhis continuous action as e grouP of scenesor scene-clustersegnenq 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 worts on the frozen Pedersenkid as she worls when baking bread. The boy's whitenes remindsJorge of four, and Mr worla on hir& kneedinghim, on the kitchen tablg where customarily shekneadsher breaddough.Notice, by the way, how

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thgroughly rglistic all this is, for all is qfmbolic frrghting. The detailsof the scenehavethe sharpedgedvividnes of nayet nearlyevery ward Westonphorographs or realisticpainting. detailworkssymbolicallyaswell asliterally.) the thawing of the boy, Ma needssomeof pa'swhlskey - lo. (an ironic permutationof the wine that goeswith eucharistic bread,the Pedersenkid'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 pressure(the whole family is slighdy eezyz Mruembles in fear 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 decisionto 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',JorgerEaches the wall of the housg and (in the novella'sthird main climax) pe and Big Ham are shot by someoneinside.Ratherthen freezcto deathl thou$ he expectsto be killed anyway,Jorigegoesinside.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?ocusedon one cherecterand moving through r seriesof increasinglyinterueclirnaxes. We find the samesrructurein 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

Flaubertin "A SimpleHeart," Gide in "Theseus"and "The Pastorel Symphony,"William Faulkncrin "The Bear,"andsevcral of the novellasof ThomasMann. Though this form of thc novellais the mostelegantand cfficientnovellastructure,it is not thc only structureposiblc, however.Somenovellawriten writc, in effect,babynovels,shiftingfrom onepoint of view (or with time focal character)to anotherand usingtrue episodcs, breaksbetween,insteadof a continuousstreamof action.D. H. Lawrencc,in his novclla"The Fox," uscsthis morc complicatcd for him to form with somesucccss. The choicemakesit possible 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 Feulknerachieve,whilc the brevity of thc work prohibitshis achievingthe powcrhousccffcct 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 the elcments,litcral and symbolic, of a quasi-energeicaction. No rule govcrnsthe organization of sucha work but that thc writer be a prose-poetof genius.Even if hc has someintellecturl systemfor aranging his crots,the basicprinciplcof his asemblyis fccling: Hc shuffiesand reshufleshis fragmentsto and he achicvc 6nd the mostmovingof posible presentations, not, asin linearfiction,by the gellingof kcy €vents' hisclimaxes but by poeticforcc.Dcpending,asit does,solargelyon texftrc -having abandoned structurein the traditionalsensc(cvents causallyrelatedand prcsentedmorc or lessin sequencc)-thc thc writer's tendency modcruns the greatrisk of overrichness, Thc great to pushtoo hard,producinganeffectof sentimentality. focuson imagcry advantage,on the other hand,is the necessary

Pbtrtng

r83

whereby repeatedimagesaccruegreeter and greater psycho' Iogicalandsymbolicforce. A good novella,whateveris structurg hasan effecranalogousto 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 maketheseanalogies a littlc clearer. The chief beautyof a novellais its almostorientalpurity, its eleganttracingof an emotionalline.Whereesthc shortstoqy mov€sto an "epiphany,"as Joyce said-in other words to r climacticmomentof recognitionor understandingon the part of the centralcharacteror, at least,the reader-achievingits effcct by fully iustifying, through authenticating background, its climectic cvent or moment,thc novellamovcsthrough a series of smallepiphanies or secondaryclimaxesto e muchmorefirm conclusion.Through the sparestmeansposible-not through the amasingof the numerousforcesthat 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 hassurvivedandtriumphedin hisrite of pasage,hasachievedhisadultidentity.The "fox" at the cnd of D. H. Lawrence'snovellahaswon his womanand murdered his enemy.The bear,at the end of Faulkner'snovellq is gone, and lkc McCaslinis changedforever.Nothing can be moreperfect or completethana goodnovclla.When e novelachievesthc sameglassyperfection-as doesFlauben's MadmneBoamywe maytendto find it dissatisfying, untrue.The "pcrfecr"novcl lacksthe richnessand raggednesof the besrlong fictions.Wc neednot go into the reasons for this exceptto noticethat the novellanormallytreas onecharacterand oneimportantaction in his life, a focusthat lendsitself to neatcut-offs,framing.The novel,on the other hand,at leastmakessomepretenseof 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'sfundamentalefrect When all of a novelb suings are too neatly tied together at the end, as sometimes happensin Dickensand elmostalwap happensin the popular m)'sterythriller, we feel the novel to be unlifelike.The novel b by definition,to someextentat least,a "loosg baggymonster"asHenry Jamessaidiritabln disparrgingthe novelsof Tolstoy. It cannotbe too loose,too baggyor monstrous;but r novelbuih asprettily ase t€acupis not of muchuse. A novel is like r qymphonyin that is closing movem€nt cchoesend resoundswith all that hasgonc before.This b rare 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, evens, and intellectual motifs encounteredearlicr. Unexpectedconnectionsbegrn to surfrce; hidden cnusesbocome plain; life becomes,however btitfly and unstably, orBpnized;the universcrevealsitself, if only for the moment,6 inexomblymoral;the outcomeof the variouschancters'actions b at lastmanifest;and wc seethe responsibilityof free will. It b this clCIingorchesuationthat the novelexiss for. If suchr elosc doesnot come,for whatevertheoraically good reason,we shut the book with feelingsof disatisfaction,asif cheeted.This b of conneetantamountto saying that the novel" as a genrg has e built-in metaphysic.And so it doc. The writer who doesnot ecceptthe metaphysiccanneverwrite 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 compos€rwho 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 Homer, Shakapeareor Melvillc beceuscwc would lite to be lievc the metaphpical theis fictioos embody--ao

Plotting

t85

orilerly universethat impces moml responsibility--$rt bccau* we do believethosc asumptions.We c"nnot<xcept in very subtlewayr-believe both Homerand$amuelBeclett Succesful novel-lengthfiaions csn be organizedin numerousweys: energeically,ttnt is, by r sequence of cansallyrelatcd events;iuxtapositionally,when the novel'Sparts havesymbolic or thematic relationshipbut no flowing developmcntthrcugh causeandeffect;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 disguissdfom\ e s€quenoeof causdly related cvenc-but somc form of rhythmic repetition: r key inage or clusterof imagc (the oceaa,e childhoodmemoqTof r swingset,a snow-cappedmountaiq a forest); e trey event or group of ev€nts,to which the uniter rcturns repeatedly,theo leavesfor materid that increasinglydeepensand redefinc the meaningof the eventor eyentsior somecentral idec or clustcr of ideas.The form lendsiself to psychologicalnanativg imitatiog th. play of the wanderingor dreamingmind (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 exampleis John Hawkes'powerful rnd mysteriorsearly nove[ Tbe Beetle-Lag,a nightmaresto{f in which thc narrativemoveswith increasingspeedand presgurefrom oneto anotherof a few key images-a beetleleg-sized crackin the nmllof a danr,r motor,cyclegang,andsoforth" Thcmostcommonform of the noveliscnergeic.Thisbbott thc simplat and the hardct kind of novel to write.-the sirn, plest bccauseit's the nost inevitable md self-propelld the hardestbecauseit'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

r86

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,no sancnovclistwould devotcthc first third of his total numbcr of pagesto cxpoeitiorL if thc sccondthird to development, andthe lastto denoucmcnt, only bccauscexpositionhasno profluencc,and aftcr five or ten pagcsthe readerwould quit. It is for this reesonthet Aristotle rccommendsthat the writcr begin"in thc middle of things" and 6ll in thc cxpositionashe can.But for pu{pos€sof discusion it will bc usefulto treatthc threecomponensscparately. In his cxposition,thc writer prcsentsall that the rcaderwill needto know about characterand situation,thc potential to be "actualized."Obviouslyhe cannotplan his expositionwithout e clear ideaof what the developmentsectionb to contain and at since lcastsomeinklins of what will happenin 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 understandthc ensuingaction. If the plot b to bc elegant, not sloppyandincfficient,then for the ensuingactionthe reader must know thc full set of causesand (essendally)nothing clsc; 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 anything is to comeof thc initial situationand characterization,the ma$er presentedin the expositioq rhc situadonmust bc somchow unstable:Thc charactermut for someteasonfeel conr pelled to act, effectingsomechange,end hc must bc shownto bc r charactercapableof aaion. fiis meangin effecg that in thc relationshiphtween chrr-

Ploning

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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 outsidethe character but also from within him, bccauscothcrwise thc conflicr involvcsno doubt,no moralchoice,and esa resultcan haveno profoundmeaning.(All mcaning,in thc best6ction, comesfrom -as Faulknersaid-thc hcan in conflicr with itself. All truc suspcnsc, we havesaid,is a drematicreprcsenration of thc enguishof moralchoice.)The famousFichteancurveis in cffecta diagramof thisconflictsituation: I

Lct line c representthe "normal" coune of action; that is, drc counethe characterwould takeif he caredonly for safetyand stability and so did not assenhis independentwill, trying thc difficultor imposiblein thc hopeof effectingchange.Let line D fepresentthe couneof actionour characerdoestake,suuggling againstodds and braving conflict. The descendingarrows (l) representforces (enemies, ctstom, or naturallaw) that work againstthe character'swill, andthe ascendingarrows (f) reprcs€nt forcesthat support him in his enterprise.The peak of the ascendingline (&) r€presentsrhe novel'sclimacticmoment;and line c represenrs all that follows-that is, thc denouementrThc

r88

NOIES ON TIIE I'ICTIONAL PROCESS

confict is nos'resolved,or in the proces of resolving,eitherbecausethe will of the cenualcharacterhasbeenoverwhelmedor becausehe haswon and his situationis oncemorestabilizing.A (our feelingof suschrn of the novel'semotionaldevelopment is, Fichte'scurve. we read) then, fascination, or enxiery as pense, Since the ascendingaction is in fact not smooth but moves 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 from the University of Glifornia at Berkeley.His motheris old urd in needof his financialhelp, and his youngerbrother needs moneyfor collqe (he wans to bg say,a Methodistminister). to land ong Jobsin our hero'sfield are scarce,but he menag€xi without interview, in a small univenity in Ohio-l* us call it Twjn Oaks-formerly e teachen'college.At Twin Oaksa pro' gram in Indian snrdiesis iust being establishe4supponedby r f€denl grant Jim loads hb few possesionson his H*LyDevidsonand travelsto Ohiq wberehe discoversthat e terrible

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mi*ake hasbeenrnde: What Twin Oab University thints it b ge$ing is e spccialistb 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 pressureon his hero and elsoto line up thosewho will encourageand rbet him, on one hand and thosewho will oppos€hirn, on the other. We havereachedwhet we may c"ll the developmentsection The writer anengesa set of crisesfor his hero. fuiother Apachemey cometo give a lecture,or a real AsianIndian may anive. A faculty membermay developa powerful dislikefor our hcro and for somereesonmey take to spFng on hirq trying to g€t 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 arrengesforceson 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 denouementmay 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,changesto somethingelse-the result of the secret'shavingbeendiscovered.) When he knows what is to happenin his developmentscetion, and somethingof what it meansphiloeophically(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. they both If hc formsa friendshipwith oneof thc deansbecause plry thc cornet,we must hearwhereand how Jim learnedto play. Or, to put it generally,the writer mustshowuscverything of imponanccto Jim's characterand everythingof importrnce rbout his situation,which meansmainly the characterof all thosewho will supportor opposchim at Twin Oala U, their politicrl affiliationsand biases,cverything about them that will hlve somcbearingon the action. This cxposition. wc'vesaid,cannotbc setdown all in a lump rt the beginningof thc book.If the story is to be profluent,the actionmustget goingalmostimmediatelRand the writer must slip in cxpositionashe 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'sdenouement bccnpropcrlyset up, it falls likc an nvalanche, and the writer's chicf job is to describestoneby sronehow it falls. Heving workcd out what he must presentin his cxpositionand developmentscctions,the wrirer comcsto the most difficult pan of his plotting, what medievalrhetoricianscalled ilispositio,rhe dispositionor organizationof the variousmaterialshe has sclected. In thcorythe writer maydecideto 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 thc end-for instance.with the novel'sdramaticlastevent-the rcsult will look gimmickyand self-rcgarding. Thc writer who frigidiry as and will figwishesto avoidsuchfaults mannerism urc out wherethe actionactuallybegins-probablywith Jims arivrl at Twin Oaks-and stan there.(Thus Homer-to shift for l momentto thc sublimc--$eginsnot with rhe openingof seizingof Briseus, thc Troirn wer, not evenwith Agamemnon's but with thc argumentof Achillc and Agamemnon,the ergu-

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.)Hevingdecidedwherchc 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 discover,for cxample,that hc needsmore 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 leaveit to the readerto 6gurcout the ploning of the €normouscousinof the cnergeicnovel, the so'celledarchitcctonic 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 Gaddisprovcsin /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 samcasfor the simplecnergeicnovel,only hardcrand also more risky, sincetoo much neatnessin 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 novelbreaksinto largecpisodes from variousperiodsof the hero'slife, and the choice of thcsecpisodes(es opposedto other posible episoda) follows theme. Again thc risks ere self-evident.If thc thematicconnectionbctwe€nthc variousepisodes is too neat,thc novelwill seemconuived rnd unlifelike; and if rhe connectionserc too vegue,rhc novelmay lack focus.

tg2

NOTES ONTIIE DICTTONAL PROCE$I

To a large €ftent, whateverkind of plot he chooses,the writer is more servantthan mesterof his stoqy.He can almost neveruseimportantdetailsonly once:They are$ue to cdl out for repetition.For instance,if the writer givesthe hero r nightmere,e nightmareso well done (rs it had bener be) that the rerder feelssomethingof the character'sdistress,the writerrnd the readerafter hfun-will feel a need for anothernightmarelrter, or someclerr equivalent,elementcalling to elernent thtoogh the novel, form crying out to form. If he introducesr love sceng he commitshimself to lrter developmentsof that $ene; if he focusescloeelyon r minor character,he cwrmic himsclfto that charecter'sreturn,if only asr memory. k is this qudiry of the nov4 is built-in needto renrm and rcp€at,that forms th. php..l basisof thc novel'schief glory' is resonantclose.(It alsoses up r risk that the novelmay seern conuived.) What ringsendresoundset thc end of e novelis not iost phy"".l, however.What movests b not iust thrt charecterq imagel and evens g€t someform of recapituletionor re of thing* call We rre movedby the increesingconnectedness uhimately r connectednesof vdues. Coleridge pointed oug $ined to the obnervationby his interestin Hartleim psycholof asociation can give ogy, thet increasinglycomplexsJrutems e literary work someof is power. When we €ncountertwo drings in closeasociationoHardey notice4 we tend to recdl one when we encormterthe other. Thug for example,if one ir standingin e drugstorewhen one first readsShelley,dre ncxt time onego€sto a drugstoreone mey think of the poet, end thc next time on€encountens l poemby Shelleyonemey get e feint whiff of Dial and battrsdts.The samething happenswhen we readfiction. If the first dme our hero mees a given characterit will carqy oeurs in a graveyard,the character'snext epp€erance sening. with it someresidueof the graveyard The effect can bc roughly illustratedthis wry. [.et a repro. rent e pair of bloody shoes,fim encounteredrt the foot of r villow tree &; let c eqnelan orphanhomg first encounteredin

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 brack€ts). 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

tl

t

c

d

rt, c a

ttl t

l lrl

t c [ll

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

Comparedto what ecnnlly happensin fictior\ this diagramb 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 characterscan be oonsidemble. Think of Joyce's"The Dead."In the clmi4g momentsof a novd the effectcanbeoverwhelming. We are of coursenot tdking abort iust any old return of image*etc. The imagesthat cometogetherat the end of 'oThc Dea4' eachdraggingis trrin of asociationgrre dl imegesof death.The imagesrnd expcricncesbrought togethcr io MoU)t Bloom's soliloquy in Ulyssescreatc en cqudly symbolic but vrsdy morecomplexthought-emotionin which the principlc of coherenceis loving afirmation rgainst od& rsociationdly rccellcd.The 'ycs" thrt begilrsase copulativecry cotargB ou[vnrd to becomea mystical efirnation of dl thc rmiversc, includi4gcvcodeath.To achicvcsuch.o effecgthc vniar mrst

rg+

NoTES ON TIIE FTCTIONAL PROCESS

rise abovehis physicalplot to an understandingof all bis plot'r clementsand ell thcir rclationships,including thosc that arc 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 availablcto the reader,is imposiblc to anticipatein thc planningof the novel. [t is the novclist'sreward for thinking carcfully about rcality,broodingon cycryimage,evcryaction,cveryword,both thoscthingshe plannedfrom the beginningandthoscthat crept in in thc scrviceof convincingness. Unfonunately,thoughthc can be describcd,thc writing of e cffcct of r truc dcnouement cannotbe taught.Onc canonly givc hintsand gooddcnouement warnings.The mostusefulhint is perhapsthis: Readthc sto{f overrnd over,at leasta hundredtimes-literally-watching for subtlc mcanings,conncctions,accidcntalrcpctitiong pychological significance.Leave nothing-no slightcst detailendwhenyou discovcrimplicationsin someimage unexrmined; or evcnt,oonchthoscimplicationstowardthe surface.This may bc donc in e veriety of ways: by introducing subtlcrepctitions of the image,sothat it catchesthe rerdcr'ssubliminalattcntion; by slippingthc imagcinto a metaphorthat hclpsto fix and clarify thc meaningyou havc found in it; or by placingthe imagc (or event or whatever)in closerproximiry to rclatcd symbols.fu for thc warnings,two ere of mostimponancc:On onc hand,don't overdothe dcnoucment, so ferociouslypushing 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 angclsafluttcr in thc raftcrg canhearthc resonancc.

Exercises

Onc of thc bcstways of lcrrning to write is by doing exerciscs. Thc following group end individual cxcrciseserc somcI hevc found hclpful, but any tcacheror studentcrn think up othcrs iust asgood.I rccommendkcepingthc cxercisesin e notebook (a looscJcafor spring-bindcr)for rcfcrencclater,perhapsalong 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
r9t

196

Ernches

lem, are surprisingty good), the classbecomesexciting. (In 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 secondadventageof doing individual exercisesas classexercisesis that the criticism that follows tendsto be of the kind most useful to the writer, especiallywhen the courseis still young. No one is likely to comedown hard on an exerciseknockedoff in fifteen minutes.A few slipsandinfelicitiesareto be expected.So the discusion is of the hind it ought to be. It points out small mistakes,not making too much of them, and focuseson vinues or potential.The third advantage,of course,b instant feedbaclt. Someof the thing;sthat ought to be coveredin every cou$ie on wriring prosefiction canbe coveredefficientlyonly by e clas working asa group.Exercisesof this kind follow. No one clasc €n get through all of them, and it shoulddways be borne in mind by both the teacherand his studentsthat the mostimPortent thing that cen be donein clas, oncethe basicshavebeen covered,is the readingandcriticismof originalfiction. Thinking rbout the exercisc can sometimc be as valuable as siaing down to do them. fu a rulenit is usefulto do certainkhds of ecially thoseinvolving plotting-throughout the cannot terrn, sincethe skills to be developedby thac exercises be acquiredall at once.With practicethe grouPand eachof its membersgets faster and better at doing the fob. For most of theseexercises, either the teacheror somememberof the group will needto a$ esblackboardrecorderand referee.The clas will needto recognizethe referee'sdecisionasfinal. Group exercisesbecomechaoticandthereforeboringif no oneis accepted esthe settler of disputesrbout, for instance,the nameand age of the characterbeingmadeup. It shouldalsogo without saying might be usednot for that occasionallysomeof theseexercises group discrusionbut for esseysor meditationsin the wrher'r notebook.

Er,ercises

ryl

r. Clatg in onl two characterssuiuble for g ghoststoqy-first the victim (the personfrighrcnedor harmed)' then th9 ghost Wort out for thesecharactersthe namg 4gg brckground,psychologicalmakeup,physicd description,f*tily connectiongcircle of immediatefriends,occupetion,appropri' atc setting, and anything elsethat seenrsimportant In doing this exercisgand dl thosethat follow, do not be unduly clever Jor instanc€,choosingasdrc rwo charactersherea dqg and e lizard. Undue clevernes defeatsthe puoose of the exercise, nising complcx pnoblemsbefore the simple onc have been rolved. r. Writg by onl cooperation,the openingparagraph(a descriptionof sening) for r parodicor seriousgothictale' the openingpuagraph (a de, 3. Write, by orrl cooperetiono scriptionof the yarn-spinnertold in the voiceof the poor,dumb credulousnarrator) of a comic yarn. Considerusing not thc uaditiond yarn+pinnu (a bachrater Southerneror New Englander) but someintercting varirnt . canny old womag r black,r fnt-gcnemtion Odnesc-American. 4 Cooperativelyli* the customeryelementsof one or morc 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 emphasison weather (espccidly wind, cold" and dampnes), x r€stlessanimrl (dog, wolf, orn'|"bat). What do theseelementsseemto rneanpsychologically?What eresomeposible qfmbolic meaningpof the ghost'srerum?The genreslbted abovc are ell "popular"; that is, their appeatis usudly iu* adventureor enteftainment.Suggct wap in which one or moreof them might be elevatedto seriousfiction How,

rg8

Ewrcises

for inmancgmight ghost-storyconvurtionsbc usedto cxplore mothc and hcr the rclationshipof 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 authenticatcthc climax?How many sccncsarc necesaryto achievcthc climaxl 6. Using thc stoly worked out in exercise5, dividc up thc sccn6 emongmembcrsof 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 bascdon somelcgcnd. 9. Plot a comic or seriousfable. For cxamplesof the fonnn seeAcsopor Jamc Thurbcr. ro. PIot an allegoricalfiaior\ hgrnning with thc idea or 'message"andtranslatingto pcrsons,placcs,andthings 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 mcaningsof thc symbols.By r "fabulous"stoqyI mcanherc onc conaining nonexistentbeingsor someimaginaqyand fentastic

Erercbes

ryg

placg but . stoqythat, gvcn thcscodditieqoperat€s rcalisticdly; thatis,by ordinary,notpoetigc'ause andeffect. 14.Plot a realisticor fabulousstory, beginningwith thc themgor philosophical subicct(for example, loesof innocencq poesesivc vcsrrsselfleslovg varictiesof couragcand cowardicc). 15. Discus wap of giving fiction profluence(forwardmovingnes)withoutcarsallyrelatedevenb.Plot suche sto{y. 16.Plotr storyby beginning with a choiceof thcsrylcto bc used.Let thestylebe in someway 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 cxample,a novcl about a circus, r lost vallen a gold minq an unfaithful wife, a doomedplancgfinr love. ro. PIot an architectonic(or multi-plot) novel;plot a novel that imitata thc form of the biography (David Coppnfdd). lI.Indiaidual Eraches the Dnelopmmt of Technique fm It is not necessarythat a bcginningwriter do all--or any---of thcsccxcrcises,and it would bc imposible, rs well aswastcful, for a srudentto do all of themin one term, sincethc cxercbes shouldnot be substitutedfor 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 crcrcisesonly during the early weels of the courscand therc after only at odd moments,p$ting most of hb cffort into complae piecesof fictioq prcferably shon form$ then longer forms. is this: Moet apprenThe point of thesetechnicalexercises tice wriren underestimatethe dilficulty of becominganiss; they do not understandor believethat greatwriters are rsually those who, like concen pianists,know many ways of doing everythingthey do. Knowledgeb no substitutefor gurius; but geniw supponcd by vast techniqucmakc a literary m$rcr. Eqp*i.[y iust now, whcn compaition for publicationb prob ebly grerter than everbeforg it is helpful for r cniter to know technique. Any apprenticewritcr who does0t leestsomeof thesecxercisesfaithfully and well will secthar when he getsto, say,crcf,cisezq he is in a positionto do the eerly exercba with much more facility than when hc begen;and every exercisefaithfully performedwill teacha techniqueusefulin short or long fiction The writer who has worked hard at thesc exercbc will sec wheneverhe writes e story or novel,that he hesvuiors choiccs availableet everypoint in his fiaion' and he will be in a betta positionto choooethe best
Errrcises

zor

&nity in e uriter b merelythis: Howeversnrpidhe rney bc in his private life, hc nevercheetsin writing. He neverfory.tt that his audienceis, at least ideally, as noblg generougand tolerant ashe is himself (or moreso), and neverfoqgetsthat he is writing aboutpeoplg sothat to turn charactersto cart
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 shouldrememberto say it. If therc is bad to bc said,hc shouldsayit in a way that reflectsthc trwh thaq thoughwc soc thc cvil, wc chooscto continucrmong thc living. Thc truc enist b neverso lost in his imaginaqyworld that he forgets thc rcal world, where teen-agershave a chemical propcnsity toward anguish,pcoplc betweentheir thinies and fonies have e tendcncy to gct divorced, and pcople in thcir seventieshave r tendencytoward lonelincss,poverty, sclf-pitn and som€tim€s anger.The truc artist choosesnever to be r bad physician.He getshis senscof wonh and honor from his convictionthat art b powerful--cvcn bad art. For all thcseexercises, avoid the cheap,obvioug and corny. For cxample,in exercise3, don't write a sentencebuilt alnost antirely of adjectives.In otherwords,don'r wastetimc. r. Write the paragraphthat would eppeerin a piecc of fictftn iust befmc rhc discoveryrof a body. You might perhap dcscribethe charader'sapproachto the body he will find, or the hcrtio'n, or both. The purposcof the excrciscb to developthc techniqucof at onceattrectingthe rcadcrtoward the paragraph to follow, mating him want to skip rhead,and holding him on thfo paragraphby 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 (changcsof style, tone, s€ntcncestruc-

E*ercises

20,

turc, voice, psychic distance,etc.). Make sure the styles erc radicalQdifferent;otherwise,the exerciseis 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 complexsentencc. es seenby an old womanwhocc 4a. Describea landscape disgustingrnd detatable old husbandhas iust died. Do not mentionthc husbandor death. 4b. Describca lake as seenby x young man who has iust committedmurder.Do not mentionthemurder. 4c. Dacribe a landscapeesseenby e bird. Do not mention the bird. 4d. Describea building asseenby a man whosesonhasiust beenkilled in a war. Do not mentionthe son,war, death,or the old man doing the seeing;then describethe samebuilding,in thc sameweatherand at the sametime of dry, rr seenby e heppylover.Do not mentionloveor thelovedone. 5. Write the opening of r novel using the authorialomniscicntvoice, making thc authorialomniscicnccclear by going into thc thoughtsof onc or morc charactersafter 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 thissemepointof view.

2o,4

Esncises

7. Write e monologneof at leasttluee pages,in which the intemrptions-pauses, gesnueq description, etc.-all clearly rnd penuuively characterize,and the shifs from monologueto $sture and touchesof setting (s when the charactertouchc someobiect or glancesout the window) all feel rhphmically right. Puqposeto learnwap of letting e charactermakea long speechthat doesn'tseemboring or artificial. 8. Write a dialoguein which eachof the rwo cherectenhas e sccret.Do not revealthe secretbut makethe readerintuit it. For example,the dialoguemight be betweene husband,who hasiust lost hirsiob and hasn'tworked up the courageto tell hb wife, and his wife, who hrs a lover in the bedroom.hrqpoee:to give two charactersindividual ways of speaking,and to make dialoguecracklewith feelingsnot directly expresed.Remember that in dialogue,as a generalrule, every peusemust somehow be shown"eitherby narration(for examplq"shepaused")or by somegestureor other breakthat showsthe pause.And remember thrt geslwe is e pan of all real dialogue.Sometimes,for instance,we lookaway insteadof answering. 9. Write e trvc.pege(or longer) charactersketchusingobweether,etc., to intensify the reader'ssenseof iecm,landscape, what the characteris like. Useno similes("Shewrs like . . ."). Pqpose: to cr€eteconvincingcharacterby roing morethen inmind. tellect,engagingboth 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: the sameasin exercise9 but now makingthe samescenicbackground, etc., servemore than one pupose. In a diner, for instence,one charactermay tend to look at certainobiectsinside the diner,the other may look at a difierent setof obfecs or mry look out the window.

Etncisa

rot

r r. From cxerciserq developtheplot of e shon story. rr. Dacribc md evoker simpleaction (for example'shsrF eninga pencil,crrving a tombstongshootinga rat). voice. 13.Writc rbrief stach in the eseyist-omnlscient 14 Write three acceptableexamplcsof purple prosHhat q highly self-consciorsand arry prosemadeeccepableby suL iecg parodicintent, voice,etc. 15.Write a brief pasageon somestocksubiect(a iourney,a landscape,a sexualencounter)in the rhythm of r long novel" thenin the rhythm of a tight shortstory. 16.Write an honestandsensitivedescription(or sketch) of (e) one of your parens, (b) a rnythologicalbeast,rnd (c) r ghost. 17. Describer characterin a brief passege(one or two pagc) usingmostly long vowels and soft consonants(a as in "moanr" e asin "see";I, tr, h sD,etc.); then describethe samc character,usingmmtly shon vowelsand hard consonaffs(i es in "siC';ft, f, p, gg, etc.). 18.Write e prosepassege that makesefrectiveand noticcableuseof rhyme. 19.Write the first threepagesof a nle. zo. Plot eachof the following: a short-shortstory, e yar& e fable,a sketch,e tele,e short stoqf, en energeicnovel,rn architectonic novel, a novel in which episodesare 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 devclopcdmonologuc(seccxcrcise7) prcscnt e philocophicalposition you tcnd to fevor, but prccnt it through e charactcrrnd in I conrcn that modificsor underminesit 'lVrite rz. r pesseg€using abrupt end radicrl-4ut droroughly rcceptable-+hifrs from thc authorirl-omniscicntpoint of view to thethird penonsubfectivc. z3r. In high parodicform (in thc way Shakcpcarcscriously prrodicd thc revengetragcdyin Htrilet, for examplc),plot onc of thc following: e gothig I mystery,e sci-fi, r W6rern, e drugstoreromance. r3b. Write the first threepagesof the novelplottedh r3n usingthc trashform u the basisof a scriorspicceof fiction. z4. Without an instant'slapseof taste,describcr person(a) goingto the bathroom,(b) vomiting, (c) murderingr child. 15.Writc ashortpieccof fiction in mixedproscandvene. 16. Ifritg without irony, r character'smoving 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. 3o.lVritc a fabulousstory usinganythingyou need.

Index

l

Abq Kobo,Tle Rfined MaP,u Ab salan, Absalom!(Frulkner),4 cbstrection:of conclusive anotion,6r-z; critid 77;of elcmenaof fiction, jt-2; in meaphysical, 63;mizuse language, 98;rymbolic 8f* r6G7 rbctrrct logic,83 r38,r3g r4r ebsuriliscfiction, rcademicvriterg rq rlr l4-jr

46, 5o16, tfi6.7, rgn-l', qpeechesassubstitut€for, 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 pleasuren3g4z; profuence vs boredonr,4&9 55;in urrconventiond fi ctioq 8d 90'9t rcstlretic rules: lbsolutc, futilc searchfor,3-8, rj-r( 33; suspension of,6j,8 dlegory 83-6 r43, 167,t68, t69; vocebulary o( r45{; ploaing exercrse,r98; psychologicel, r33

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-+, 166 167,r85, r9o-r; cxercise,ro5; 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,

209

2IO

Inder

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 Apof lonios RhodiosnAr gonaurtcq r r , E t , 8 7 ,r { 3 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

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

backgound cxplanetioru, tg Brcon, Fnncig rr "Brkcr's Bluelry Yrrn" (Tvein), zzrz54 Barth,Johq 32,87,r 34;Chimet6 rq; GilesG oat-Boy, 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 Beethovcn,Ludwig vm, rrr, rt3 Dcctla-Leg, TDc (Hewkes), r t5 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

Gge, John, 19 C,alvino,Italo,86,87; Tbc Bnon 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 Cdzannc,Peul,5r, ru chrncters, T, 15,rr-r, lr,43ar iJ-1, jz, 5q.6o-r,67-7o177, 168-9;rs ccntcr of grcat

2rr

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 Chnucer,Geoffrey,rrr rrr, r33r 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

omic writing, 29 roor ro+-tr r43; vocebulery, 145-6 community point of view, 77, r58 compositionrulesnr7-r8 compoundpredicates,useof, ror conclusion:emotionof, jj-+6ri by logic exhaustionvs. resolution,53-9, 165{; novel vs. novella,184;resonantcloseof novel, r9z-4; and spatial treatmentof story line,85; seedlso climex;denouement 'toncrete philosophn" 36,63 ConfidenceManrThe(Melville), tt6 conflict situation, 187-9 Connd, Joseph,r58 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 Cosmicomics(Cdvino), rer, rS9 'C,ounay Doctor, A" (KafLr), 37, 167 C,rrbbe,Georgc, 14 Crene,Stepheqr58 CrimeandPsnisbn errt (Dostoevsky),65,rz9 criticisrn, seclitemry criticism *crotq" r8:

Drdaistq rg Dnicl Martin (Fowles), 11

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 deconstrucdvefiction, xi,86,87gz,g4;seealsometefiction Defoe, Daniel, rl Delaney,SamuelR.,4o delay,suspenseful,4z,r5g43 Delbanco,Nicholas,r4 demonstrationvs. exploration, 84 denouemenqr89, r94; plotting for, r73, 176,186.9o description,7t lit JJ, JJ1rzJ; discursivevs, poetic,44-5; exercisesiq 351, 1274, r97. 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 developmentsection,novel, 186, t89, r9o; Fichteancurve, r878 didogue, ?, )7, uq n7, 169; exercise,zo4 Dickens,Charles,84-5,r3z, I58' 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

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

2t, alternoting,proponionof, 7, of' rr8; burdenof meaning 64,66;defined,5r; exampleg of, 5r; tandemdevelopment rcstof tP 4, jo,.52,66i 79 ProPflateness, Eliog George,rl4iddlemmcb,6r Bkir\ Stanley,94i T he Dick GibsonShoa443 emblem,169 Entma(Aasten),6r,6t emotion,54,8o-r, 167;conclusive, in 53-66r-r; conveyed description,3Zi primery,62i esprimarysubjectof fictioq t4-r5,42-3iV$Sentimenality, rf, rr5-r7; suppresion I35,136 in super-realism, empathnwriter's,65,8er; hck of,5qu7-t9 ending reeclimax;co'nclusio'n qy5o,81,1d6,, tQ, energeh,47, r85-6 energeicnove\ r85ar Englishlanguage,88 rnd profmrl Eaglistrprofession r(>rr, r3-rd t4-$t9:{.r epic,7t-2, 8z-68d 89;in genrecros$n8,2() qisodes,nrrrative,5;8,6r,t4; in novel,r87,r9l; innovellg r798o, r8r; panernof risc rnd fall,Z,r87,r9r point of vbq esryist-omniscient 76,r5fi esayis's stylg 44-y gameofr6fE F^senceg Euripides,t43 eyent-sequence, 55-6,6o-r, 81 rrz-q; seealsoplon Gr6tS 41,5r, 54,rd8;retornq, innovel ryt4see dm rction

2r4

Inder

Excctttioncfc SongTbc (Mriler), 13 Exetcices du StXlc (Queneau), 10r cxercises,19, tzF7, 195-zo6;in chlractcr, rgTt 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 Gxpcrience,writer'sr rs limit on 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 Kafkaesque,5o,t3&7; 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-

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 processr38,53,6r-8r; plrnning,611,7o,ryi writing,6r,6717, r7of4 Fhlding, Hcnry : I tnathan W ildc, zr;Tom Jones,87,tlt 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 formalism,t3r, t32 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

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

2r5

grammar, 17 Grapctof Wretb,Tbc (*eill. beck),to Gr cat Ergectatiaar (Dickens)' 85 Greekpoctry,rI Greektregedy,5o,56,t86 Gtndel (Gardner),t53 Hnnlet (Shrkesperrc), 5-6,r r, 88-9,zo6 'Hanselrnd Gretcl"(Coovcr)' r8r Durne,r35 Hansen, HappyDays(Beckcn).16r Hanley,David,r9r HawkcgJohn,zo,trq t17iThc Bectle-Lcgfi5 Hrwthornc,Nathaniel,145 Martin,88 Heidegger, principlc,r3o,r4r Heisenberg Helenof Troyr story treatmcng 9742,61-7,$75, t6yl,o Hcmingvay,Ernest,g 164; writing,rrTrtt9, mannered rrri "Thc Snowsof Kiliman' iaror"trr HobbegThomas,5t Homer,6,8, r r, 36,5r,7r-r, 87, t84-5; 89,rrr, r33,167-8, lliad,5,r3,8r,85,r68,r9ot; Odyssey, S,rr. r43;similcl r 3 r ,t 4 , Hopkins,GereldMenlcn r'o-rn. horrorstory,r33 Hoaseof Ftnn, TDe((Xreuccr), r4t Howells,William Dean,r35i "How MuchLandDocsa Mrn Need?"(Tolstoy),r:z-1 Hugo,Victor,worksof, r3r humor,45;lecalrocomicwriting

2t6

Inder

l&ad (Homer), i, tJ,8u,85, 168, !9c-r image$zi, 97, 1714, r7g r8z-3; descriptive, 37; directresg 98; emblemadc,r@; in lyrical novgl, r85;repetitionof, r9:4; qYmbolic,6T-988, rr3, t69 r8r imaginadon, leap of, 7, 94 imitation: learning techniqucbn r4r-4; odditiesof, r rz, r 14 "Imp of the Perverse" (Poe), r44 In Cold Blood (Capote), 13 inf nite-verb phrases,intre ducmry,99, rq)-r! ro4 initial situatioq tj; e:cteriorv$ 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

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

rnd point of view, 75,156, ly8; "TheTurn of thc Screw."r8r iargon,r{4 laon andMedeh (Gerdncr), r4, "iazzingaround,"931 CtrarleqFcitb atd tbc Johnsor5 GoodThingryg "Jolly C,orncr,Thc" (Jrmes),r8r I onathttt l{ il de (F relding\,zr loneg Spike,19 Joyce,Jamegr+ 8S rvl, rrr-tr 16g r83;'"ThcDea4' rr3, ry3;Dublinets,rzzTFitmcgansW ake,n3, r85iPottr& of the Artist asa Yormg Mttt, rzz,rr3; Stephen Deddus:inelucteblemoddity of thevisiblg 5o1Ulys*s, r12,t43,tgt lR (Gaddis),rgt Ksfl.., FraIrz'+A 136,r37;'A CountryDoctor,"l37'167' "Meamorphc\"{7,tq t6g Keomn,Buster,93 Khg Lem (Shrkesperre),t r, 6r' r68 "King'r Indh+ Thc" (Ciar&cr)' t]1

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

2r7

hdet vs.complcr,98,r44;rocrbu" lery, rg-t Irwrence, D. H" rr3;'Thc Forrt'r8r, r83 le Cerr6,Johtt,

II'

l3-lth

Jg-tll

logrc,typesof, in fiction, 79 logicalexhaustioq531, 165-6 logicd profluencq83, 165 London,Jack,9 Longinus,ro8,rr7 Lotkg Batiles(Wdty), 176 "Lost in theFunhouse"(Brrdr), 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

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

Mrtlsg Hcnri, ro meaningof 6ctioo, 6t-1, t76-7, r87; authentication of, 6r, 64-7;primary,58,6r; secondary, or larger,6r-a 63;seealsotheme medievalpoetry, zq rr Melville, Hermarl g rr, 15,tol, t4j, 176 r84; "Brrdeby tb Scrivener,tttz1, r@i 'Benito Cerenor' t4; Tbe ConfdenceMo4 r56iMobyDick, n, ryr Gg 'rnessage" of fiction, 7t, 6tr 7o mcufction,rr, tr-3, qz,48n, 86-7,88,9G2r9$ r3r, r:Ki defined,86 sMetamorphosis" (Krfka), 17, jo, 169 mctaphorq45,7r,7?,r%i in chancterization"68;of good, rbsorbedby reader,63; tneatedasfacg 5o netaphysic,63,85,88;of novel rgf-t mcricel analysiqr5o-n Middlmncb (Eliot),6r Miller,Wdter llL, Jr,4o Milton, Johr\ r r5; gcnr€-crossinE, zo;PatadiseLost,Sz l[oby-Dick (Melville),rr, 15,63 modernisrq4r, 86;plotq r6&j Moll Flcndm (Defoc), rr

rr8

Inder

moratconsiderations, & 3r, rg5; enguishof rnoralchoicc,16r, 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 oon-ledisdc movcmcnnq,r 3G 1t oovcl, tr, 183-5;rrchitcctonic' r9r; choice of sylc, 75; clocing of, 186 r9r-4; 'conncctednesq" tgz4i encrg;eic,r85-9I; cpisodic rhythm, r87, r9r; fictiood biogrrphn 84, r9r; innovrtive fictionists rn4 +7;

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-

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

obicctivc-nrbicctivccontinuum, {4J, tJt-t, tJg objectivity,nerdfor, rrrl, tt O'Connor,Flenncrn 174 Odyssey(Homcr),$ rz, r4t OediptttRer (Sophocles),5o omniscient-narntorpoint of vicwr7r.'-7,9r, too,156, 1579; ercrcise,ro3 On Bccominga Noeclix (Grrdner),xii opquc lenguagc,rp opcning:exerciscqr9n ro3; novd 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 PsradiseLort (Milton)' 8r paragraph$ruc$re' t7 "Pamgury" (Barthelme), 48 perody, 35,72t,93,I3lr r3r'4o' r44; exerciseqrg7' zo5, zo6 passivevoice,99,too i'PastoratSymphony, The" (Gide), r8r Pearlstein,Philip, t36 "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 s€quenccvs. logicel argumcntr 83' 165{; energeiq 166, t67. r79; immediatc rppeal of, 39,4t-ri innovativc fctionists' dismisd of, 47-8; logic of,6, r6E;shapedin tanilem with characters an
219

plot or real lif.e, 56, 57n, 165,t7o; cxerciscsir1 rS' 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 Po€tryr 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

Inile*

Poussir\Nicolaq 5r preiudice,writerl 4r profluence, J!, j54,79, r6t4, r9o; abstractlogicalvr dramatic,83,165-6;defind 48; lack in somemodern fictioq 85,r35,16r prosepoeuy, ro6-7,rr7, rgo-4. Proust,Marcel,r85 pychic distance, 75,8r,99r,rrrrr, r58;defined, rrr peychological allegory,rt3 pychologicalceuseliry,73 psychologicdconsistency, 4 4t pqychological $lte, rs inid.l situation,5o novel pqychological-rymbolic 185;in genre-crosing,ro puactuatioq 17,rr4 qualifierquseofr ror Reymond, Erercicet &t Queneau, Style,zoz f,ctino, question-end-rnsnrer-form 31 que$ionsraised,mustbe aaswere4?1, i4, SS Recine,JeanBaptiste,SiPhaefuq Robergro Reuschenbery Ravel,Maurice,r9 H. D., 135{ Re)trnond' reading,b, rJ, 78;boredomio, of' lg-+; in 49 55;Pleazures universityeducatioqro-r4; for vocabulary,r48 Hlistic fctioq rg 2r-g r1,,7t, roTtr3zichoiceof style,75-7, 1631; control of prychic di*ancg rrr; dependenton verisimiliode,n4 ry, z6;

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),

Robbe-Grillet,Alain, r4r RobinsonCrusoe(Defcp-),zr Robison,Mary, r35,136 romance,in genre-crosing,zo Romanpoetry,rr 143 Romanticism, 'Rose for Emily, A' (Frulkner), 77 L. M., r35 Rosenberg, RuinedMap,TEe (Abe), rr rules:eesthetic,futile seerchfor, 3-8,15-16,33;composition, t7; suspe$ion of,61, 8, 17 Sade,Mrquis de,63 SalgJohn,r55 Nathalie,Ttopiwtt, Sarraute, rt6 Sartriananguishof choice,16r 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,G€orgp, !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 Son story 37, r8r; choic,eof 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 Stein,Geruude,g rr9 Steinbeck,lohn,Tbe GnPesof , l{roth, to Sterne,Laurence, Tt isttcnt Shtntly,6,87,r73 StevengWallace,37 RobertLou\ 97, Srevenson, t3r-3trtg, rlr *ory-rs-painting,r33 etory idea,origin of, 56 Srada,La (movie),93 Suavinsky,Igor, 19 Suuganky,Arkadi endBoris,4'o rtyle, 44-j, r rg, r4z',appropriatc to feeling,6r,79, rr6-t7; changeof, meanschangeof subiecg!7, r3j-fi choiceof, q7, qg 67,7t,jt-7, r63-a6 esayist'sdiscursive, 44-5; iq r99,:oz-3; exercises r24i flrmboyanq116-17, 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 rcalism,135-6 rubjectivc fiction,r3r, r39 rubicctive-obj ecdvecontinuum, 14-5,r1r-2, r39 Sukenick, Ron,"Whrt's Your Storyl," r34 Sullivrn,Anhur,94 ruperfctionisrs, r37 rrrpcrn.nu.lclcmcntq7F ,73, 7t srpcr-rcdbmr8, 8r, ro5,135{, r39,I+!, r{7 rurredisrn33,91,,r!6, r3?,llF {rr r6t, 169;ploaiagk\ t68a nr?cnrc; in mguishof monl choice,16r.r87;dclayfor, 159{3; cxcrcise, ror anpcnsionof disbclicf,zz,t4 26, 29 Swifg Jonrthrq ft7- Gullivct's Ttwcb,1674 oymbolicrbstractionand iuxtrposition,83-.6r6G7, r8y symbolicasociation,cheracterizadonbn 67-8 rymbolists,vocrbularyof, r45{ symbolq3o,169;recognizh&t3; 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, 7r-3; dcpcndcntoo susFn-

sionof disbclief,zt, z6 26, u9;dcscripdon b lf; hgh dictionuscd,lor-3; lrndscapeof, 7:; precisionof detailnceded,zz, zq-5,26, r8-3q 7r; rcmoteness of timc rndr/orsp.cc,7r, 7tr 7\ Jg rrr-tz; scningof, 7t, 73;style,75,ror, 163;uscof superlatives, 73 Talc of Ttn Citics,A (Dickcns), 84 tastc,wrircr\ T g4ttori rs limit on hissubjecg4r Teylor, Peter,"The Frncy Womrn," r7-E t€rching: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; emphasison, 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,

163;ruthorirl, 76' t57'9^zo31' syrsq 7d r5t-9, ro5 ThomaqDyhn, roy drought(writcrlr), 16,374,5r-z' 7o,77,78 tfuillcrs,4o Thurbcr, Jrmcs,lg8 in tdc, 7r, rcmotcnceq time,/space ?r,7r 7$ rrr-r7 timing, scnscof, 7, i6 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 rSgiRcnencotim,t57 Tot* loncs(Ficlding),87,t3t tovrr" point of vicq 77,t5t 'toy fictiott,' 8r trashmetcrids,clerrationof, rgrr 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 8o;serrchfor,63,79,rr9; ia unconvcntionelfictioq 84 889 Turncr, loscphM. W., r3r "Turn of thc Scrcw,Th" (Jamcs),r8r Twain, Mark,4r, r59;"Bdrcr'r Bluejry Yun " u, r5{;

22' "The CclebratcdJumPing Frog of Cdrvcns C.ounryr" 22

r-rcro (Cdvino), ro Ullrar (Joycc),rrt, r43,r93 uncertainryprinciple,r3o' r+r urrcon*ioug&awing on' 69 unconvcntionalfiction, xi, 47-5q 85; t514; non-profluencc, 85 tcealsodeco* unended, rtrucrivc fiction; mctrfiction Undcrstmdhgfictror (Brools & Werrcn),trr UrderstaadingPaary (Broob t Wrrten),4r Urder tbc Yolcano(lowry)' tt unended6ction, 85 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

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; writing comparcdto, ?-4 rgFx),tr, t31' t3t{, rEt vividness, 3r; rchicviog,!r, 974 rnd vocabulary:development conuolo( r4r' r44-t; lrtinatc polysyllabicvs colloquialwords,9E,ror, r+4-t; ormterr4t-7

22q

Inder

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\ JamesD., 14 Watg W. W., Art Ameticm Rhetoric,18 TZcr (Becken),rr Vleaver,Willianr" 18 Welty, Eudora,q6 Losing Battles,q6 Westor\ Edward,r8r "Whet's Your Story?' (Sukenick),r34 "which" cleusegro41 Whitman,Wdg r5rr. Willie Mendt LorcEo;r Wifc (Ges), r34 Wilsott Leigtr,r7r Wolfe, Thome$ ro7, rrGrT Wonder,Stevig4o Woolf, Virginia, rrg r85 writer: characterof, g 79 rry l; &awing on unconsciour, 69;educedoqFr5, 2ori ego.ro$ tr?, rrg, ntt (*e

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, 7, ?7,jr,69 77,167,r77i Iimitationsor! 42;rcsponsibiliry of, ror-r; ssne humannesg &-9' zor-r; scholarvs enist 3gy; tae of, 7,94,2or;m$t in hisorrn judgmeng9 sitios, processof, &,677q r7e94; choiceof genre,67, 7r-5; choiceof sryle,67,7r, 75-7;choiceof theme,67, 7o-r; faultsof dumsy writing,98-rr5;seealso6tsn draft; revisioru )nrn, !r-r, zj4 $, !?,7\ 7#i co,ntrolof psychicdisrunce, rrz; dependent on sccepurrg3 of lie, z6 3o;diction iq ror; cxerciseqr97;in genrecroasing,lq 74-$ p,reci$oNl of deail needed,zt, t5{, foi style, 75,rot, 161 ?,laury, Rogerr,lp Zdr, Eoilc, r35

About theAuthor JoHx GenoxERwas accordedwide praisefor his rvorksof imagination,of criticism,and of scholarship.He was born in 1933in Batavia,New York. 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.