On matters of style and voice

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The best pieces on style and voice have already been written, so my words will trip on the curb for a few reasons. First, because I am no Strunk, White, or Hitch. And second, because I wrestle constantly with style and voice.

Hitch says that you should write like you talk, and I think I talk well. But my written words and my outloud ones are hard to reconcile. Precision, or my often doddering gestures toward it, wins out, and everything that makes my voice mine gets trimmed away, a word at a time.

My deference to short sentences and brutal editing have blunted my ability to make compelling arguments. Or so I was told told recently.

Harsh criticism only because I suspect it’s true. I hate the superfluous, but too often discard emotion along with the unnecessary.

My future posts, and this one, will contain more flourish, I hope, and perhaps a better sense of what I am trying to accomplish here: a slow-built shrine to language, storytelling, and making your point.

Overstatements and comedy

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I have been listening to Roy Peter Clark’s series on iTunesU called Writing Tools (iTunes link).

My favourite so far has been #21, “Know when to back off and when to show off”. He says that when something is serious or very important, one should understate it. And when something is less serious, or less important, one can use hyperbole more effectively.

This was one of the first things I noticed about bad or cheesy writers when I started to study writing: they overemphasized minor details, attempting to create drama, and accidentally slid into parody. You’ll notice this in bad TV dramas, romantic fiction, and pulp novels. Minor things, like a character’s thoughts at a specific moment, or descriptions of people, will be so overstated, so hyper-analysed, that by the end they are only funny.

This is a useful tip in comedy. If you want something to be funny, you can use wild, over-specific descriptions. Douglas Adams described his experience with whisky this way:

In fact the only thing that I don’t like about Whisky, is that if I take the merest sip of the stuff, it sends a sharp pain from the back of my left eyeball down to the tip of my right elbow, and I begin to walk in a very special way, bumping into people and snarling at the furniture.

That is way too specific to be taken seriously, and so it is funny, even if it delivers facts at the same time.

Jane Espenson, who wrote some of the funniest episodes of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” said that comedy can come from being too specific or not at all specific. Being “just right” isn’t funny at all.

Remember Spinal Tap? Remember what “St. Hubbins” was the patron saint of? “Quality footwear,” that’s right. Not shoes. Superordinate. And, at the other end of the very same spectrum, remember this Buffy line? “I’m not exactly quaking in my stylish yet affordable boots”? Subordinate. The too-general is funny. The too-specific is funny. But, sorry, Goldilocks, just right is not funny.

But what if you are not trying to make a joke? Avoid being too specific about things that don’t matter. Get all the facts, and deliver them accurately, but watch your adjectives and adverbs, unless you want your prose to become parody.

For instance, here are two ways to describe a hurricane:

“The hurricane leveled the town.”

“The hurricane’s inexorable gusts of wind hammered away at the houses, leaving nothing in its wake but wreckage, and despair.”

Obviously both of these examples are extreme. But one makes a point, while the other is ridiculous. One could be found in a newspaper, and the other could be found in bad high school essay, or a cheap romantic novel.

Think about your descriptions, and don’t overstate unless you mean to.

“Every day and every hour reveal to us what a nothing we are”

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My brother sent me a list of quotes by Seneca, noting that a few of my recent posts have been about death and suffering. I had not realized I’d struck upon a theme, but I suppose it is there.

Seneca said many interesting things about death, suffering, and pain. My favourite so far is this:

“Every day and every hour reveal to us what a nothing we are, and remind us with some fresh evidence that we have forgotten our weakness; then, as we plan for eternity, they compel us to look over our shoulders at Death.”

In Don DeLillo’s “White Noise,” Jack Gladney says, “All plots tend to move deathward. This is the nature of plots.”

This is at the end of his rambling, improvised seminar in the Hitler Studies class he created and teaches.

He surprises himself, saying this, and isn’t even sure if he believes it. But the words come, and they are immediately imbued with a meaning, even if he doesn’t know that it is true.

But it makes sense. Every step taken is one toward death, no matter the direction.

It is as if death is a black hole, and at our birth we cross the event horizon. On Reddit last year a user discussed what happens when you cross the event horizon of a real black hole. Her science has been debated, but the analogy is too perfect not to use.

Inside the event horizon of a black hole, there is no way out. There are no directions of space that point away from the singularity. Due to the Lovecraftian curvature of spacetime within the event horizon, all the trajectories that would carry you away from the black hole now point into the past.

In fact, this is the definition of the event horizon. It’s the boundary separating points in space where there are trajectories that point away from the black hole from points in space where there are none.

Your magical infinitely-accelerating engine is of no use to you … because you cannot find a direction in which to point it. The singularity is all around you, in every direction you look.

And it is getting closer.

All trajectories away from death are in the past.

The essence of religion and wishful thinking is the desire to have that not be the case. To feel that there is a way out. To believe that while others may die, may succumb to inevitability — to reality — the fundamental laws of life and the universe can be suspended, for me.

Seneca reminded us that every moment death is right there behind us, and every step brings it closer. Jack Gladney was saying that any route you plot will take you to the same place, and every scheme has the same ending.

The universe says to us, every day, as stars die out, species go extinct, and the universe keeps expanding — until one day we will not be able to see any other galaxies but the inside of our own — that nothingness is routine, and existence is unique. And brief.

And it is the acceptance of these truths that can allow us to find beauty in that nothingness. To find enrichment, purpose, and fulfillment in the moments of the every day. If the end of the journey is the same no matter what, then why not make it one hell of a journey.

“A lot of people believe that beauty is some kind of conspiracy”

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To Kurt Vonnegut, meaning was inherent in everyday actions. In Sirens of Titan, he wrote, “A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.”

He also once wrote, “I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you different.”

In his letter to John Carey he said:

I congratulate you people on being in the raging mainstream of the arts. It is commercial artists like myself who operate in the backwaters. I inhabit still, tepid waters clogged with dollar bills. I never see people. I’ve forgotten all about them.

Guard yourself at all times. A lot of people believe that beauty is some kind of conspiracy — along with friendly laughter and peace.

Life is difficult, complicated, and at times profoundly depressing. I find myself, more and more, fighting harder to remember that purpose is innate, meaning is relative, and love and beauty are the only things worth struggling for. All other concerns are peripheral, even if they are usually heavier.

“Empty Gestures”: a story I wrote

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Last year I wrote a story that I thought I would post here.

It’s about taking the blame for our own failures, and not relying on anyone, especially anyone metaphysical or mythological, to excuse our behaviour or failures.

I think. I don’t know.

Empty Gestures:

And God said, “I think maybe we should talk,” and I saw that this was good.

***

Riley slept near the window. The ceiling fan spun above her, and small bits of dust were revealed in the sunlight as they fell through its beam.

She was still dreaming. I hoped of something good, or someone kind, but it was always a nightmare.

I had never felt bad about waking her up, and she usually thanked me, because I was saving her from some darkness or evil that was awake in her mind every time she wasn’t.

I walked across the room, stepping only on the floorboards that didn’t creak, and knelt down beside her. Strands of brown hair were covering her cheek, so I brushed them aside and slowly planted a gentle kiss.

I whispered her name two or three times and she let out a long, tired sigh. Her green eyes opened and looked up at me, relieved.

“What was it this time?” I asked.

“Porcupines.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

She lifted herself up with her elbows and sat at the head of her mattress, leaning against the portion of wall below the window.

“It seemed fine at first,” she said. “There was a barn on a farm, and in front of the door there were dozens of porcupines in a large pen, or something like them. But then, suddenly, I heard this terrible screaming. On the other side of the pack something had started eating one of them. A wolf or some monster.”

I cringed.

“The sounds were horrible. They all started screaming, and scurrying around, but they were trapped in there with the wolf. I could see that he was still taking slow, careful bites out of one of them. It was screaming louder and louder as each piece was torn out. The wolf’s face was spotted with quills, but that didn’t slow it down.”

She rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Finally, there was almost nothing left of that one. But it was still alive, somehow. And I could tell in its screams that it didn’t want to be saved. It just wanted to be able to die. But it couldn’t.”

Riley grabbed the windowsill and pulled herself to her feet. I stood up and took her into a hug.

“The wolf moved on to the next one,” she spoke into my shoulder. “And then you woke me up. I can still hear the screams.”

I squeezed her tighter. This one was bad, but nowhere near her worst. She had told me of the dreams where she was forced to kill herself if things got too bad to bear, or if it meant someone else would live.

Sometimes she would jump off of something tall and other times she would have to slit her own throat. She said those ones were the worst because she could never get it the first time.

She’d never had to shoot herself in a dream, though. And she suspected that whatever was causing the nightmares didn’t want it to be that quick. She would always have to contemplate her fall as the ground got nearer, or think about how to approach her second stab through her neck to make sure that this time it really took.

“Why are you here so early?” she asked, taking a step back from me. Her eyes flicked up a down, taking all of me in.

“We have to leave soon, it’s a long walk.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Of course not. But if he’s really who he says he is, we should probably do what he asks.”

“Will this kill us?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Okay,” Riley said, and walked out of the room to get her coat.

He’d asked to meet with us in one of her dreams, one that we both knew was real. She woke up one morning three weeks ago and phoned me immediately. As she spoke the words that he’d said to her in the dream I was overcome with certainty.

Neither of us ever mentioned whether one dream being realized meant that any others might.

***

We met God in the place he’d chosen. He was sitting at the bar, a beer in front of him that looked like it hadn’t been touched. This wasn’t exactly what I’d been expecting, but it was near enough. Somehow I’d always imagined God to be the guy drinking alone at the bar, wondering where he’d gone so wrong.

You’ve seen him before. Well, not Him, but the guy he looks like. Old, with short hair, tired. So tired.

Clean-shaven but he’d missed a spot. He’d missed the same spot every day for weeks. Right under his ear.

We sat on either side of God, but he didn’t pay any attention to us. He didn’t announce he was God, and we didn’t ask.

Before we even opened our mouths we could see the tears running slowly, one at a time, down God’s old, tired cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I said, without thinking and not knowing exactly what I was forgiving. “It will be okay.”

“No it won’t,” God said, as the tears flowed. They disappeared as soon as they hit the bar.

“Tell us about it,” Riley said. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“You are,” God said. “You weren’t meant to be, but–” He gestured around the room.

“I know,” Riley said. She placed a hand on his shoulder and shuddered. “You’re freezing. I thought you’d be warm.”

“People usually do.”

Riley moved her hand away, after stroking his shoulder gently. He didn’t move.

“Would you like a drink? It’s on me.”

God was buying, so I ordered a beer and so did Riley, though I’d never seen her drink before. Special occasions.

“What did you want to talk about?” I asked, as our drinks arrived. The woman behind the bar didn’t seem to notice that anything strange was going on. Perhaps she didn’t see God there, or his untouched beer, or his tears. I didn’t mean to think it, but I wondered briefly if that meant we’d end up having to pay for ourselves.

“Tell me what I should do,” God said.

“I think maybe you should go,” I said. “The longer you’re here, the worse things keep getting.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, “but there’s nowhere left for me.”

“You know what you have to do, then,” Riley said.

“Yes,” he said.

“It’ll be quick,” I said, “I’m sure you can do it quick.”

“It will be quick,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I tried,” he said.

“You made some mistakes,” Riley said, and she took a small sip of her beer. “But who hasn’t?”

“Yeah.” God took a sip of his beer, too. He had been looking straight ahead since we got there. Just staring at the rows of liquor bottles. But then he turned to face me, and I looked into his eyes. I saw our universe in there, and others. They looked heavy.

“When will you do it?” Riley tried to look into his eyes, too, but he didn’t turn her way. I could tell he wanted to, but couldn’t. Her gaze was hard to meet.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ll do it now,” she said.

“I think so,” he said.

And then he was gone, and so were we. We were back at Riley’s place, sitting on her mattress. I hoped that it had been quick for him.

The air seemed thinner, and the room was chilly, but the sun shone through the window as bright as ever. I felt okay, and I think Riley did, too.

I wondered at the time, and still do most days, whether it was the right thing for him to do. I doubt Riley ever wonders.

One day we’ll die and take that day with us. It will be better that way. Hopefully it will be quick.

My favourite poem

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The publication of Philip Larkin’s “Complete Poems” was celebrated in New York last week. Andrew Sullivan, my favourite blogger, was a good friend of Christopher Hitchens (my favourite non-fiction writer), and had this to say about Larkin and Hitch:

I have to say it cheered me to find out that Hitch was reading Larkin right up to his death (along with Wodehouse). Larkin’s brutal bleakness always gathers depth from a sliver of light. And somehow the cumulative effect of his poetry, for me at least, is to generate hope. And every time I read Larkin now, I think of Christopher. It’s the closest I can some to a prayer without hearing his disapproval across eternity.

My personal favourite Larkin poem, and perhaps one of my favourite poems overall, is his “Aubade”. Hitch said that it is “a waking meditation on extinction that unstrenuously contrives a tense, brilliant counter­poise between the stoic philosophies of Lucretius and David Hume, and his own frank terror of oblivion.”

Without being able to muster equal eloquence I’ll only say that, for me, it expresses the feeling of having oblivion, death, and nothingness thrust upon one’s mind, unbidden.

Here is a stanza from it. I recommend reading it through but, as I learned last week, it’s best not read right before bed. It brings with it an unshakeable gloom.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

You can read the full poem here.

Weekend Quotes – Sunday, April 29

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The real problem in speech is not precise language. The problem is clear language. The desire is to have the idea clearly communicated to the other person. It is only necessary to be precise when there is some doubt as to the meaning of a phrase, and then the precision should be put in the place where the doubt exists. It is really quite impossible to say anything with absolute precision, unless that thing is so abstracted from the real world as to not represent any real thing.

- Richard Feynman

Slate’s Audio Book Club on Don DeLillo’s “White Noise”

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I don’t have much commentary to add to this, other than that I think it’s terrific. It’s from a few years ago, when the novel was turning 25.

Slate’s critics cast an intense, observant eye on a favourite novel of mine. Troy Patterson’s negative opinion is especially enlightening. I don’t find the book’s themes as banal as he does, but I understand the points, and I certainly appreciate having heard them.

This month, the Audio Book Club discusses Don DeLillo’s White Noise, on the occasion of its 25th anniversary. Generally considered DeLillo’s breakout work, the novel follows a year in the life of professor Jack Gladney—famous in the academic community for creating the field of Hitler Studies—his wife, Babette, and their children from previous marriages. He suffers from a nearly crippling fear of death, a condition exacerbated by the “airborne toxic event” that occupies the second part of the novel.

In an approximately 50 minute discussion, Troy Patterson eviscerates the novel (he calls it “flagrantly bad”), Stephen Metcalf vehemently defends it, and Meghan O’Rourke moderates.

The Audio Book Club on Don DeLillo

Weekend Quotes – Sunday, April 22

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Two of my favorite quotes by astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson:

Some of the greatest poetry is revealing to the reader the beauty in something that was so simple you had taken it for granted.

My view is that if your philosophy is not unsettled daily then you are blind to all the universe has to offer.