Woolly
It was, therefore, a gloomy bunch of Thespians who rode the last stretch, their noses glued to the streaming windowpanes as the train seemed to crawl over a bridge made of the very faces of the railroad workers who stood aside to let it pass, grim, rain-drenched mongolian faces lit up in the darkness by the flare of acetylene torches, staring in cold frightening wonder at the perilous passage of these strangers whose necessity had brought them out to work in the night and the rain.
Now this is a lovely piece of writing. As interesting as the writing itself was the process I went through when reading it.
It’s old school. Slow and deliberate and carefully crafted. Filling you in as you move through it, digressing now and then into the chortle and swipe of the author’s voice, until you find yourself sitting pretty, centre stage, in an intricately painted little world. Though weary and too much abused, I suppose the word captivating sums it up quite neatly.
It’s the kind of writing that we don’t put up with anymore. And I admit that I felt impatience brewing as I began to read. In these machine-gait days of click, switch, feed me and onto the next, we want delivery in 30 seconds or else. Set up, punchline, set up… our needs are very obedient.
But, still, I knew that something was happening; despite the meter, not a word was superfluous. So I gave in to the pace. And there it was: sweet turns of phrase, stunning imagery and gentle gossip, the whole thing before you. By mid-point it was clear: now, this is a lesson in how it’s done.
For some time there’s been a niggling in the back of my brain telling me to revisit those tomes that left me near comatose in school (I know now from seeing my kids’ reactions to reading French classics that we were far too young at the time to appreciate them. Nothing I can say can make them understand what wondrous works they are. In the eager days of youth, we are incapable of enjoying the intricate prize of experience), but the prospect of doing so had seemed laden more with duty – to, I don’t know, credibility perhaps – than real desire.
But this little beauty has changed my mind. In that slowing of hunger for the payoff, it occurred to me that so much of our storytelling now is afraid to take the time. It’s afraid to meander and make odd connections, wary of the brash singular voice, linguistic gymnastics and delving that sets writing apart from our quick fix and stunning tricks media. Afraid of critiques and comparisons, it’s hip, quick, clever and green, emblematic of our mindset, of the pace we’ve made and idolise. Glad of a catchphrase and mass media allusion, it’s afraid of being left behind.
· · • · ·
Comment
- spot on and beautifully written yerself!
— ruth Dec 3, 10:11am # - Have you read Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon? It’s 900 pages in a similar style, and it came out in the past year. There may be hope for the present yet.
— Pat Dec 5, 5:46pm # - This amazing piece of reportage reminded me of so much of good writing I’ve read in the oft-dismissed oeuvre of “post-colonial” artifacts. Are we missing something in the brave new world? Hmmm?
I also reflect on the content of the piece. I can’t imagine a contemporary resonance for the story of Katherine Cornell and her Christmas performance in Seattle. Where does that hunger now reside? Certainly not in the soulless truck-and -bus tours of MAMMA MIA and MOVIN’ OUT.
Or does it? Where do we satisfy our desire for ‘live’ engagement with greatness? Has our ‘post-modern’ attitude truly rendered ‘greatness’ inert?
— moj Dec 6, 5:01am # - It’s a kind of impatient philistinism that draws us towards experience at the cost of reflection. We have no memory, only that afforded by our digitial devices. I remember visiting a Buddhist temple on the outskirts of Hong Kong. Outside the building, discreet signs asked visitors to respect the meditative and holy qualities of the temple by not taking photographs inside. But there they were, the tourists with the cameras, clicking and whirring heedlessly, seeing the temple through viewfinders and miniature screens. Not one put down their camera for even a minute to just walk in the temple. Their memories of the place will match exactly what they show their bored friends when they get home.
Have you tried Marilynne Robinson? Luminous. Housekeeping is beautifully written and rewards re-reading. I’m looking forward to receiving her latest, Gilead, this holiday season.
— LintHuman Dec 6, 4:13pm # - Ouch. Sorry, the link to Amazon creates an error. Apologies. Here’s an alternative
— LintHuman Dec 6, 4:18pm # - I haven’t read either the Stephenson or any Marilynne Robinson, so thanks for the tips.
As to “live engagement with greatness,” we seem to be in an odd transitional period in our relationship with what we perceive as great or sacred (as Human Lint’s story of dismay well illustrates).
Someone’s undying devotion to their favourite band or TV show surprises us less (and apparently makes us less uncomfortable) than fervent devotion to a faith or credo.
— gail Dec 6, 5:59pm #
commenting closed for this article