Michelle Bailat-Jones

Writer, Translator, Reader

Posts from the ‘writing’ category

Reading Writer – loaded conversations

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This week I’ve been entertaining a house guest and haven’t had much time for reading, writing or blogging. But I chose a book somewhat at random from my shelf the other night and tucked into Donald Barthelme’s 1986 novel Paradise. Turns out it was a great book to read during an otherwise busy week: disjointed, pithy, somewhat vulgar, intriguing and moderately experimental. I consider it experimental because it’s written almost completely in dialogue.

I didn’t realize that Barthelme actually wrote novels, but he did. Four in fact. All of which are purported to be extended versions of his fragmentary short story style. I am only a little familiar with Barthelme’s short stories but those I do know tend to focus on one scene and build it up with heaps and heaps of very specific detail instead of constructing a more traditional story arc. Also, I think I would consider him tragic-comic. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say he uses a kind of busy absurdity to highlight emptiness.

True to form, Paradise reads like a long short story. Structurally, the novel is broken up into 60 or 70 3-page chapters. The chapters alternate between existential Q&A sessions between Simon, the main character, and his doctor, and conversations (with a minimum of narrative direction) between Simon and his three female roommates. There are a few one or two-page chapters consisting of narrative summation.

Where this book interested me was in its economy. How it conveyed everything the reader needed to know about Simon through his words alone. But also, how that same dialogue depicted the novel’s other characters. I struggle with creating dialogue that isn’t wholly focused on my main character – I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want my character to reveal about his/herself through dialogue but then I end up so focused I create one-sided dialogue where my lesser characters speak in prompts for the most important character. Paradise is a great example of how effective messy dialogue can be. Not only does Simon reveal himself through his Q&A with the doctor, but the doctor begins to take on a life of his own as well:

Q: Did they ever go to Fizz?
A: I believe they went there quite often.
Q: What went on there?
A: It was a meat rack, a heterosexual meat rack. From what they’ve told me.
Q: So they picked up guys there…
A: They did, I suppose. They may have been just playing, just exercising…
Q: How did that make you feel?
A: I didn’t like it.
Q: Sometimes I think I should be a shrink.
A: Why aren’t you?
Q: It’s not medicine
A: I imagine them thinking, talking to each other…
Q: What did they say to each other?
A: I don’t know, of course. I imagine they were careful, thoughtful. Direct.
Q: My wife was the world’s champion at leaving things lying around. I spent much of my marriage picking up after her…

This last line goes on and on before the doctor picks up their original conversation with a new question. The doctor participates in their exchange, giving his own interpretation of the events Simon is telling him about. It creates a nice layering effect and also forces Simon to re-explain or even defend himself from time to time.

The voices of the three women living with Simon are less differentiated. They act and speak as a unit, mostly as a unit in direct confrontation with Simon. Dore, Veronica and Anne are young, curious, sexy, fragile, reckless, eager, angry…all the extremes. They function as a group of young women still trying to figure out what they want out of life against Simon who is on hold, terrorized really, from what he thinks/realizes/accepts his life has become. He’s resigned, cynical, depressed and numb. The tension between those two perspectives gets explored as they talk circles around each other.

“I don’t want to think we’re fucked. I really don’t want to think that.”
“We could go out and marry some more people.”
“The last thing I have in mind.”
“Yeah it does sound a little retrograde.”
Anne is in a retrospective mood.
“I won the Colorado Miss Breck,” she says. “I didn’t win the National, though.”
“Can’t win them all,” Simon says.
“It was very exciting. This stuff is very exciting when you’re a kid, people making a fuss over you. It becomes less exciting. I wanted to be a doctor.”
“Everybody wants to be a doctor. Veronica’s old man the child-beater wanted to be a doctor.”
“I know,” she says. “Helping people. Your existence is justified.”
Simon looks at his khakis; they’re a bit on the filthy side. Buy another pair. “You could still do that,” he says. “Medical school.”
“Do you want to get married again?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
“Probably somebody’d marry you.”
“Like who?”
“Some dumb woman. A commodity with which the world is amply supplied. Me, for example.”
“That would be pretty dumb. You need a young soldier.”
“You telling me what I need?”
“Trying to.”
“I feel affectionate toward you, Simon.”
“I feel the same thing. Not a good idea.”
“Who says?”
“Aetna Life and Casualty.”

Dialogue is superficial, in the sense that it lies directly on the surface of a book. It’s the most direct contact the reader has with any one character – it’s even more direct than the first person POV because it doesn’t pass through any filters before delivery. It was interesting then, to read a book that functioned almost entirely at this level. On the one hand I missed the more elaborate narrative interpretation I’ve grown accustomed to in most contemporary novels but at the same time I enjoyed experiencing the characters on their own terms, letting the weight of their words sink in without any distraction.

Reading Writer – Never Let Me Go cont.

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Narrator, narrator, narrator. What a powerful creature you are.

On Tuesday evening, I started reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go and then I finished it up on Wednesday afternoon. It’s a rare treat to focus on a book in what feels like essentially one sitting. This kind of intensive reading exaggerates the feeling I get of having completely exited my own reality and gone visiting another. And the smooth, unwavering quality of Never Let Me Go’s narrator Karen kept me firmly within the confines of the story.

I don’t want to go into too many details about the actual story of Never Let Me Go because I think it would spoil the fun of reading the book for those who don’t know anything about it. Suffice it to say the novel presents an alternate version of contemporary reality where certain scientific decisions require a new kind of social segregation. I’ve heard the novel labeled science fiction and I suppose that might be true, but I think it’s really beside the point. The point for me is the writing, combined with the novel’s careful exploration of Ishiguro’s idea.

I want to focus on the narrator. I was dubious of Ishiguro’s handling of Karen at first. I wanted her to have a different kind of voice – less explanatory, less hesitant, less flat. I felt like I wasn’t in good hands and that the way she told the story needed to be cleaned up or edited or smoothed somehow. I was worried it might be a case of a very successful writer not being held to certain standards anymore, which is something I do think happens as editors become less certain whether they can criticize or offer changes. And I held tight to that criticism for nearly a third of the book until it slowly dawned on me that Ishiguro was doing this on purpose and for a very good reason.

From the very beginning, Karen’s overall tone is one of jaded resignation. And it was driving me insane. I couldn’t detect the level of emotion I thought she should have. Nor could I understand why she felt compelled to do so much over-explaining. Until the details of Ishiguro’s frightening world started coming into clearer focus and then it all made sense. Especially when we remember that Karen begins her story at the end, when she’s eight months from leaving her job and taking on her “real” role in society, when what she has to tell us has already happened. It’s only when we get to the end, that it makes sense why she has the tone of voice she has. She’s worse than resigned. That’s the whole point.

But the point of letting this kind of narrator tell her story (something I think most writing classes or instructors would tell you to avoid like the plague because in essence she is lifeless) is where I think Ishiguro made a clever decision. Her tone of voice is specifically calculated for who she is. This sounds silly and maybe what I’m saying won’t make sense unless you’ve read the book. But she isn’t just telling her story – she IS the story. And her voice, her resignation, her understanding of herself at the end, becomes the greatest piece of evidence of the novel’s tragedy.

And Ishiguro gives us everything we really need to know about her right on page one. Pretty damn clever.

Reading Writer – Julia Glass, Three Junes

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One of the articles in the most recent issue of The Writer’s Chronicle asserts that contemporary fiction has lost its appreciation of the omniscient narrator. The idea got me thinking about whether or not this was true. I won’t go into a critique of the article but I think the author actually ended up contradicting herself a little – at first saying the omniscient was lost, no longer taught in writing programs and then intimating that most readers actually confuse the omniscient with a 3rd person limited. She then went on to give examples of numerous contemporary novels which use an omniscient point of view to great success. So, I think we can safely say that an appreciation of the omniscient point-of-view isn’t lost at all. We might not be pegging it correctly each time, but it is still being explored in contemporary fiction.

Nevertheless, I think the author was right to bring our attention to what a skillful use of the omniscient narrator can achieve. One of my favorite examples of this point-of-view in action comes from Part I – Collies – of Julia Glass’s 2002 novel, Three Junes.

“Collies” is actually a novella, the first installment of the triptych that forms Three Junes and it is one of those unique pieces of fiction that manages to get many things right – an interesting POV, careful use of metaphor, no cop outs on exploring difficult emotional situations. It’s a story about the contradictory emotions of anger and relief, freedom and regret inherent in the process of grieving for a loved one. It is a softly-told story, recounted by a discerning narrator with an immense amount of compassion for the novel’s characters.

Structurally, it is also interesting, as the forward action is limited to a short holiday trip in Greece, a week in the life of a grieving widower, while the past tense back story covers nearly a lifetime. It’s very neatly done and worth looking at for anyone struggling with how to appropriately place back story. Glass plays the two time periods off one another quite expertly, giving just enough of the past to make the present meaningful and vice versa. Writers can get so caught up in the pasts of their characters, inventing scenes and events for the pure delight of discovery. Knowing how to trim that to the essentials takes hard work and a merciless finger on the delete button.

But I wanted to talk about the omniscient POV. At first glance, it seems that “Collies” is written in the 3rd person limited – we are allowed access into the consciousness of our grieving widower, Paul – which is true, and we do get frequent and in-depth access. But actually, the front story taking place in Greece has an omniscient narrator which dips into other people’s minds from time to time as well as moves far enough back to grant the reader a nicely broad view of the scene and its animated trimmings.

This is a completely different tactic from what I talked about in my last post in regards to Don Delillo’s The Body Artist (also a book about grieving). With the front story of “Collies” the reader is given a lot of space, freedom to watch and wait and see what Paul will do with himself, to get to know him slowly, as it were. That isn’t to say the novel doesn’t get the reader involved with Paul and his grieving. It’s just a very different process. In many respects, Glass’s omniscient narrator presents the story of Paul’s grief through a prism – with each insight adding another layer of depth to our understanding of his sorrow. The Body Artist gives us one intensely concentrated perspective and holds us fast.

The back story of “Collies”, however, is written with a close 3rd person limited. This slight narrative shift between the present story and the back story does a marvelous job of rendering the past scenes with a greater degree of intensity than the front story scenes. Which I think mirrors Paul’s state of mind quite nicely. He’s in Greece to sort through his grief, part of that sorting is a sifting of his memories and they don’t belong to anyone else. The difference between the two narrative perspectives is so subtle, so smooth that without careful reading you don’t really see it. And that’s good. The reader shouldn’t really notice it – they should only feel the difference in the impact of the story.

Reading Writer – The Body Artist cont.

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I mentioned in my recent reading review of The Body Artist that reading this novel was a bit awkward and felt like attending a performance piece. I want to talk more about where I think the reader’s self-consciousness comes from.

In the novel, Delillo positions the narrator within the main character Lauren’s head – third person limited. There is the smallest sliver of distance in the odd formulation of “she thought”, but most of the narration comes unhampered by any tags. In this way, the narrator is fused to her movements and thoughts. In essence, Lauren is the narrator, even if technically the point of view is third person. This free indirect technique creates a sort of tunnel vision that in less expert hands would lead to a lot of confusion. (This is something that beginning writers often do without realizing it (yep, been there, done that) and it can create a real problem for the reader). There isn’t any place for the reader to move back and look at the larger scene. The largest “visual” we ever get that isn’t filtered by Lauren’s eyes is something like, “They sat reading…” with anything that follows unfolding through Lauren’s perception and thoughts.

What this near-fusion of main character into narrator accomplishes in The Body Artist is to turn the reader into a voyeur. Delillo doesn’t let Lauren tell us her story in her own voice, something which would be a more traditional experience for the reader and wouldn’t feel so intrusive, instead he traps us inside her experience at the same time as he reminds us that we’re only watching:

She tried to work past the details to the bird itself, nest thief and skilled mimic, to the fixed interest in those eyes, a kind of inquisitive chill that felt a little like a challenge.
When birds look into houses, what impossible worlds they see. Think. What a shedding of every knowable surface and process. She wanted to believe the bird was seeing her, a woman with a teacup in her hand, and never mind the folding back of day and night, the apparition of a space set off from time. She looked and took a careful breath. She was alert to the clarity of the moment but knew it was ending already. She felt it in the blue jay. Or maybe not. She was making it happen herself because she could not look any longer. This must be what it means to see if you’ve been near blind all your life. She said something to Rey, who lifted his head slightly, chasing the jay but leaving the sparrows unstarted.

It’s a technique with very definite aesthetic repercussions. It creates a restriction for the reader, turning the character’s mood and psychic state into a filter for the story. Both these things can be quite meaningful when executed skillfully. I think the benefit of using this for The Body Artist is that the technique marries so nicely with the novel’s thematic preoccupation. Grief is a dictatorial emotion – it weighs on us, makes us hyper-aware and uncomfortable or unreasonable. Grief becomes a filter for everyday experience and so forcing the reader into that experience is a meaningful narrative experiment.

Reading Writer – Coetzee's Disgrace cont.

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The dialogue in Disgrace churns along with a quiet energy. Especially after David has arrived at his daughter Lucy’s farm, their conversations perfect and polish the novel’s thematic preoccupations.

During their extended greeting when she’s showing him about the property, Lucy asks David about his work and he replies that he’s working on an operatic play about Lord Byron. She expresses her surprise:

“I didn’t know you still had ambitions in that direction.”
“I thought I would indulge myself. But there is more to it than that. One wants to leave something behind. Or at least a man wants to leave something behind. It’s easier for a woman.”
“Why is it easier for a woman?”
“Easier, I mean, to produce something with a life of its own.”
“Doesn’t being a father count?”
“Being a father…I can’t help feeling that, by comparison with being a mother, being a father is a rather abstract business. But let us wait and see what comes.”

This back and forth settles so naturally into the action of the scene, and they move from this more important exchange to another mundane one with the turn of the next sentence. But these particular lines tell the reader so much about David Lurie and the kind of man we’re dealing with. They also show us Lucy’s subtle challenge and disapproval. It feels so natural – the uneasy dynamics of this father and daughter.

Coetzee accomplishes this kind of subtle revelation on nearly every page. Just after this conversation ends, Petrus walks in – to both the novel and the scene. Petrus shares the farm with Lucy. He’s a black African. And the tension between Petrus and David upon their first encounter is so strong:

He is left with Petrus. “You look after the dogs,” he says to break the silence.
“I look after the dogs and I work in the garden. Yes.” Petrus gives a broad smile. “I am the gardener and the dog-man.” He reflects for a moment. “The dog-man,” he repeats, savouring the phrase.
“I have just travelled up from Cape Town. There are times when I feel anxious about my daughter all alone here. It is very isolated.”
“Yes,” says Petrus “it is dangerous.” He pauses. “Everything is dangerous today. But here it is all right, I think.” And he gives another smile.

David thinks he’s being nice, engaging with Petrus like an equal but he’s nearly shouting his suspicion in the man’s face. And of course there is Petrus’s first big smile. It is a slightly exaggerated gesture so we know right away to pay attention. He’s either nervous or being just as arrogant. It’s so well done. Coetzee keeps things very subtle.

This is something particularly difficult for a developing writer to learn – how to keep things to the minimum and feel confident we’ve made the emotional tension clear. In a general sense, less tends to be more. But we often have to fight our instincts about how to go about doing this – especially in today’s world of TV series and daytime drama. We’ve become quite accustomed to kitsch emotional displays, so much so they start to feel natural.

But Coetzee manages to get his characters to carry out intense, difficult discussions about uncomfortable subjects. I think this works because of how clearly Coetzee has created David. There isn’t a moment in Disgrace when we doubt that David Lurie would say what he says. From the moment the narrator introduces him to us, we can hear his voice in our heads. He’s cynical but careful. A confident intellectual but less confident in emotional territory. He wants people to listen to what he says and so he speaks slowly, precisely, intelligently but yet everything is tinted with his particular prejudices. Part of his development is to move from a place of emotional dishonesty to truthfulness, and this process is reflected quite expertly in what he says. His dialogue is also supported by a lot of internal dialogue, but not too much. Too much would bog us down instead of informing the choices he makes between what he says out loud and what he thinks.

Reading Writer – Coetzee's Disgrace

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For a fiction writer looking to consider technique, Disgrace provides plenty to sink our teeth into. Coetzee makes some interesting stylistic choices as well as engages with some difficult subject matter. It is not an easy book, to read or study.

I’m going to start with some ridiculously simple basics, but I think in this case they are important. Disgrace is written in the present tense. That alone is a choice worth examining. The present tense is a powerful, but tricky medium. Obviously, it brings immediacy to the story. What is happening is happening right now, in something close to real time. It may sound contradictory, but being this close to a story can actually slow things down. The narrator can get bogged down in the minutiae of each and every action.

Fortunately, Coetzee imposes some necessary distance on the present tense story by using the third person. In other words, a filter:

For a man of his age, fifty-two, divorced, he has, to his mind, solved the problem of sex very well. (A description of his arrangement with a prostitute named Soraya follows).
Soraya is tall and slim, with long black hair and dark, liquid eyes. Technically, he is old enough to be her father; but then, technically, one can be a father at twelve.

This is a strong opening with a particular narrative voice. It establishes a close third person (allowing us access into the head of our main character, David Lurie) while at the same time making it very clear that a wry, opinionated (even slightly patronizing) narrator is in control of the story. This layering is one of the novel’s most successful elements.

This attentive narrator takes us through a period of Lurie’s life beginning with his regular appointments with a prostitute and ends with him confronting the fact he has lost the ability to seduce any woman he chooses. This story unfolds quickly, 10 pages in total, and weaves together back story, descriptions of Lurie’s thoughts and habits, and the situation leading him to the real story. Chapter One is an introduction of sorts, skillfully handled and economical. It doesn’t start in the thick of the action but brings us to the real story much more quietly. But appropriately. Words aren’t wasted and this is really important.

Chapter Two is an intense, extended scene. Lurie attempts to seduce one of his students. In this chapter the narrator virtually disappears. Between each line of dialogue or action, we get Lurie’s unfiltered thoughts. This is quite hard to pull off without losing the larger picture of what’s going on. But as the scene draws to a close, the narrator steps back in and asserts his more objective view over what’s been going on. An extremely effective method of making sure the reader understands the parallel emotion of the scene – Lurie’s nearly pathetic intensity and the girl’s wavering thrill. She’s flattered but also nervous.

Skip ahead. The next few chapters catalogue the love affair. He pursues, she gives in, she draws back, he fumbles. The affair becomes a scandal and Lurie must quit his position at the university where he teaches. Again, Lurie’s actions and thoughts are both explained and then sometimes criticized by the narrator.

He does not feel nervous. On the contrary, he feels quite sure of himself. His heart beats evenly, he has slept well. Vanity, he thinks, the dangerous vanity of the gambler; vanity and self-righteousness. He is going into this in the wrong spirit. But he does not care.

This distance remains extremely important, the only way for the narrator to help the reader develop his/her own feelings about the situation and more importantly, about Lurie.

A close third person narrator can be difficult to pull of effectively. We want to get inside our character’s head but in doing that can lose perspective beyond that character and, more importantly, about that character – which is the whole reason to use third person instead of first. Coetzee keeps just about as close to David Lurie as possible but he doesn’t merge with him and this is really important. He keeps a thin boundary – with narrative tone and an eye to Lurie’s surroundings. Lurie translates most of the reader’s impressions of each scene but he doesn’t dictate them – that distinction is key.