On Becoming a Novelist (2 page)

And it must be added that the true artist’s verbal sensitivity may be something the ordinary English teacher, or even the most sophisticated user of language, may fail to recognize at first glance. Many people who care a good deal about language are horrified, for instance, to hear “hopefully” used in the sense “it is hoped,” or to hear politicians say “forthcoming” when they mean “forthright,” or businesspeople say “feedback” when they mean “reaction” or “response”; and given this distaste for linguistic change, or perhaps distaste for certain classes of humanity, the sophisticated stickler may dismiss without thought an ingenious and sensitive use of the suspect word or phrase. The true artist’s verbal sensitivity may well be different, in other words, from that of the usual “writer of good English.” Black street kids playing “The Dozens”—piling up ingenious metaphorical insults of one another’s mothers, not all of the metaphors grammatical or unmixed—may in fact be showing more verbal sensitivity than the speechwriters who helped create the image of John Kennedy. Moreover, as the example of Dreiser perhaps suggests, not every kind of writer requires the same measure of verbal sensitivity. A poet, to practice his art with success, must have an ear for language so finely tuned and persnickety as to seem to the ordinary novelist almost diseased. The short story writer, since the emotional charge of his fiction must reveal itself quickly, has a similar need for lyrical compression, though a need less desperate than the poet’s. In the novelist, a hypersensitive ear may occasionally prove a handicap.

But though some great writers may at times write awkwardly, it is nevertheless the case that one sign of the born writer is his gift for finding or (sometimes) inventing authentically interesting language. His sentence rhythms fit what he is saying, rushing along when the story rushes, turning somewhat ponderous to deal with a ponderous character, echoing the thunder of which the story tells, or capturing aurally the wobble of the drunk, the slow, dull pace of the tired old man, the touching silliness of the forty-year-old woman who flirts. The writer sensitive to language finds his own metaphors, not simply because he has been taught to avoid clichés but because he enjoys finding an exact and vivid metaphor, one never before thought of, so far as he knows. If he uses an odd word, it is never the fashionable odd word of his time and place—for instance (as of this writing), “ubiquitous,” or “detritus,” or “serendipitous”—he uses his
own
odd word, not solely because he wants to be noticed as original (though that is likely to be part of it) but also because he’s fascinated by words. He’s interested in discovering the secrets words carry, whether or not he ever puts them in his fiction—for instance, how “discover” means “to take the cover off.” He’s interested in playing with sentence formation, seeing how long he can make a sentence go, or how many short sentences he can use without the reader’s noticing. In short, one sign of a writer’s potential is his especially sharp ear—and eye—for language.

If once in a while the beginning writer does something interesting with language—shows that he’s actually listening to himself and looking closely at words, spying out their secrets—that is sign enough of the writer’s promise. Only a talent that doesn’t exist at all can’t be improved. Usually. On the other hand, if as readers we begin to suspect that the writer cares about nothing
but
language, we begin to worry that he may be in for trouble. Normal people, people who haven’t been misled by a faulty college education, do not read novels for words alone. They open a novel with the expectation of finding a story, hopefully with interesting characters in it, possibly an interesting landscape here and there, and, with any luck at all, an idea or two—with real luck a large and interesting cargo of ideas. Though there are exceptions, as a rule the good novelist does not worry primarily about linguistic brilliance—at least not brilliance of the showy, immediately obvious kind—but instead worries about telling his story in a moving way, making the reader laugh or cry or endure suspense, whatever it is that this particular story, told at its best, will incline the reader to do.

We read five words on the first page of a really good novel and we begin to forget that we are reading printed words on a page; we begin to see images—a dog hunting through garbage cans, a plane circling above Alaskan mountains, an old lady furtively licking her napkin at a party. We slip into a dream, forgetting the room we’re sitting in, forgetting it’s lunchtime or time to go to work. We recreate, with minor and for the most part unimportant changes, the vivid and continuous dream the writer worked out in his mind (revising and revising until he got it right) and captured in language so that other human beings, whenever they feel like it, may open his book and dream that dream again. If the dream is to be
vivid
, the writer’s “language signals”—his words, rhythms, metaphors, and so on—must be sharp and sufficient: if they’re vague, careless, blurry, or if there aren’t enough of them to let us see clearly what is being presented, then the dream as we dream it will be cloudy, confusing, ultimately annoying and boring. And if the dream is to be
continuous
, we must not be roughly jerked from the dream back to the words on the page by language that’s distracting. Thus, for example, if the writer makes some grammatical mistake, the reader stops thinking about the old lady at the party and looks, instead, at the words on the page, seeing if the sentence really is, as it seems, ungrammatical. If it is, the reader thinks about the writer, or possibly about the editor—“How come they let him get away with a thing like that?”—not about the old lady whose story has been interrupted.

The writer who cares more about words than about story (characters, action, setting, atmosphere) is unlikely to create a vivid and continuous dream; he gets in his own way too much; in his poetic drunkenness, he can’t tell the cart—and its cargo—from the horse. So in judging the young writer’s verbal sensitivity one does not ask only, “Has he got any?” but also, “Has he got too much?” If he has none, he’s in for trouble, though as I’ve said, he may succeed anyway, either because he has something else that compensates for the weakness, or because, once the weakness has been pointed out, he’s able to learn. If the writer has too much verbal sensitivity, his success—if he means to write novels, not poems—will depend (1) on his learning to care about other elements of fiction, so that, for their sake, he holds himself back a little, like a compulsive punster at a funeral, or (2) on his finding an editor and a body of readers who love, beyond all else, the same thing he loves, fine language. Such editors and readers do appear from time to time, refined spirits devoted to an exquisitely classy game we call fiction only by stretching the term to the breaking point.

The writer who cares chiefly or exclusively about language is poorly equipped for novel-writing in the usual sense because his character and personality are wrong for writing novels. By “character” I mean here what is sometimes called the individual’s “inscribed” nature, his innate self; by “personality” I mean the sum of his typical and habitual ways of relating to those around him. I mean to distinguish, in other words, between the inner and outer selves. Those who inordinately love words as words are of a character type distinct enough, at least in broad outline, to be recognizable almost at a glance. Words seem inevitably to distance us from the brute existents (real trees, stones, yawling babies) that words symbolize and, in our thought processes, tend to replace. At any rate, so philosophers like Hobbes, Nietzsche, and Heidegger have maintained, and our experience with punsters seems to confirm the opinion. When a man makes a pun in a social situation, no one present can doubt—however we may admire the punster and the pun—that the punster has momentarily drawn back, disengaging himself, making connections he could not think of if he were fully involved in the social moment. For example, if we are admiring the art treasures of a family named Cheuse and the punster remarks, “Beggars can’t be Cheuses!” we know at once that the punster is not peering deeply and admiringly into the Turner landscape at hand. The person profoundly in love with words may make an excellent poet, composer of crossword puzzles, or Scrabble player; he may write novel-like things which a select group admires; but he will probably not in the end prove a first-rate novelist.

For several reasons (first, because of his personality, which keeps the world of brute existence at arm’s length), he is not likely to feel passionate attachment to the ordinary, mainstream novel. The novel’s unashamed engagement with the world—the myriad details that make character come alive, the sustained fascination with the gossip surrounding the lives of imaginary beings, the naive emphasis on what happened next and what, precisely, the weather was that day—all these are likely to seem, to the word fanatic, silly and tedious; he feels himself buried in litter. And no one is much inclined to spend days, weeks, years, imitating an existence he does not really like in the first place. The word fanatic may love certain very special, highly intellectual novelists (Stendhal, Flaubert, Robbe-Grillet, the Joyce of
Finnegans Wake
, possibly Nabokov), but he is likely to admire only for their secondary qualities novelists whose chief strength is the hurly-burly of vividly imitated reality (Dickens, Stevenson, Tolstoy, Melville, Bellow). I do not mean that the person primarily interested in linguistic artifice is blocked from all appreciation of good books whose main appeal comes from character and action; nor do I mean that, because by nature he distances himself from actuality, he is too icy of heart to love his wife and children. I mean only that his admiration of the mainstream novel is not likely to be sufficient to drive him to extend the tradition. If he’s lucky enough to live in an aristocratic age, or if he can find the sanctuary of an aesthetic coterie—a walled enclave from which the great, fly-switching herd of humanity is excluded—the artificer may be able to work his quirky wonders. In a democratic age served largely by commercial publishers, only extraordinary ego and stubbornness can keep him going. We may all agree (and then again we may not) that the specialized fiction he writes is worthwhile; but to the extent that he suspects that his time and place are unworthy of his genius, to the extent that he feels detached from the concerns of the herd, or feels that his ideal is either meaningless or invisible to most of humanity, his will is undermined. Not caring much about the kind of novel most experienced and well-educated readers like to read, and not deeply in love with his special coterie—since ironic distance is part of his nature, perhaps even deep, misanthropic distrust like Flaubert’s—he manages to bring out, in his lifetime, only one or two books. Or none.

By virtue of his personality—in the special sense in which I’m using that word—the brilliant artificer’s novel is likely to suffer one of two harsh fates: either it never gets written at all (an excellent way of expressing one’s scorn for one’s audience and its interests) or it is spoiled by sentimentality, mannerism, or frigidity.

To publish a work of novel length, one must find, as I’ve said, a coterie or else find some means of satisfying the ordinary reader’s first requirement for any piece of writing longer than fifteen pages, namely profluence—the sense that things are moving, getting somewhere, flowing forward. The common reader demands some reason to keep turning the pages. Two things can keep the common reader going, argument or story. (Both are always involved, however subtly, in good fiction.) If an argument just keeps saying the same thing, never progressing from
a
to
b
, or if a story seems to be moving nowhere, the reader loses interest. To put it another way, if the reader finds nothing to feel suspense about (Where is this argument leading? or, What will happen if the rationalistic philosopher begins to believe in the warnings of his psychic student?), he eventually puts down the book. Every writer knows, in his bones if not elsewhere, that the vast majority of readers expects some kind of progress in a book (even if, according to some theory the writer holds, they are wrong to expect it), and the writer who sets out to do what he knows most of his readers don’t want him to do—the writer who refuses to tell a story or advance an argument—is likely to find, sooner or later, that he simply cannot go on. Spending a lifetime writing novels is hard enough to justify in any case, but spending a lifetime writing novels nobody wants is much harder. If ten or twelve critics praise one’s work and the rest of the world ignores it, it is hard to keep up one’s conviction that the friendly critics are not crackpots. This is not to say that the serious writer should try to write for everyone—try to win the audience both of Saul Bellow and of Stephen King. But if one tries to write for nobody, only for some pure and unearthly ideal of aesthetic perfection, one is apt to lose heart.

Needless to say, most writers who care immoderately about language don’t go to the extreme of refusing to tell a story at all. More commonly such writers do present characters, actions, and the rest, but becloud them in a mist of beautiful noise, forever getting in the way of
what
they are saying by the splendor of their way of saying it. Eventually one begins to suspect that the writer cares more about his gift than about his characters. Granted, the suspicion may be wrong. I think no fair-minded reader can doubt that in the fiction of Dylan Thomas the fundamental impulse is to capture real life, the special quality of country-Welsh craziness. Yet it’s the metaphors, the slam-cram poetry we remember, not so much the people. Or think of John Updike. The brilliant language with which he describes a minor character cannot help but suggest that the words he chooses are more important to him than the token secretary behind the desk.

It is true that one of the pleasures afforded by good books is the writer’s fine handling of language. But the dazzling poetry of Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech is not the same poetry Hamlet speaks, while Hamlet’s murderer-stepfather Claudius favors dull pentameters. Shakespeare fits language to its speaker and occasion, as the best writers always do. Both Hamlet and Mercutio are in some sense unbalanced, but the difference between the two kinds of imbalance is marked. Mercutio’s madness is fantastic and phantasmic; Hamlet’s is the madness of diseased irony and constraint. Mercutio flails and howls, piling metaphor on metaphor; Hamlet is so subtle in his neurotic meanness that his enemies often don’t know they’ve been insulted. For instance, when his stepfather has asked him to adjust, be reasonable, stop wearing mourning clothes and harping on his father’s death, be a dutiful citizen, Hamlet answers, “I’ll serve you in my best.” In the old medieval sense, “in my best” means “in black,” in other words, in mourning clothes. He is saying, in the sly way of the hostile neurotic, both “I will do as you say” and “I defy you.” In the work of Shakespeare, brilliant language always serves character and action. However splendid it may be, Shakespeare’s language is finally subservient to character and plot.