Narration
NARRATION is the kind of discourse concerned with action, with life in motion. It answers the question: "What happened?" It tells a story.
We ordinarily think of story-telling as being the special province of the writer of fiction, of short stories and novels, but fiction is only one type of narration, and here we shall be concerned with narration as a kind of discourse— with narration in general. Fiction involves many special problems which will not be touched on here.
Let us examine what we mean by the word action as used in the statement that narration is the kind of discourse concerned with action. We may discuss action under three heads, movement, time, and meaning.
MOVEMENT
Description gives us the picture of the world as fixed at a given moment, of its objects as existing at that moment. It is a portrait, a snapshot, a still life. Narration gives us a moving picture, its objects in operation, life in motion. Its emphasis is not on the thing in motion, but on the nature of the motion itself. It is concerned with a transformation from one stage to another stage. It not only answers the question, "What happened?" it also answers the question, "How did it happen?"— that is, what was the process of passing from the first stage to the last stage?
This special emphasis on movement itself means that narration does not explain a process (though it may do so) but presents a
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process. It places the event before our eyes. Narration does not tell about the story. It tells the story. Like description, narration gives the quality of immediacy.
TIME
The movement of a process, an event, is through time, from one point to another. But narration does not give us a mere segment of time, but a unit of time, and a unit is a thing which is complete in itself. It may be part of a larger thing, and it may contain smaller parts, but in itself it is complete. The unit of time, therefore, is the time in which a process fulfills itself. We now emphasize, not the fact of movement, but the movement from a beginning to an end. We begin a story at the moment when something is ripe to happen, when one condition prevails but is unstable, and end it when the something has finished happening, when a new condition prevails and is stable. And in between those two moments are all the moments which mark the stages of change.
But you may recall narratives which did not begin with that first moment when something was ripe to happen. For instance, a narrative may begin with a man in the very midst of his difficulties and problems, say on the battlefield or at the moment of a marital crisis or when he hears that he has lost his fortune, and then cut back to his previous experiences to explain how he came to be in such a situation. Such a narrative does not move in an orderly fashion from A to Z. It begins, instead, with G, f/, 7 and then cuts back to A, B, and C. But we must distinguish here between two things: how the narrator treated the sequence in time and how the sequence existed in time. The narrator may have given us G, H, and I first in order to catch our interest. He may have thought that A, B, and C, would not be interesting to us until we knew what they were to lead to. But when he does finally cut back to A, B, and C, we become aware of the full sequence in time and set it up in our imaginations A, B, C . . . G, H, 7. . . . In other words, we must distinguish between the way (G, H, I— A, B, C . . .) the narrator tells us something and the thing (A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . .) which he tells. The thing told always represents a unit of time, no matter how much the narrator may violate its natural order.
MEANING 239
MEANING
An action, as we are using the word, is not merely a series of events but is a meaningful series. We have already implied this in saying that narration gives us a unit of time, with a beginning and an end. In other words, the events must be stages in a process and not merely a random collection held together in time, They must have a unity of meaning. Suppose we should read:
President Wilson presented his war message to Congress on April 6, 1917. War was declared. Thus the United States embarked on its first great adventure in world affairs. On April 8, 1917, just two days later, Albert Mayfield was born in Marysville, Illinois. He was a healthy baby, and grew rapidly. By the time of the Armistice he weighed 25 pounds. On December 12, 1918, the troopship Mason., returning to New York from Cherbourg, struck a floating mine off Ireland and sank. Two hundred and sixteen men were lost.
Several events are recounted in this passage, but as it is presented to us, nothing holds those events together. They have no significant relation to each other. They do not constitute an action, merely a sequence in time. But suppose we rewrite the passage:
President Wilson presented his war message to Congress on April 6, 1917. War was declared. Thus the United States embarked on its first great adventure in world affairs. On April 8, 1917, just two days later, Albert Mayfield was born in Marysville, Illinois. Scarcely before the ink had dried on the headlines of the extra of the Marysville Courier announcing the declaration of war, Albert embarked on his own great adventure in world affairs. He was a healthy baby, and grew rapidly. By the time of the Armistice he weighed 25 pounds. On December 12, 1918, the troopship Mason, returning to New York from Cherbourg, struck a floating mine off Ireland and sank. Two hundred and sixteen men were lost. Among those men was Sidney Mayfield, a captain of artillery, a quiet, unobtrusive, middle-aged insurance salesman., who left a widow and an infant son. That son was Albert Mayfield. So Albert grew up into a world which the war— a war he could not remember— had defined. It had defined the little world of his home, the silent, bitter woman who was his mother, the poverty and the cheerless discipline, and it had defined the big world outside.
Now we are moving toward an action. The random events are given some relationship to each other. We have unity and meaning.
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We may want to go on and find out more about Albert and about the long-range effects of the war on his life, but what we have is, as far as it goes, an action in itself as well as the part of a bigger action, the story of Albert's life.
We have said that an action must have unity of meaning. This implies that one thing leads to another, or if one thing does not lead to the other, that they both belong to a body of related events all bearing on the point of the action. For instance, in the paragraph about Albert Mayfield, the declaration of war by the United States did not directly cause the floating mine to be in a particular spot off Ireland, but both events belong in the body of events contributing to the formation of Albert's character.
In seeking the unity of an action, we must often think of the persons involved. Events do not merely happen to people, but people also cause events. People have desires and impulses, and these desires and impulses are translated into deeds. Therefore, the human motives involved may contribute to the unity of an action. This human element, MOTIVATION, may provide the line which runs through the individual events and binds them together. And when motivation does not provide us with the line, we must think of the events as leading to some human response. For example, no motivation in the sense just used binds the little story of Albert Mayfield together, but the effect of the events on Albert Mayfield, his response to them, provides the unity and the meaning.
If we summarize what we mean by an action, we arrive at something like this. It is a connected sequence of events. It involves a change from one condition to another. It must have a beginning and an end. It must have unity and meaning. It must stimulate and satisfy an interest.
NARRATIVE AND NARRATION
Before we leave this preliminary discussion of narration, it may be well, as a kind of caution, to make a distinction between narration and narrative. Strictly considered, narration is a certain way of speaking or writing, a kind of discourse, and a narrative is the thing produced by its application, a discourse, either spoken or written, which presents an actiori. We must remember, however,
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that the method of narration may be used without giving us a satisfactory narrative. Suppose a woman should say:
Why, my dear, I had the pleasantest afternoon yesterday. I went down to lunch with Ethel— at the Green Room of the Millet Hotel—and we had delicious shrimp. You know, the kind they serve there. Then I went to get a facial. And guess who was there! Milly Seaver. I hadn't seen her in ages. Really, not for ages. She was looking awful well, even if she is beginning— I oughtn't say this, but it's true— to show her age just a little. You know how blondes are. She said she was getting a permanent and was in a hurry because her husband was taking her to Chicago that night on a business trip. Then I left the beauty shop and went to a movie. It wasn't very good, but I enjoyed being there in the cool, after such a hot day. But I had to come home early, before the show was over. You see, Mike, that's my biggest child, had to go to a Scout meeting. And besides, I like an early dinner for the children. Also, my new shoes weren't very comfortable, and I was glad to get home. But Milly Seaver — you really ought to see her — she's getting . . .
This rattletrap of a woman has used the method of narration, but she has used it without the distinguishing interest of narration, the presentation of an action. She has given us a sequence of events in time, but that sequence of events does not constitute an action in the real sense. The unity is a unity in time— she went down town early in the afternoon and came home late—but there is no unity of meaning in the events themselves. One may say, of course, that we get some notion of her character from the way she spends her time, and that this constitutes a meaning. But ordinarily we insist on a little more than that when we say that a sequence of events constitutes an action.
It is not profitable, however, to demand a single line of demarcation between what is narration and non-narration, between what is narrative and what is non-narrative. If we understand the extremes—the random and unrelated accumulation events at the one extreme, and the fully realized action at the other— we can use common sense to discriminate among the examples of the shadowland in between. And in our ordinary speaking and writing we shall frequently have reason to move into that shadowland where definitions are not as clear as day.
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NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE
We have been discussing narration (and narrative) as a thing in itself. But it bears certain relations to the other kinds of discourse, description, exposition, and argument. What are these relations?
We can break this general question down into two other questions:
1. How does narration use other kinds of discourse?
2. How do other kinds of discourse use narration?
HOW NARRATION USES OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE
Let us take up the first question. A narrative may have within it descriptive, argumentative, or expository elements. In fact, any rather full narrative will almost certainly have them, but they will be, if the prevailing motive of the piece of writing is narrative, absorbed into the narrative intention.
A narrative presents us with an action. But an action implies things or persons which act and are acted upon. And the word presents implies that we are not told about those things or persons but are given some sense of their actual presence, their appearance, their nature. And this means that, in a greater or lesser degree, they are described. So description comes in to give us that impression of immediacy which is important for all narrative except the most bare and synoptic kind.
The same line of reasoning leads us to an awareness of the importance of exposition in narrative. A narrative involves an action, and we have defined an action as a sequence of events related to create a meaning. One thing leads to another. There is a connection of cause and effect, or at least the events are connected with each other by means of some idea. For instance, in the little example given above about Albert Mayfield and World War I, the war is the cause of the particular situation in which the boy grows up. We must understand this in order to get the point.
Exposition is the kind of discourse concerned with explanation, with making us understand something, and in so far as a narrative employs explanation to bring us to an understanding of its point, it involves exposition. Some narratives, it is true, may simply arrange
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their materials so that the reader is aware of the point without having to depend on any explanation, but in any rather fully developed narrative some element of exposition, even though a very slight one, is apt to appear.
Let us turn to the writing of a littlenarrative. Suppose we start with the following passage:
George Barton, a poor boy about twelve years old of nondescript appearance, was forced to sell the mastiff, which he had reared from a puppy and which he loved very much, for two reasons. First, having lost his job, he could no longer buy proper food for a dog of such size. Second, after it had frightened a child in the neighborhood, he was afraid that someone would poison it.
But this is not a narrative. It is concerned with an action, the fact that the boy sells his dog, but its primary concern is with the causes of the action and with what the action illustrates rather than with the immediate presentation of the action in time. Let us rewrite the passage.
George Barton owned a mastiff which he had reared from a puppy. He loved it very much. But he lost his job and could no longer buy proper food for it. Then the dog frightened a little child of the neighborhood who was eating a piece of bread. George was now afraid that someone would poison it. So he sold it.
This is a narrative. The causes of the action are given here, as before, but now they are absorbed into the movement of the action itself and appear to us in their natural sequence. When we wrote in the first example that George sold the dog for two reasons, we violated the whole nature of narrative— the movement in time— because we made, not the action itself, but the causes of the action, the thing of primary interest. The first piece of writing is expository: it explains why the boy sold the dog. The second piece of writing is narrative: it tells us what happened.
This second piece of writing is, however, a very poor, dull, and incomplete piece of narrative. It can scarcely be said, for one thing, to present the event at all. It gives us little sense of the immediate quality of the event. It is so bare of detail that the imagination of the reader can find little to work on. We have the basic facts given in a bare synopsis. But if we fill in the synopsis a little we can make it satisfy us somewhat better.
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George Barton was a nondescript little boy, scarcely to be distinguished from the other boys living in Duck Alley. He had a pasty face, not remarkable in any way, eyes not blue and not brown but some nondescript hazel color, and a tangle of neutral colored hair. His clothes were the anonymous, drab, cast-off items worn by all the children of Duck Alley, that grimy street, scarcely a street at all but a dirt track, which ran between the sluggish, algae-crusted bayou and a scattering of shanties. His life there was unremarkable and cheerless enough, with a feeble, querulous, stooped, defeated father, a mother who had long since resigned herself to her misery, and a sullen older brother, with a mean laugh and a hard set of knuckles, who tormented George for amusement when he was not off prowling with his cronies. But this home did not distinguish George from the other children of Duck Alley. It was like many of the others. What distinguished George was his dog.
One day two years backbit was the summer when he was ten, George had found the dog. It was a puppy then, a scrawny, starving creature with absurd big paws, sniffling feebly in the garbage dump at the end of Duck Alley. No one could have guessed then that it would grow into a sleek, powerful animal, as big as a pony.
George brought it home, and defended it against the protests and jeers and random kicks of the family. "I'll feed him," he asserted. "He won't never eat a bite I don't make the money to pay for." And he was as good as his word. There was no job too hard for him, for he could look forward to evening when he would squat by the old goods box which served as a kennel and watch Jibby gnaw at the hunk of meat he had bought.
Suppose we begin the narrative in that way. We have added several elements to the bare synopsis given before. We know now why the dog is so important to the boy. There is no direct statement on this point, but we see that he lives an isolated and loveless life, and that the dog satisfies a craving of his nature for companionship and affection. We also see that now he has a reason for his own efforts, a center for his life. In other words we can imaginatively grasp his own state of mind. As we have just stated the matter, it is given as explanation, as exposition, but in the narrative itself this expository element is absorbed into situation and action. But in addition to this element, we have added little bits of description which are woven into the narrative to help us visualize the scene and George himself. The description which is absorbed into the narrative helps put the whole thing before us, helps to present it rather than tell about it.
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The thing to emphasize here is that the narrative is concerned to make us sense the fullness of the process to make us see, hear, feel, and understand the event as a single thing. Description alone might make us see or hear some aspect of the event. Exposition might make us understand its meaning, its causes or results. But narrative, when it is fully effective, makes us aware directly of the event as happening.
To return to our little narrative. Suppose we should carry on our suggested revision to the moment when George sells his dog. Would there be anything still lacking to make the narrative fully satisfying? Perhaps there would be. Perhaps the meaning of the action would not be very clear. Let us continue it at a point after George has lost his job and the dog has frightened the child.
George sold the dog to John Simpson, a boy who lived in one of the big brick houses on the hill back of town. John Simpson's father was rich. John could feed Jibby. John could take care of him. Nobody would poison Jibby up at John Simpson's house, behind the high iron fence. George comforted himself with these thoughts.
Sometimes, however, they did not comfort him enough, and he felt the old loneliness and emptiness which he had felt before Jibby came. But he was getting to be a big boy now, big and tough, and he put those feelings out of his mind as well as he could. He did not work regularly now, but hung around with the Duck Alley gang in the railroad yards. He almost forgot Jibby.
One day on the main street of town he met John Simpson and the clog, such a big, powerful, sleek dog now that he scarcely recognized him. He went up to the dog. "Hi, Jibby, hi, boy!" he said, and began to pull the dog's ears and scratch his head as he had done three years before, in the evenings, back by the goods box, after Jibby had bolted his supper. The dog nuzzled him and licked his hands. George looked up at the other boy and exclaimed, "Jeez, l°°k at him. Look at him, will ya. Ain't he smart? He remembers me!"
John Simpson stood there and for a moment did not utter a word. Then he said, "Take your hands off that dog. He belongs to me."
George stepped back.
"Come here, Blaze," John Simpson ordered, and the dog went to him. He fondled the dog's head, and the dog licked his hands.
George turned around and walked off.
This is somewhat more complete than the previous version. If we stop with the sale of the dog, we do have an example of narration,
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but the reader no doubt is somewhat confused about the exact meaning of the event presented. Perhaps the reader feels sorry for the boy. Perhaps he is aware that poverty is the cause of the boy's loss of the dog. Those things may be taken as meanings of the piece of narration given. But they are not brought to focus. The reader may not be sure exactly what is intended. He is certain to feel that the narrative is rather fragmentary.
But with the addition of the next section dealing with the meeting of George and John Simpson, the reader is more certain of the direction of the narrative, of the significance. The contrast between John Simpson, who owns the dog, and George, who merely loves it, gives us a point which is clear even without any comment. And many narratives, even some examples of that highly elaborated form of narration called fiction, deliver their point without any comment.
In the new section, we may notice, however, that more is involved than the mere contrast between the two boys. The dog licks John Simpson's hands, too. How does this tie in with what we have just said? This is, as it were, a kind of betrayal of George's affection for the dog. Another question: What is George's attitude as he turns and walks off? Perhaps the reader senses the boy's resentment at the betrayal. But the writer might want more. He might want a more positive conclusion. For example, he might want to make this event a kind of turning point in George's growing up, a seemingly trivial event which had a far-reaching effect on his life. He might continue.
The next day George hunted a job. He found one at the lumberyard where he had worked before when Jibby was a puppy. He worked as steadily now as he had worked in the old days when he looked forward to getting home to feed the dog and squat by him in the dusk, or if it was winter, in the dark. But he did not love the dog now. He was through with that.
But he worked because he had learned one thing. It was a thing which he was never to forget. He had learned that even love was one of the things you cannot get unless you have the money to pay for it.
This would give us a conclusion. It would give the effect of the event on George, not merely the first reaction of resentment or hurt feelings, but the effect which would prevail over a long period of time. Neither the reader nor the writer may agree that what George
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learns is the truth—that money is the basis of everything, even of those things like love and loyalty and kindness—but what George learns is the "truth" for him, the thing by which he will conduct his life for a time to come.
The important thing to understand here is, however, that a point is made, whether or not the reader accepts the point as true. The narrative is complete. It is not complete merely because a summarizing statement has been made by the writer. Certainly, the summarizing statement would not make the narrative complete if the thing it says were not something which could grow reasonably out of the event for a person in George's situation. And many narratives imply rather than state their meaning. But a full narrative does involve significance, a meaning, a point, as something which grows out of the sequence of events.
We have just said that the narrative is complete. This does not necessarily mean that George will never change his mind about what is the meaning of the experience he has had. The narrative might well be part of a long story or a novel which showed how for thirty years to come George conducted his life by the hard, materialistic "truth" he had learned and then found, even in the moment of his practical success, when he had grown rich and powerful, that his "truth" was really a profound mistake and that he had to learn a new truth.
This revision might not make a good story. The event concerning the dog might be too trivial or sentimental to serve as the basis for a good piece of fiction. But it will illustrate our own statement that the significance of a narrative stems from what the narrative immediately involves. George's later experiences, including elements not involved in the little narrative given here, might make him (or the reader) revise the notion of the truth of its point. But the point,
in so far as it is already implicit in the particular narrative, would be there, and the narrative would be complete, in terms of George's interpretation of it.
The idea of completeness as applied to narrative always involves the idea of an interpretation, stated or implied, of the events nar- rated. The interpretation may be made by a character in the narrative, as by George in this case, or it may be made by the reader on the basis of the presentation of the material, or it may be stated by the writer. But in all cases of fully developed narrative, an inter-
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pretation is involved. And this means that our understanding is appealed to. And a narrative may use exposition to make this appeal to our understanding, as the last paragraph of our narrative about George does.
HOW OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE USE NARRATION
Strictly speaking, description can scarcely be said to use narration as an aid. It is, of course, possible to find cases in which description involves movement— a man's habitual acts, for instance, in a description of a character. But we must keep in mind the distinction between an act and an action in the sense in which we have been using the word action. A character description might even involve an action, but our interest in action is so much more vital than our interest in mere appearance that we should probably feel that the description was incidental to the narration rather than the narration incidental to the description. An object in motion catches the eye.
The situation, however, is different in regard to exposition and argument. Frequently in extended discourses which are primarily intended to explain something to us or to convince us of something we find bits of narrative used to dramatize an attitude, to illustrate a point, to bring an idea home to us. Sermons and speeches are often full of anecdotes. The preacher tells his congregation the story of a deathbed confession. The politician tells his audience how such and such a law, which he is pledged to help repeal if elected, has ruined the life of John Doe over in Murray County. The after-dinner speaker tells the club members a joke. But the story of the deathbed confession or of the ruin of John Doe over in Murray County or the story about the two Irishmen must have a point related to the main business in hand. If it does not have such a relation, the listeners feel that the speaker has dragged it in by the tail, merely to catch their attention, that somehow he has not played fair.
What is true of the sermon or political address or after-dinner speech is true of informal essays, informational articles, character sketches, travel books, philosophical essays, essays of opinion, memoirs, historical studies, and many other types of writing. And here, too, the narrative may be used to bring directly home to the reader what argument or exposition can only give in general terms.
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For instance, observe how the general statement with which the following paragraph begins takes on significance in narrative:
Undergraduate life at Cambridge [Massachusetts] has not lacked for bitter passages, which compel notice from any anatomist of society. On the one hand there has long been a snobbery moulded of New England
pride and juvenile cruelty which is probably more savage than any known to Fifth Avenue and Newport. Its favorite illustration is the time-
worn tale of the lonely lad who to feign that he had one friend used to go out as dusk fell over the yard and call beneath his own windows,
"Oh, Reinhardt!" And on the other it has moments of mad, terrible loyalty — exampled by the episode which is still recalled, awesomely without names, over the coffee and liqueurs when Harvard men meet in Beacon Street or the South Seas. It is the true story of a Harvard senior at a party in Brookline, who suddenly enraged by a jocular remark made concerning the girl whom he later married, publicly slapped the face of his best friend— and then in an access of remorse walked to an open fire
and held his offending hand in the flame until it shrivelled away to the wrist.— DIXON WECTER: The Saga of American Society, Chap. 7.1
Or let us take the following passage, which has the same basic pattern, the movement from a general proposition to an illustration in narrative:
There are men of all nations who feel the fascination of a life unequally divided between months of hardship and short days of riot and spending; but in the end it is the hardship that holds them. The Chinese, taking them as they come, are not like this. They frankly detest hard
work. A large belly among them is an honorable thing, because it means that the owner of it does not swink for his living. I never met a Chinese outside of the caravans who was what we should call sentimental about his work. Camel pullers alone have a different spirit, a queer spirit. Time and again when the men were talking around the fire and cursing the weather, the bad taste of the water, or the dust blown into their food, I have heard one ask, rhetorically, "What is a camel puller?" . . .
Then another would say, "Yes, but this is the good life— do we not all come back to it?" and be approved in a chorus of grunts and oaths.
Once a veteran said the last word: "I put all my money into land in the newly opened country Behind the Hills, and my nephew farms it for
me. My old woman is there, so two years ago when they had the troubles on the Great Road and my legs hurt I thought I would finish with it
1 From The Saga of American Society by Dixon Wecter, copyright, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
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all— defile its mother! I thought I would sleep on a warm k'ang and gossip with the neighbors and maybe smoke a little opium, and not work hard any more. But I am not far from the road, in my place, and after a while in the day and the night when I hear the bells of the lientze go by, ting-lang, ting-lang, there was a pain in my heart— hsin-li nan-kuo. So I said, "Dogs defile it! I will go back on the Gobi one more time and pull camels/'— OWEN LATTIMORE: The Desert Road to Turkestan, Chap. 8.2
EXPOSITORY NARRATION
In the examples just given we have seen how a narrative may be used to illustrate an idea. But in addition to this ordinary use of narration in exposition or argument, there is a special type called EXPOSITORY NARRATION. This is the type found, for instance, in the account of a laboratory experiment or in the directions for making or doing something. The method of narration is used here— stage by stage a process is outlined— but the intention is not the intention of true narration. The intention here is not to present an action so that it can be grasped imaginatively but merely to explain a process. The appeal is strictly to the understanding, and therefore this type is best considered as a form of exposition. A discussion of it has already appeared in the chapter on exposition (pp. 57-58).
PATTERN IN NARRATION
In the course of time one hears and reads many different narratives—jokes, novels, short stories, anecdotes, newspaper reports— and they seem to have many different kinds of organization. But is there some fundamental principle of pattern which underlies all the particular kinds of pattern we find in narratives? If we can find
such a principle, then we have taken an important step toward being able to write good narrative.
We must return at this point to a distinction we have already made in discussing time as an aspect of an action (p. 238), the distinction between events existing in time in their natural order, and the events as a narrator may re-order them by means of cutbacks and shifts when he composes his narrative. That is, the natural reader Desert Road to Turkestan by Owen Lattimore. Reprinted by Title, Brown and Company and the Atlantic Monthly Press.
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order A-Z may be shifted, to heighten interest or for other reasons, into an artificial order such as G, H , I— A, B, C— /, K, L, and so forth.
We should remember in making this distinction that it applies as well to narratives using imaginary events as to narratives using actual material. Imaginary events, as well as real events, have a natural order, their order in time. In discussing here the pattern of an action we shall be referring to the natural order and not to
an artificial order which a narrator might adopt for special purposes.
We have defined an action as a meaningful sequence of events. Such a sequence may be real, that is, observed, but observed events
constitute an action only in so far as we detect their meaning. Or such a sequence of events may be imaginary, made up to embody a meaning. The principle of pattern'will apply equally well to either kind of action, and in seeking examples to illustrate our principle
we shall sometimes draw on factual material and sometimes on imaginary material. In both kinds of examples we shall be asking what is the shape events must take in order to constitute an action.
We can begin to answer our question by saying that an action has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Let us try to analyze what is really at stake in this answer.
BEGINNING
(An action does not spring from nothing. It arises from a situation. The situation, however, must be an unstable one, ready to lead to
change, and containing in it the seeds of the future developments.
[A situation may be very simple or very complicated.) the joke we begin, "Two Irishmen met on a bridge at midnight in a strange city. The first Irishman said . . ." We have a minimum of information here, but all we may need for the joke. The situation could not be simpler. But the principle is the same as in an enormously com-
plicated situation, for instance, the situation from which German Nazism developed. That situation contains more elements than we can hope to enumerate. There is the conflict between capital and labor, the insecurity of the lower middle class, the fear of Bolshevism, the economic collapse and the inflation of currency, the tradition of German militarism, the demand for revenge after the defeat in World War I, the example of Italian Fascism, the personality
of Hitler, his bitterness and frustration. An interaction of all these
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factors and many more gives us the unstable situation in which are latent the subsequent developments.}
Given this material, the writer of an account of Nazism must first present the situation clearly enough for the reader to see how the rest will followj In dealing with matters of fact, as such a writer of history woulcl be doing, his first task would be to analyze the body of material to be sure he knew what was really significant for future developments, and his second task would be to present the material so that the reader would see the relation among the various elements. It is true that the reader may not understand the significance of the situation when it is first presented to him, but he must be given enough to go on, to rouse and sustain his interest, to show that there is a line of possible development. And he must be given enough for him to feel, when he looks back over the whole
narrative, that the action is really a logical development from the situation)
The problem is essentially the same for a writer who is dealing with imaginary events. The only difference is that he does not have to analyze factual materials already given him but has to create or adapt his materials.^If we glance at Act I of Shakespeare's Romeo and ftiliet, we find a good example of a beginning. We learn that there is a feud between the houses of Capulet and Montague, that bloodshed and violence are imminent, that Romeo is an idealistic young man anxious to fall in love. Very early we have enough to account for the future events^ Or if we go back to our own improvised narrative of George and the dog, the situation presenting the misery and lovelessness of the boy's life gives us enough to account for the later importance of the dog to the boy.
(The beginning, the presentation of the situation, enables us to understand the narrative. Therefore, that part of the narrative is often given the name of EXPOSITION. But we must keep the word in this special sense distinct from the more general sense in which it signifies one of the kinds of discourse.)
It is not to be understood, however, that the exposition of a narrative is merely a kind of necessary evil, a body of dull information which the reader must absorb before he can settle down to the real story. It need not beexplanatory or descriptive material in isolation, or a colorless summary of the situation from which the action stems. Instead, the exposition may appear as an episode, a
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fragment of action, interesting in itself. If we think back on the opening scene of Romeo and Juliet, we remember that we see a street fight. We are not told about the feud between the rival
houses of Capulet and Montague, but actually see it in operation. Not all kinds of exposition can take a direct form, but in general it can be said that all exposition which can be directly presented should have the direct form.
MIDDLE
'The middle is the main body of the action. It is a series of stages in the process. It involves the points of mounting tension, or increasing complication, developing from the original situation. This mounting tension, this suspense, leads us to the point of greatest intensity or greatest suspense, called technically the CLIMAX. The climax is the focal point, the turning point of the narrative)
To return to our historical example of the rise of Nazism, we would find such points of mounting tension as the beer hall putsch in Munich, Hitler's imprisonment and the writing of Mein Kampf, the street fights against the German communists, the election of Hitler as chancellor, the Reichstag fire, the purge of the party, the
claims on Sudetenland. Looking back on the events of the past twenty-five years, we can see the points of crisis, the stages at which new tensions emerged. If a historian were writing an account of those years, he might center his attention on those stages. They might provide him with natural chapter divisions.
The same principle applies in any narrative, the simple joke or the elaborate novel/ If one is telling or writing about real events, one tries to focus attention on those which mark real stages of development. And if one is making up a narrative, he arranges his imaginary material in the same way. He wants to create suspense,
to hold the interest of his audience. If his narrative seems to be a mere drift of events, he cannot hold their interest. He can do so only in so far as the narrative emerges in well-defined stages of increasing complication.
(We can see this very clearly in the main body of Romeo and Juliet: Romeo meets Juliet; the marriage takes place; Romeo kills Juliet's kinsman Tybalt while trying to stop a duel; Romeo is banished, and so on) Or we can see it in the little account of the boy and the dog: George gets a job to feed the dog; the dog becomes
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the center of his life; he loses the job; the dog frightens the child; George sells the dog, and so on.
(jlist as we have a technical name for the beginning of a narrative (exposition), so we have one for the middle: COMPLICATION
END
(As for the end of an action, it is not simply the point where the action stops. It is, rather, the point at which the forces implicit in the situation have worked themselves out) Whether it is the gag line of the joke or Berlin shattered under British and American bombs and Russian shells, the principle is the same. The end of an action, however, is not necessarily the physical victory of one set of forces over another. It may be in the reconciliation of forces, or it may be in the fusion of previously opposing forces to create a
new force.) Take, for instance, the conclusion of the Constitutional Convention that defined the United States: we may regard this end as a fusion of conflicting forces. (As a matter of fact, the end of an action may simply be a new awareness on the part of a person involved, directly or indirectly, in the action. We know how we can look back on an experience of our own and recognize the point at which some attitude of our own had been changed by it)
Then we come to writing a narrative, we regard the end as the point where the action achieves its full meaning. It is the point where the reader is willing to say, "Oh, yes, I see what it is all about. If we look back on our narrative of the boy and the dog we see that if we had stopped with the sale of the dog, the meaning would have been very blurred. (A reader would not have been quite sure what was at stakes) He might have felt sorry for the boy in a vague sort of way. But the meeting with John Simpson and
the dog gives us in direct terms, as a contrast, a much more sharply defined meaning. This could be an end. We, as readers, see that there is an issue, a question, raised by the narrative— the question of legal ownership of the dog opposed to the demands of affection. The narrative now has a point. If we go on to write the last paragraph we simply indicate the fact of George's awareness and the effect on him. By means of George's awareness we have made the point more explicit, but it was implicit at the moment when the two boys had their little encounterrThe technical term for the end of a narrative is DENOUEMENT.
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 255
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN
Let us look at a few examples of narrative with the idea of indicating the structure, or pattern, of each. The first is the account of how Robinson Crusoe, who fancied himself absolutely alone on his desert island, found a footprint:
It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand. I stood like one thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an apparition: I listened, I looked round me, but I could hear nothing, nor see anything. I went up to a rising ground, to look farther; I went up the shore and down the shore, but it was all one; I could see no other impression but that one. I went to it again to see if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy;
but there was no room for that, for there was exactly the print of a foot, toes, heel, and every part of a foot: how it came thither I knew not,
nor could I in the least imagine; but, after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused and out of myself, I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but terrified to the last degree; looking behind me at every two or three
steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancying every stump at a distance to be a man. Nor is it possible to describe how many various
shapes my affrighted imagination represented things to me in, how many wild ideas were found every moment in my fancy, and what strange unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts by the way.— DANIEL DEFOE: Robinson Crusoe.
A piece of narrative could scarcely be simpler than this, but we see that it follows the basic pattern. The situation is given, the time and place. The complication follows on the discovery of the print— the first reaction, the looking about and listening, the going to higher
ground for a wider view, the return to verify the existence of the print. Then follows the flight and the terror consequent upon the discovery. And it is this terror, changing the whole aspect of the familiar landscape, which constitutes the denouement. Crusoe's life cannot be the same again. This fact is not specified, but it is strongly implied.
Our next example makes its point more explicitly:
And also Mohammet loved well a good Hermit that dwelled in the Deserts a Mile from Mount Sinai, in the Way that Men go from Arabia
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toward Chaldea and toward Ind, one Day's journey from the Sea, where the Merchants of Venice come often for Merchandise. And so often went Mohammet to this Hermit, that all his Men were wroth; for he would gladly hear this Hermit preach and make his Men wake all Night. And therefore his Men thought to put the Hermit to Death. And so it befell upon a Night, that Mohammet was drunken of good Wine, and he fell asleep. And his Men took Mohammet's Sword out of his Sheath, whiles he slept, and therewith they slew this Hermit, and put his Sword all bloody in his Sheath again. And at the Morrow, when he found the Hermit dead, he was fully sorry and wroth, and would have done his
Men to Death. But they all, with one accord, said that he himself had slain him, when he was drunk, and showed him his Sword all bloody. And he trowed that they had said Truth. And then he cursed the Wine and them that drink it. And therefore Saracens that be devout drink never any Wine.— SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE: Travels, Chap. 16.
This, too, falls into the pattern. The exposition is a little less simple here than in our earlier example, for now we are concerned not only with the physical facts but with human motives leading up to the action— Mohammet's love of the hermit, his custom of listening to the sermons, the irritation of the men. The complication falls into three divisions— the killing of the hermit, the discovery of the deed and Mohammet's anger, the lie and the bloody sword in his own scabbard. The denouement has two divisions— Mohammet's curse on wine and the result among devout followers in later
times.
Our next example is an anecdote told about an argument between the Duke of Windsor and Winston Churchill. We have here merely
a clash of opinion:
The Windsors' dinner was very grand, and the guests consisted of assorted notables from up and down the coast, mostly English people of
high rank who were holidaying in the South. My Lords Rothermere and Beaverbrook had been prevented from attending by colds. (Lord Beaver- brook's cold did not prevent his attendance at the Casino, where we saw
Mm afterward.) When some of the more overpowering guests had departed, after the long and stately meal in the white-and-gold dining room, the Duke of Windsor and Mr. Churchill settled down to a prolonged argument with the rest of the party listening in silence. The Duke had read with amazement Mr. Churchill's recent articles on Spain and his newest one (out that day, I believe) in which he appealed for an
alliance with Soviet Russia. "You of all people, Winston," was the gist of
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 257
his argument, "y°u cannot wish to make friends of these murderers and thieves." At one point Mr. Churchill, who was defending his point of
view stubbornly and with undiplomatic vigor, said: "Sir, I would make a friend of the devil himself, if it would save England." It resulted plainly from the statements on the two sides that the self-willed, pleasure-loving little Prince, filled to the fingertips with royal prejudice, had no conception of the deadly danger to England involved in his dalliance with Hitler, while Mr. Churchill, disliking the Bolshevik theory and practice as much as ever, was so thoroughly aware of England's peril that he would seek the alliance of Stalin at once. We sat by the fireplace, Mr. Churchill frowning with intentness at the floor in front of him, mincing no words, reminding H.R.H. of the British constitution, on occasion— "when our Icings are in conflict with our constitution we change our kings," he said— and declaring flatly that the nation stood in the gravest danger of its long history. The kilted Duke in his Stuart tartan sat on the edge of the sofa, eagerly interrupting whenever he could, contesting every point, but receiving— in terms of the utmost politeness so far as the words went— an object lesson in political wisdom and public spirit. The rest of us sat fixed in silence; there was something dramatically final, irrevocable about this dispute.— VINCENT SHEEAN: Between the Thunder and the Sun, Chap. I.3
This is scarcely a narrative at all, simply a little incident almost buried in the comment with which the author has surrounded the event. But the author has hinted at the action, and has given enough for us to grasp its natural structure and order (as contrasted with the way the author has told it, for the author has not stuck to the chronological order of event).
Situation:
Dinner with Windsors. Nature of gathering. World of pleasure and privilege. Churchill and his articles on Spain.
Complication:
Prolonged argument. The Duke's amazement at Churchill's articles, especially his demand for an alliance with Russia. The Duke's stubbornness. He eagerly leans forward from sofa, contesting every point. Churchill's remarks on relation of kingship to English constitution, the danger to England, and so forth. The Duke's statement: "You of all 8 From Between the Thunder and the Sun by Vincent Sheean. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.
258 NARRATION
people, Winston, cannot wish to make friends of these murderers and thieves."
Denouement:
Churchill's reply: "Sir, I would make a friend of the devil himself, if it would save England."
We do not know all that occurred at that conversation. We do not need to know it to have a notion of the action, in our sense of the word. For, in this connection, action is the word we apply to a meaningful event, and the things which merely happened and have no bearing on the meaning of the event are not, properly speaking, a part of the action. The writer has omitted them from his account.
Here is a more fully developed narrative, the story of Andrew Jackson's most famous duel, the duel with Charles Dickinson, who had made some remarks reflecting on the character of Rachel Jackson, Andrew Jackson's wife.
[Exposition]
On Thursday, May 29, 1806, Andrew Jackson rose at five o'clock, and after breakfast told Rachel that he would be gone for a couple of days and meanwhile he might have some trouble with Mr. Dickinson. Rachel probably knew what the trouble would be and she did not ask. Rachel had had her private channels of information concerning the Sevier affray. At six-thirty Jackson joined Overton at Nashville. Overton had the pistols. With three others they departed for the Kentucky line.
Mr. Dickinson and eight companions were already on the road. "Goodby, darling," he told his young wife. "I shall be sure to be home tomorrow evening." This confidence was not altogether assumed. He was a snap shot. At the word of command and firing apparently without aim, he could put four balls in a mark twenty-four feet away, each ball touching another. The persistent tradition on the countryside, that to worry Jackson he left several such examples of his marksmanship along the road, is unconfirmed by any member of the Dickinson or Jackson parties. But the story that he had offered on the streets of Nashville to wager
he could kill Jackson at the first fire was vouchsafed by John Overton, the brother of Jackson's second, a few days after the duel.
Jackson said he was glad that "the other side" had started so early. It was a guarantee against further delay. Jackson had chafed over the
seven days that had elapsed since the acceptance of the challenge. At
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 259
their first interview, Overton and Dr. Hanson Catlett, Mr. Dickinson's second, had agreed that the meeting should be on Friday, May thirtieth,
near Harrison's Mills on Red River just beyond the Kentucky boundary. Jackson protested at once. He did not wish to ride forty miles to preserve the fiction of a delicate regard for Tennessee's unenforceable statute against dueling. He did not wish to wait a week for something that could be done in a few hours. Dickinson's excuse was that he desired to borrow a pair of pistols. Overton offered the choice of Jackson's pistols, pledging Jackson to the use of the other. These were the weapons that had been employed by Coffee and McNairy.
As they rode Jackson talked a great deal, scrupulously avoiding the subject that burdened every mind. Really, however, there was nothing
more to be profitably said on that head. General Overton was a Revolutionary soldier of long acquaintance with the Code. With his principal
he had canvassed every possible aspect of the issue forthcoming. "Distance . . . twenty-four feet; the parties to stand facing each other, with
their pistols down perpendicularly. When they are READY, the single word FIRE! to be given; at which they are to fire as soon as they please.
Should either fire before the word is given we [the seconds] pledge ourselves to shoot him down instantly." Jackson was neither a quick shot, nor an especially good one for the western country. He had decided not to compete with Dickinson for the first fire. He expected to be hit, perhaps badly. But he counted on the resources of his will to sustain him until he could aim deliberately and shoot to kill, if it were the last act of his life.
[Complication]
On the first leg of the ride they traversed the old Kentucky road, the route by which, fifteen years before, Andrew Jackson had carried Rachel
Robards from her husband's home, the present journey being a part of the long sequel to the other. Jackson rambled on in a shrill voice. Thomas Jefferson was "the best Republican in theory and the worst in practice" he had ever seen. And he lacked courage. How long were we to support the affronts of England—impressment of seamen, cuffing about of our
ocean commerce? Perhaps as long as Mr. Jefferson stayed in office. Well, that would be two years, and certainly his successor should be a stouter man. "We must fight England again. In the last war I was not old enough to be any account." He prayed that the next might come "before I get too old to fight."
General Overton asked how old Jackson reckoned he would have to be for that. In England's case about a hundred, Jackson said.
He spoke of Burr. A year ago, this day, Jackson had borne him from
260 NARRATION
the banquet in Nashville to the Hermitage. He recalled their first meeting in 1797 when both were in Congress. Jackson also met General Hamilton that winter. "Personally, no gentleman could help liking Hamilton. But his political views were all English." At heart a monarchist. "Why, did he not urge Washington to take a crown!"
Burr also had his failings. He had made a mistake, observed Jackson, with admirable detachment, a political mistake, when he fought Hamilton. And about his Western projects the General was none too sanguine. Burr relied overmuch on what others told him. Besides, there was Jefferson to be reckoned with. "Burr is as far from a fool as I ever saw, and yet he is as easily fooled as any man I ever knew."
The day was warm, and a little after ten o'clock the party stopped for refreshment. Jackson took a mint julep, ate lightly and rested until mid-afternoon. The party reached Miller's Tavern in Kentucky about eight o'clock. After a supper of fried chicken, waffles, sweet potatoes and
coffee, Jackson repaired to the porch to chat with the inn's company. No one guessed his errand. At ten o'clock he knocked the ashes from his pipe and went to bed. Asleep in ten minutes, he had to be roused at five in the morning.
The parties met on the bank of the Red River at a break in a poplar woods. Doctor Catlett won the toss for choice of position, but as the
sun had not come through the trees this signified nothing. The giving of the word fell to Overton. Jackson's pistols were to be used after all, Dickinson taking his pick. The nine-inch barrels were charged with ounce balls of seventy caliber. The ground was paced off, the principals took their places. Jackson wore a dark-blue frock coat and trousers of the same material; Mr. Dickinson a shorter coat of blue, and gray trousers.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" called General Overton.
"Ready," said Dickinson quickly.
"Yes, sir," said Jackson.
"Fere!" cried Overton in the Old-Country accent.
[Denouement]
Dickinson fired almost instantly. A fleck of dust rose from Jackson's coat and his left hand clutched his chest. For an instant he thought him- self dying, but, fighting for self-command, slowly he raised his pistol.
Dickinson recoiled a step horror-stricken. "My God! Have I missed him?"
Overton presented his pistol. "Back to the mark, sir!"
Dickinson folded his arms. Jackson's spare form straightened. He aimed. There was a hollow "clock" as the hammer stopped at half-cock.
He drew it back, sighted again and fired. Dickinson swayed to the ground.
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 261
As they reached the horses Overton noticed that his friend's left boot was filled with blood. "Oh, I believe that he pinked me," said Jackson quickly, "but I don't want those people to know," indicating the group that bent over Dickinson. Jackson's surgeon found that Dickinson's aim
had been perfectly true, but he had judged the position of Jackson's heart by the set of his coat, and Jackson wore his coats loosely on
account of the excessive slenderness of his figure. "But I should have hit him/' he exclaimed, "if he had shot me through the brain."—MARQUIS
JAMES: The Life of Andrew Jackson, Chap. 8.4
The event narrated above is historically true. It had causes running back before the episode of the duel (Dickinson had insulted Jackson's wife), and was to have consequences long after the duel. But the writer is not immediately concerned with causes or effects. He is concerned with rendering the episode itself, the duel. We can see that in doing so he naturally gives his account in three sections, the exposition, the complication, and the denouement, as we have indicated.
The exposition describes the attitudes of the two duelists as they make ready and gives the terms of the duel. The complication seems
to have a good deal of material off the point— Jackson's long conversation about politics—but we shall see that even this apparent digression is related to the point the author wishes to make in his narrative. Then the complication gives the details as the opponents face each other and Dickinson fires. The denouement falls into two
related parts, Jackson's self-command when hit and his shooting of Dickinson, and his remark after the event.
Both Vincent Sheean and Marquis James are using narrative to make a point, a point more important than the event narrated. Sheean is interested in illustrating one aspect of the political background of World War II; and James, in exhibiting an aspect of Jackson's character, his iron will. But the essential narrative struc-
ture underlies both accounts. It underlies them because the action to be narrated had that natural structure, and not because the writer
imposed it. The thing to remember is that events, real or imaginary, in so far as they constitute an action in our sense of the word, fall into that pattern. The writer may make shifts of order in his presen-
* From The Life of Andrew Jackson. By Marquis James, copyright 1938. Used by special permission of the Publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc
262 NARRATION
tation, may add digressions, and may make his own comments, but the essential structure of the action remains.
PROPORTION
The relation of the parts of a narrative to each other raises the question of PROPORTION. In one way this term is misleading, for it implies a mere mechanical ratio in the size of the parts. Actually we cannot look at the question in that way. We cannot say, for instance, that the complication should be three times longer than the exposition—or five times longer than the denouement.
We must, rather, regard the question of proportion in this way:
Are the parts adequate to the needs of the special narrative? What would be a satisfactory proportion for one narrative might be quite
unsatisfactory for another. In other words, we have to think along these lines: Does the exposition give all the information necessary
to establish the situation for the reader? Is it burdened with information which is really unnecessary and distracting? Does the com-
plication give the reader the essential stages of the development of the action? Does it confuse the reader by presenting material which does not bear on the development of the action? Does the denouement give the reader enough to make the point of the narrative clear? Does it blur the point by putting in irrelevant material
or by so extending relevant material that a clear focus is lost? But these questions cannot be answered unless we are sure of the intention of the particular narrative.
Let us, with these questions in mind, look back at the story of Jackson's duel. To answer these questions we must remember the author's basic intention. He is not writing a tract against dueling. He is not concerned with the sad death of a promising young man. He is not trying to evoke our sympathy for the young Mrs. Dickin-
son. All of these considerations may be present in his mind (and a little after the point at which our excerpt concludes he tells how Mrs. Jackson exclaimed, "Oh, God have pity on the poor wife— pity on the babe in her womb"), but none of them is the main intention of the narrative. That is to show an aspect of Jackson's character— his iron will.
The exposition, therefore, tells merely what we need to know to establish this point, how Jackson took a natural, casual farewell
PROPORTION 263
from his wife; how Dickinson was confident in his mere skill, in contrast to Jackson's deadly inner certainty. The exposition also tells
us, of course, something about the procedure agreed on for the duel, but this is primarily a mechanical matter. The complication builds
the suspense by details of Jackson's journey to the Kentucky line, how he discussed political questions, enjoyed his meals and his julep, talked with the guests at the inn, and slept well. These things do not bear directly on the business of the duel, and might be considered by some critics not properly part of the complication but an aside, a digression from the main line of action. But they do help to build the suspense and do indicate the quality of self-
control and certainty in Jackson.
Then the details of the actual duel lead us to the climax, the moment when Dickinson's bullet strikes and Jackson reels but recovers and, with deadly deliberation, lifts his weapon.
The denouement falls into two parts, the first presenting the actual shooting of Dickinson, the second presenting Jackson's behavior after the act, his indifference to his own wound, and his
final remark when it is discovered why Dickinson had missed the heart. All the way through, of course, we notice that there is a building up of suspense about the outcome of the physical event, but along with this goes the unfolding of Jackson's character, which is summarized by the grim, last remark.
The narrative of Jackson's duel is part of a full-length biography, and it might be said that we have arbitrarily chosen to limit the exposition, for instance, to the part quoted here. It is true, of course, that in the full biography there is a great deal of explanation of the quarrel leading up to the duel. But is that really a part of the exposition of the narrative when the episode is considered solely as an episode? No, for what we are concerned with here is not the causes of the duel, the character of Rachel Jackson, or her husband's attitude toward her. In the episode itself we are concerned with the single, significant flash which exhibits Jackson's will. What preceded or followed the duel is not relevant to that consideration, taken in itself. Even though this little narrative is part of a much larger narrative, the account of Jackson's entire life, we are justified in interpreting it as a unit in so far as it is dominated by one basic
intention.
One word of caution should be given before we leave the topic
264 NARRATION
of proportion. In many cases of narrative, one cannot draw a single hard and fast line between, say, the exposition and the complication. Instead, there may be some overlapping or an intermingling of the two elements. A certain amount of exposition is always necessary early in a narrative, but we can recall instances, especially of extended narratives, in which the complication is interrupted by the insertion of bits of exposition. A biographer, for instance, may interrupt his narrative to explain a political situation, or a novelist may give what is called a CUTBACK to an earlier scene or situation
needed to explain a present action (p. 238).
TEXTURE AND SELECTION
When we turn from questions of organization to questions of detail we turn from pattern to texture. SELECTION is as important for narration as it is for description. Skillful selection permits a large action to be narrated in a relatively brief space without seeming to be stinted, as in the following account of the voyage of St. Paul to Rome:
Now when much time was spent, and when sailing was now dangerous, because the fast was now already past, Paul admonished them,
And said unto them, Sirs, I perceive that this voyage will be with hurt and much damage, not only of the lading and ship, but also of
our lives.
Nevertheless the centurion believed the master and the owner of the ship, more than those things which were spoken by Paul.
And because the haven was not commodious to winter in, the more part advised to depart thence also, if by any means they might attain
to Phenice, and there to winter; which is an haven of Crete, and lieth toward the southwest and northwest.
And when the south wind blew softly, supposing that they had obtained their purpose, loosing thence, they sailed close by Crete.
But not long after there arose against it a tempestuous wind called Euroclydon.
And when the ship was caught, and could not bear up into the wind, we let her drive.
And running under a certain island which is called Clauda, we had much work to come by the boat:
Which when they had taken up, they used helps, undergirding the
TEXTURE AND SELECTION 265
ship; and, fearing lest they should fall into the quicksands, struck sail, and so were driven.
And we being exceedingly tossed with a tempest, the next day they lightened the ship;
And the third day we cast out with our own hands the tackling of the ship.
And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared, and no small tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved was then taken away.
But after long abstinence Paul stood forth in the midst of them, and said, Sirs, ye should have hearkened unto me, and not have loosed
from Crete, and to have gained this harm and loss.
And now I exhort you to be of good cheer: for there shall be no loss of any man's life among you, but of the ship.
For there stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and whom I serve,
Saying, Fear not, Paul; thou must be brought before Caesar: and, lo, God hath given thee all them that sail with thee.
Wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer: for I believe God, that it shall be even as it was told me.
Howbeit we must be cast upon a certain island.
But when the fourteenth night was come, as we were driven up and down in Adria, about midnight the shipmen deemed that they drew
near to some country;
And sounded, and found it twenty fathoms; and when they had gone a little further, they sounded again, and found it fifteen fathoms.
Then fearing lest we should have fallen upon rocks, they cast four anchors out of the stern, and wished for the day.
And as the shipmen were about to flee out of the ship, when they had let down the boat into the sea, under color as though they would have
cast anchors out of the foreship,
Paul said to the centurion and to the soldiers, Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved.
Then the soldiers cut off the ropes of the boat, and let her fall off.
And while the day was coming on, Paul besought them all to take meat, saying, This day is the fourteenth day that ye have tarried and continued fasting, having taken nothing.
Wherefore I pray you to take some meat: for this is for your health: for there shall not be an hair fallen from the head of any of you.
And when he had thus spoken, he took bread, and gave thanks to God in the presence of them all: and when he had broken it, he began to eat.
Then were they all of good cheer, and they also took some meat.
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And we were in all in the ship two hundred threescore and sixteen souls.
And when they had eaten enough, they lightened the ship, and cast out the wheat into the sea.
And when it was day, they knew not the land: but they discovered a certain creek with a shore, into the which they were minded, if it were
possible, to thrust in the ship.
And when they had taken up the anchors, they committed themselves unto the sea, and loosed the rudder bands, and hoisted up the mainsail
to the wind, and made toward shore.
And falling into a place where two seas met, they ran the ship aground; and the forepart stuck fast, and remained unmoveable, but the hinder part was broken with the violence of the waves.
And the • soldiers' counsel was to kill the prisoners, lest any of them should swim out, and escape.
But the centurion, willing to save Paul, kept them from their purpose; and commanded that they which could swim should cast themselves first
into the sea, and get to land:
And the rest, some on boards, and some on broken pieces of the ship. And so it came to pass, that they escaped all safely to land.— Acts 27:9-44.
A writer does not want to present all the details of an event, either real or imaginary. He wants to present those which clarify the line of action and contribute to his point. No stage of the action
should be omitted, yet no details should be included which distract from the real concern of the narrative. There is no arbitrary rule in such a matter. A writer must keep firmly in mind what his real concern is and judge for himself. For example, in the episode of Jackson's duel, it might seem at first glance that the section about Jackson's conversation on the road is unnecessary and distracts from the real concern of the narrative. But this would be so only if the
duel itself were taken to be the real concern. Actually, the real intent of the author is the revelation of Jackson's character, and, therefore, the conversation on the way, illustrating his calmness and confidence, is relevant to the effect intended.
Even in a narrative dealing with fact the author may heighten the interest by leaving out merely casual material. In treating the episode of Jackson's duel Marquis James may know that, after his opponent was hit, Jackson actually said more than is given here. The author, however, presents just those remarks which contribute to our awareness of Jackson's character. In dealing with matters
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of fact, a writer does not want to distort the truth by omissions, but the mere fact can scarcely justify itself. The narrator should be
concerned with the significant fact. When he is dealing with imaginary events, the writer has a freer hand and a greater responsibility; for now he cannot rely on the interest which mere fact as fact can sometimes evoke in the reader. With the imaginary narrative a detail can never pay its way because it is interesting in itself. It must contribute to the main business or to the vividness of the impression.
A narrative is a more or less immediate presentation of events. Therefore vividness is important, the detail which can stir the imag-
ination. The small gesture, the trivial word, may be important here. And here the details which, strictly speaking, are descriptive may be absorbed into the narrative effect. For instance, the cut and color of Jackson's and Dickinson's clothes, the kind of woods by which the meeting took place, and the Irish accent of General
Overton when he gave the command to fire contribute to the impression of reality. Marquis James is much concerned to give an immediate presentation, but if we turn back to Vincent Sheean's anecdote of the Duke of Windsor and Churchill, we find that immediacy is not very important to the author. He is chiefly concerned to present a clash of opinions. Even here, however, we get the details of the Stuart tartan which the kilted Duke wears, his posture on the sofa, and Churchill's position staring at the floor.
Except from Fundamentals of Good Writing.
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