Frank T. Wydra
There is a notable buzz around the table today. All the regulars—Mary, Edgar, Bram, Papa, and I–are here. Bram started the chatter when he said, “there is this writer, a Rick Steinberg, who posited in a recent posting that, ‘The first responsibility of the writer is to be understood.’ And, to make his point, the man used me as an example.”
Mary says, “I remember that. He implied that you felt pain when your Count, rather than Victorian morality, was vilified.”
“Exactly,” Bram says.
“Ah, yes,” says Edgar, “caused a bit of a stir around that literary circle. Most agreed with his premise, but I, for one, have difficulty with it.”
“How so?” Papa says. “I have always been an advocate of clear writing, writing that people can understand.”
“I agree,” Mary says. “What good is writing when it can not be understood?”
Edgar, curmudgeon that he is, leans back in his chair, as if relishing the challenge. Raising his hand, he signals Al to bring another round. Smiling his wolf’s smile, he says, “I find no fault with clarity. What I question is the canon that it is the first responsibility. Without a message, understanding matters little. It is no more than gibberish.”
“Well, now,” says Papa, “the message is a given. Something that is, well, understood.”
Bram says, “Is it? As Mary so aptly said, messages can be misinterpreted.”
Al arrives with a fresh round and stands a moment, listening, before dispensing the drinks.
“I hope,” Edgar says, “that you are not implying that Bram’s writing was unclear. I, for one, found it a most accessible book, though I will admit the style was different.”
Papa’s back seems to stiffen. “I think you misunderstood what I said. What is implied is that there is a message, not what that message is.”
Al says, “”I have read many books that seem to have no message. I read for entertainment, for escape, not to be burdened by some writer’s philosophy.”
Mary, smiling sweetly at Al as he places a sherry before her, says, “Philosophy. Yes. I think that is what separates the craftsman from the artist. There are many who can turn a pretty phrase, even some who can write entertainments, but how many writers have the talent–or inclination–to add a second layer to their work, one which represents their view of the world? It is there that the message is often fogged by the surface story. Take Melville’s Billy Budd. On the surface, it is an entertaining story of oppression at sea. But at the next level it is a commentary on the nature of good and evil. The surface story itself is well written, it communicates. It is, as Steinberg admonishes, understandable. But what of the second story? That which is hidden at the next level? Is that, too, understandable to the reader who does not probe its depth?”
“Excellent example,” Bram says. “And appropriate in that Budd, because of his speech impediment, is unable to communicate, thus strikes down his accuser. Yes, yes, yes. It brings into focus the conundrum Steinberg poses. It is easy to confuse style with substance, to assume that where there is eloquence of voice or density of prose meaning lurks below, when, in fact, there is nothing more than vapor.
Papa says, “I think you ask too much of the writer if you expect each and every one to layer their story with meaning.”
“And yet,” Edgar says, is that not what great writing is about, creating through words a kaleidoscope of meaning? Turn it one way and one truth is revealed. Turn it another and a new perception emerges. Does it not require both a philosopher and a poet to write such work?”
And I say, “But not all writers aspire to greatness. Some want only to be published, to prove to themselves that it can be done. Others write because it is a job, a livelihood. Still others for recognition or the admiration of their peers.”
Papa says, “I can not imagine a writer who does not aspire to greatness. No matter how clumsily they drop words on paper, deep within is a voice singing of immortality. And, surely, except for those few who happen upon a large audience, there are easier ways to earn a livelihood. No, for the every-writer amongst us, it is the lottery of greatness that drives them.”
“Well then,” Bram says, “from that it follows that all writers must have, as their first responsibility, some message they wish to convey.” Gesturing grandly, “Some here call that a philosophy, but it could as well be a political statement, an observation on the human condition, a commentary on the vagaries of nature, or any other message the writer seeks to communicate, what some might term an essential truth. Can we agree on that?”
Edgar says, “I think it is axiomatic. In even the most widely read fictions, there are underlying philosophical themes. Twain in Pudd’nhead Wilson, and his other work, tackles the question of nature versus nurture. Lee’s Mockingbird is about justice. Even today, LeCarre’s continuing theme is the perfidy of large organizations, and Crichton,” a bow to Mary, “not unlike your work, Madame, warns against science run amuck. Even Steinberg in his excellent book, Gemini Man, philosophizes on the direction of evolution and its impact on humanity. And yet, I am hesitant to put a stake in the ground,” a smile at Bram, “proclaiming any responsibility to be prime.”
Papa says, “Come now, there must be rules. Else anarchy will reign. Writing understandable work seems a sensible rule.”
Edgar shrugs, “What we do is art, why not give anarchy a chance. Joyce’s Ulysses has been maligned, and yet it has an audience. Some have called Gibson’s Neuromancer unintelligible, but it is a classic. Even Sullivan’s Harry Moon and Water Wolf are considered dense by some; others revel in the wordplay. Who understood Catcher In The Rye on first reading? How accessible is A Canticle for Leibowitz? So, who is to say, there must be rules? As artists, we, each in our own way, make the rules. Readers will applaud or ignore us as they see fit.”
There is silence around the table. It is an unusual sound.
After a moment Bram says, “As Edgar says, my book, Dracula, was different. No, not its storyline, though that, too was unique in its time, but in the way I wrote it. It was an epistolary novel, a series of letters, telegrams, and the like, unusual in its day. So unlike my other work. Yet, it is the one for which I am remembered. What says that about style? Perhaps what Edgar says echoes Shakespeare, ‘this above all, to thine own self be true.’ If there is a first responsibility of writers, should that not be it?”
Mary says, “If we must do Hamlet, let it be philosophical. ‘To be, or not to be… …ay, there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?’ Is that not what we do? Put dreams to word? Is that not our first responsibility?”
“Or,” says I, “’There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’”
And Al, always on the prowl for an extra buck, says, “’ My favorite Hamlet is, ‘Drink deep ere you depart.’”
frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
9 Comments, Comment or Ping
David Niall Wilson
Pulling a chair up, DNW drops his chin onto his knuckles, elbows at forty-fives, and frowns.
I know a lot of writers. To assume that these writers have a responsibility to spread their philosophy seems an odd request, since as many as I know that are deep thinkers, there are an equal number who are not, but that I consider strong writers.
Bram, in his final statement, seems to support not the philosophy angle, but the style vs content argument, as he is remembered for his one stylish work, not the body of the rest.
If every work considered good, or great, was like The Catcher in the Rye, or Ulysses, there would be very little considered great, and the group of those willing to read and decide would be small indeed…
Then, as if to wash away fuzzy thoughts with clear ale, he downs his cup and sits back.
If we are all true to our art, says he, then some of us will have deep layered messages, and some of us (not so deep to start with) will write in the shallows. Luckily, there is an ocean out there chock-full of readers of different fin strength and depth to feed on all the words.
DNW
Feb 13th, 2007
Frank Wydra
Ah, friend David, it is good to see you at the table once again. A useful addition, to be sure.
Because everyman attempts a message, does not mean that all messages are equal. But, if there is no attempt at message, what is it that is to be understood? What is communicated? An event? An episode? But what is it we are to take from that event or episode that makes it memorable? If the answer is nothing, then why write it except as a conceit of the writer?
And, of greatness, though every man attempts a message does not mean that all such messages are great. In the end it is posterity that will decide the quality of the message and its relevance to life as we know it.
Feb 13th, 2007
David Niall Wilson
In a sense, I suppose that is true, but there is magic in the words, “Let me tell you a story,” and that magic is not always a message - but is often the story itself. Also, great stories tend to incorporate the ideas and messages without conscious effort on the part of the writer to pass them on.
Also, given that not all men have a great message to pass on, should they be self-conscious of this when they weave their tales, and if so, won’t it just make them paranoid and remove self-worth? I freely admit that about half of what I write is little more than rolicking good fun, and while I occasionally attempt to get something more through, I send you back to Bram.
Here then, is the REAL rub. Who are you writing for? Most of the folks reading about The Count did not get what Bram intended from the story. It is an incredibly well thought of work, however, and a classic. It is not famous because of critics and deep thinkers, but because of the people who didn’t get it.
The same is true of the works of many at this table. There are some truths buried, for instance, in my first novel “This is My Blood,” but do you know what the Italian publisher keys on? That there is a lesbian scene between Mary Magdalene and Lilith. Which do you suppose, given time, will be remembered at the larger table? The evil count and the Lilith/Mary scene, or the deeper messages locked inside?
I don’t know the answer…but I know that the mass of readers does not get, nor need to get, a messages from what they read in a lot of cases, and I am not sure that the elite crowd looking for meaning when there is, and is not meaning, is the crowd I write for…
It’s a tough question.
D
Feb 13th, 2007
Frank Wydra
Ah, David. I think we are hung on semantics. How long would you listen to a story about nothing? About vapor? My guess, not long. If it is a story, it has to be about something: maybe beauty, maybe fear, maybe revulsion, maybe anything, and that is its meaning.
And though I have not read This Is My Blood, there is something in the few words you mention about Mary Magdalene and Lilith’s relationship that drips with meaning. Why did you choose Mary, the sinner, instead of Mary the Mother for that scene? Is this a commentary on unnatural love? Does it hark back to Eden and the lust of Eve for the apple? Just this one choice is ripe with meaning. Were I to read My Blood I would undoubtedly find the message you embedded within the tale, if not an intellectual level then on the visceral. but I do not doubt that it is there.
The critics, the intellectuals, the elites, who cares about them? But the writer, (s)he has a message–whether articulated or not, for that is what the story is always about. The question is, whether the writer should be conscious of the theme or not. To be or not to be… Is that not the first responsibility of the writer, to understand what it is they write of?
Frank
Feb 13th, 2007
David Niall Wilson
Frank, just to put some info in place…
I chose Mary the sinner because, in my novel, Mary is a fallen angel, raised by Lucifer to tempt Jesus with woman in the flesh. Instead, she falls at Jesus’ feet, loves him, and wants to return to heaven, so is cursed to follow in Christ’s footsteps, feeding on the blood of his followers.
You are very close to part of it, in that the scene shared between Lilith and Mary is more a mental bonding than just physical. They share intimate visions, including Lilith’s love with Adam in the Garden, Mary viewing it as if she were there…sensing it.
I think you’re right that it might be semantics, but I send you now to another art form.
Seinfeld, arguably the most popular comedy in the last century, and I would say art in a sense, was a show about nothing. I watched if for a very, very long time.
Or was it actually a show about everything?
D
Feb 13th, 2007
wilsonwriter
I loved the eavesdropping nature of this blog, and you handled the different voices and perspectives well. Thanks for giving us a chance to consider our art, our anarchy, through the eyes of our forbears.
Feb 13th, 2007
Janet
Please, Lady and Gents, tell me you do not
consider “Canticle” and “Catcher in the Rye”
to be obtuse. –Janet
Feb 13th, 2007
David Niall Wilson
Complex and denser than popular fodder, I think…
Feb 13th, 2007
Sully
Where have I been all day? Running around town and lost in the sublime plasma state of colliding galaxies. BUT…
BILLY BUD: “Excellent example” indeed. One of my all-time favs. But when I first read it, I was too young to appreciate the style. Had to see the movie with Ustinov, Cameron and Terrence Stamp before I realized it was a masterpiece worth revisiting. My point being that both style and content are aimed, necessarily, at someone, and that the “someone” helps define the purpose. To plug it back into some examples here. The fame of Dave’s example, DRACULA, resting mostly in modern times on an escapist audience bent on vicarious horror and a good scare, is an audience needing only an imaginary adrenaline trip. A message of sorts. And the deeper parts of DRACULA or FRANKENSTEIN are surely fables for life and seen as such by more intellectual readers. Just as valid. Both will endure as long as those audiences remain, though probably the intellectual one will be the harder to imitate, and the fact that both messages and audiences are implicit in both books will be harder still to imitate.
Just my two cents. Whatever is is right. And thanks for fitting Sullivan’s THE PHASES OF HARRY MOON and THE WATER WOLF into that august discussion.
Another great piece, Frank.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Feb 13th, 2007
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