The one excuse and breath of art—charm."—Stevenson.
The Technique of
Fiction Writing
By
ROBERT SAUNDERS DOWST
(PDF)
JAMES KNAPP REEVE
PUBLISHER
FRANKLIN, OHIO
Copyright, 1918
The Editor Company
Copyright, 1921
James Knapp Reeve
TO
C. K. R. D.
[7]
PREFACE
Many books have been written on fiction technique, and the chief excuse
for the present addition to the number is the complexity of the subject.
Its range is so wide, it calls for so many and so different capacities
in one attempting to discuss it, that a new work has more than a chance
to meet at least two or three deficiencies in all other treatments.
I believe that the chief deficiency in most works on fiction technique
is that the author unconsciously has slipped from the viewpoint of a
writer of a story to that of a reader. Now a reader without intention to
try his own hand at the game is not playing fair in studying technique,
and a book on technique has no business to entertain him. Accordingly, I
have striven to keep to the viewpoint of one who seeks to learn how to
write stories, and have made no attempt to analyze the work of masters
of fiction for the sake of the analysis alone. Such analysis is
interesting to make, and also interesting to read, but it is not
directly profitable to the writer. It is indirectly profitable, of
course, but it will give very little direct aid to one who has a
definite story idea and wishes to be told the things he must consider in
developing it and writing the story, or to one who wishes to be told
roughly how he should go about the business of finding real stories. In
fact, I believe that discussion and analysis of perfect work has a
tendency to chill the enthusiasm of the beginning[8] writer. What he
chiefly needs is to be told the considerations he must hold in mind in
conceiving, developing, and writing a story. The rest lies with his own
abilities and capacities to work intelligently and to take pains.
Therefore the first part of this book takes up the problems of technique
in the order in which they present themselves to the writer. Beginning
with matters of conception, the discussion passes to matters of
construction and development, and finally to matters of execution, or
rather the writing of a story considered as a bare chain of events. Then
the matters of description, dialogue, the portrayal of character, and
the precipitation of atmosphere are discussed, and lastly the short
story and novel, as distinct forms, are taken up.
Usually the propositions necessary to be laid down require no
demonstration; they are self-evident. That is why a book on technique
for the writer need not indulge in fine-spun analysis of perfect work.
Where analysis will lend point to the abstract statement, I have made
it, but my constant aim has been not to depart from the viewpoint that
the reader has in mind some idea of his own and wishes to be told how to
handle it. Unquestionably literary dissection is useful in that it gives
the beginning writer familiarity with the terminology and processes of
the art, but the main object of a book on technique is to place the
results of analysis, directly stated, in logical sequence.
I will note one other matter. A great part of the technique of fiction
writing concerns matters of conception and development which are
preliminary to actual writing. In fact they are essentially and
peculiarly the technique of fiction. The story that is not a justly
ordered whole, with each part in its due place and no part omitted,
cannot have full effect, however[9] great the strictly executive powers of
its writer. Verbally faultless telling will not save a story which is
not logically built up and developed, either before writing or in the
process of writing. The art of telling a story is largely the art of
justly manipulating its elements. The art of telling it with verbal
perfection is not so much a part of the strict technique of fiction
writing as it is of the general technique of writing. Therefore I have
made little attempt to discuss the general art of using words. For
assistance in studying the art of expression the reader should turn to a
work on rhetoric. The subject is too inclusive for adequate treatment
here. Moreover, it is debatable whether the art of verbal expression can
be studied objectively with any great profit. But the art of putting a
story together can be studied objectively with profit, and its
principles are subject to direct statement.
I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness to Mr. William R. Kane, of The
Editor Magazine, for much helpful criticism and many valuable
suggestions.[10]
[11]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
| |
Introduction |
13 |
| I. |
The Writer Himself |
22 |
| II. |
The Choice of Matter |
30 |
| III. |
Conceptive Technique: Story Types |
37 |
| IV. |
Conceptive Technique: Plot and Situation |
48 |
| V. |
Constructive Technique of Narration |
64 |
| VI. |
Executive Technique of Narration |
80 |
| VII. |
Executive Technique of Narration (Continued) |
95 |
| VIII. |
Description |
107 |
| IX. |
Speech |
121 |
| X. |
Portrayal of Character |
136 |
| XI. |
Atmosphere |
152 |
| XII. |
The Short Story |
165 |
| XIII. |
The Novel |
182 |
| XIV. |
Conclusion |
197 |
| |
Appendix |
209[12]
|
[13]
INTRODUCTION
"A work of art is first cloudily conceived in the mind; during the
period of gestation it stands more clearly forward from these swaddling
mists, puts on expressive lineaments, and becomes at length that most
faultless, but also, alas! that incommunicable product of the human
mind, a perfected design. On the approach to execution all is changed.
The artist must now step down, don his working clothes, and become the
artisan. He now resolutely commits his airy conception, his delicate
Ariel, to the touch of matter; he must decide, almost in a breath, the
scale, the style, the spirit, and the particularity of execution of his
whole design."
Thus Stevenson, in "A Note on Realism," takes it for granted that the
artist in pigments, stone, or words cannot reproduce until he first has
produced, cannot show a perfect work unless he paints, builds, or writes
along the lines of a perfected design.
One cannot dabble long at architecture or the graphic arts without
gaining keen realization of the fact that conception in its elaborative
aspects is as much a part and phase of technique as the executive
handling of materials. But the art of literature, and, more narrowly,
the art of fiction, deal with materials other than those employed in the
other arts; words, not colors or marble, nor yet sounds, are the
resource of the story teller to precipitate his conception in enduring[14]
form; and words are at once frank and mysterious things. Their primary
office is to forward the common business of life; each has some meaning
in itself, more or less definite. It results that the writer of a story
who sets out with only the merest glimmering of what he means to do in
mind can produce a superficially plausible work, a work not too
obviously misshapen, a work that means something, at any rate, although
his failure to trace a design to guide his hand almost inevitably will
prohibit his giving the basic conception most effective expression. And,
since almost any sequence of words has some significance, it also
results that the writer of fiction who works at haphazard may fail to
discover that failure in his work as a whole is due to lack of planning
rather than to defective execution. The mere grammatical coherence of a
fictionally slipshod piece of work is a shield between its writer's
inquiring eye and its essential defects.
The art of fiction is the art both of the tale and of the story,
fictions that differ radically. Their most striking difference is stated
in the following pages; here I can only remark broadly that the tale is
episodal, consisting of a fortuitous series of incidents without
essential connection or relation except that they all happened to happen
to the characters, while the story is a whole in that each incident
functions in the development of a plot or dramatic problem. If prevision
and full elaboration of his basic idea are essential to the writer of a
tale, they are doubly essential to the writer of a story, simply because
a story is a whole and the result of careful co-ordination of parts.
Even if the writer of some particular story has not worked along the
lines of a fully elaborated design, the story actually will manifest
co-ordination of parts or else be worthless. A story is more than a
series of incidents; it is a series of incidents significant in relation
to character.[15] Its writer cannot set to work with an eye solely to the
physical spectacle and follow after with his pen; he must prepare his
people as well as the events, a task of cunning calculation. He must
have an eye to many other matters, but this is not the place to state
them. The matter of character is the matter significant here, because
the whole difference between tale and story is made by the presence or
absence of relation between events and personality. And it is certain
that the writer of a story cannot hope to do the best work if he
postpones until the moment of actual writing the task of moulding and
elaborating his basic idea with a view to giving it maximum effect. The
task to express perfectly, in a verbal sense, is difficult enough to
claim the undivided attention of the ablest artist, but undivided
attention cannot be given the matter of verbal expression by a writer
who shapes his substance and picks his words at one and the same time.
Either word or substance must suffer.
Accordingly, to emphasize the necessity that the writer of fiction give
full shape and development to his design before writing, I have stated
the necessity and discussed technique itself under two heads, conceptive
or constructive technique and executive technique. To have carried this
division rigorously through the whole book would have been neither
possible nor profitable, for it would have involved much repetition and
confusion, but the various items of technique are either largely
conceptive and constructive or largely executive, and the best place to
discuss each has not been difficult to determine. It was only necessary
to contemplate the actual process of conceiving, developing, and writing
a story, and to take up in their order the problems that confront a
writer of fiction. The only matter which found no natural place, so
approached, was that of characterization, which is almost equally a
matter[16] of construction and of execution, so that discussion of it has
been broken up to some extent.
This approach to technique is the natural approach, and has been adopted
for that reason. The more naturally and easily any study can be
conducted, the greater the results that will be achieved. But there is a
more immediate reason for taking up the phases of technique in the order
in which they present themselves to a writer of fiction, thereby
emphasizing the existence and importance of the constructive phases of
technique. Briefly, it is that construction is at once easier and more
important to learn than execution. Perhaps a little argument in support
of the statement is called for.
It will not be questioned seriously that it is easier to learn the main
principles of construction than it is to learn or discover how to write
with finish and power. It is entirely possible to state abstractly the
principles of construction, to grasp their reasons and implications from
abstract statement, and to apply them by a mere act of the intelligence
in writing any story. But it is entirely impossible to state abstractly
the principles of writing with finish and power, or to learn to write so
from any mere discussion of the matter. The condition is illustrated by
almost any treatise on rhetoric, where half the text will be made up of
examples transcribed to lend some weight to the obviously—and
necessarily—inadequate discussion. How to write with finish and power
can be learned only by long continued and intelligent practice, if it
can be learned at all. Of course, this is not to say that constant
practice is not necessary to gain any real facility and adequacy in
applying the principles of construction.
The argument of the last paragraph is clinched by the fact that of a
thousand stories, all of which are well constructed and put together,
only a few or perhaps[17] none will be written with any approach to real
literary power, in the verbal sense. Of all the writers of to-day who
can put together a story in workmanlike fashion how many have the power
of the telling word? how many have even a style?
I have yet to substantiate the assertion that construction is more
important for the writer of fiction to learn than execution, but the
task is easy. In the last analysis, the power of a story, that is, its
power to interest, depends upon its matter, the spectacle it presents.
If the whole conception is justly elaborated and properly put together,
it will have very nearly full effect, even though its writer does not
give it perfect verbal expression, provided the verbal precipitation of
the thing is not too shamelessly inadequate. Perfect verbal expression
is necessary to give a properly constructed story maximum effect; it is
not necessary to give it approximate effect. But perfect verbal
expression will not save a story that is misshapen and distorted through
lack of proper construction.
These considerations strongly urge the writer of fiction to master the
principles of constructing a story before he frets about the nuances of
expression, and just as strongly they impose upon a book on technique
the obligation to discuss matters of construction at length and also to
discuss them as such. The book which does not explicitly insist that
certain matters are matters of construction, therefore to be performed
before writing, is very apt to mislead. It is a defect from which too
many books on fiction technique are not free, and one that I have tried
to avoid.
How comprehensive and inclusive are the principles of construction the
first half of this book attempts to show. Here it is enough to state
that they embrace matters so different as the manipulation of possible
incidents in the interest of climax, and the preparation[18] or building up
of the people of a story that its situations may have real dramatic
value for a reader. The writer of fiction who merely writes cannot hope
to provide by any instinct for these and the other matters of
construction, and no power in his words can fortify essential weakness
in his matter. Style, literary power, the right word in the right
place—all will resist the tooth of time, but no one will preserve a
story from the contagion of decay at the heart. Indeed, in the juster
sense, a shapely design is the necessary foundation or basis for perfect
writing, which is no mere varnish.
In this present era of magazine literature the chances are that nine out
of ten actual or prospective writers of fiction who take up a book on
technique for serious study will do so with an eye to the short story.
And since this book is for the practitioner of the art, not for the mere
reader of fiction, I have felt myself under obligation to discuss the
short story and its peculiar technique with some approach to adequacy.
Statement of the way the short story has been approached may serve to
align the reader's mind with the argument.
In the first place, the short story is yet a story, a fiction, so that
the general technique of fiction is applicable to it, with suitable
modifications here and there. In the second place, the short story is a
distinct type of fiction in that it embodies a plot or dramatic problem
and is brief enough to read at one not very prolonged sitting. It is at
once slighter and more pointed or direct than the long story of plot,
the novel or romance. The result is that all its processes, particularly
the process of characterization, must be conducted in a fashion more
swift and summary than in a long story, and the difference is the whole
of the difference in the technique of the two forms.
[19]Unfortunately, a discussion of the peculiar technique of the short story
cannot confine itself to this difference without failing to clear away
the many misconceptions that becloud the subject. A good deal has been
written on the short story, and, since there is really not very much to
say, a good many writers have been led into nonsense. With so much
misconception in the air, I have felt that it would be useful to state a
tenable theory of the short story, and have attempted to do so in the
chapter on the form. The matter will be found there and cannot be
reproduced here, but brief statement of the argument will complete the
foretaste of the book.
Since the short story is a story, at least, it may be divided and
classified, like all stories, into stories of character, stories of
complication of incident, and stories of atmosphere, that is, into
stories which emphasize or stress the element of personality, the
element of incident, or the element of setting. But the truly
significant division of the short story into types, the division which
it will be most directly profitable for the writer of fiction to
realize, is twofold, not triplicate, and is the division into the
dramatic short story and the short story of atmosphere or unity of
emotional effect on a reader.
These two types are as different as black and white, and the
misconception noted above consists in confusing them. The short story of
atmosphere is Poe's sort of story; he said something definite and true
about his peculiar art; but later writers, critics rather, have padded
and distorted his words to cover the whole field of the short story. The
general result is much printed folly, and the specific result for the
short story writer is that he is continually urged, commanded,
entreated, and advised to invest his work with some mysterious "unity."
The advice is sound if the[20] short story of atmosphere, the short story
of unity or totality of emotional effect, is meant; the short story of
atmosphere is a mysterious and subtle unity in that its people and
happenings are curiously of a piece with its setting, serving to deepen
or intensify the emotional effect of the setting on a reader. But,
applied to the dramatic short story, the advice is unsound, for the
dramatic short story may and usually does involve much diversity and
contrast in its three elements of people, events, and setting. The only
sense in which it can be said to be a unity is that it is verbally
coherent, a single story. The single story may involve radically
different people, happenings, and scenes.
The positive evil tendency in telling the short story writer to seek to
invest his work with "unity" is that if he follows the advice his
material will be restricted, and he will write stories too simple really
to interest, apart from the appeal of their characters. And this point
of interest brings up another aspect of this book which I would mention.
The last chapter states a general theory or philosophy of fiction which
it will prove most profitable for the writer of fiction to grasp,
however imperfectly I may have stated it. The theory is not profound, in
the sense that it is mysterious, being merely the theory which is
implied in the content and aim of the art of fiction itself. The content
of fiction is man and what he may possibly or even conceivably
experience; the aim of fiction is to interest, in Stevenson's words,
"the one excuse and breath of art—charm." How much is implied in the
content and aim of fiction I have tried to show in my closing pages, but
the theory there stated is the guiding principle of the whole book, and
any value it may have derives from such unforced handling of the
subject. Apart from the merit of my own work, one thing at least is
certain. If commentators on the[21] art of fiction generally would deal
less in "isms" and seek less to display their profundity and critical
acumen, the actual writer of fiction might read them with some profit.
As it is, the greatest single danger threatening the practitioner of the
art is that his eagerness for all that pertains even remotely to his
trade may lead him to take seriously the empty thunders of the schools
and to forget that his business is to interest and captivate Mr. and
Mrs. Smith, simply that.
To sum up, my desire has been to write a book that would be of some
practical use, at least practically suggestive to the writer of fiction;
therefore the only natural way to approach technique has been adopted,
and I have indulged in analysis only when the analysis would be useful
in itself or would serve to clear away misconception. In other words,
the book has been written strictly for the writer, not the reader of
fiction, and that implies much.[22]
CHAPTER I
THE WRITER HIMSELF
Critical Faculty—Cultivation of Genius—Observation and
Information—Open-mindedness—Attitude Toward Life—Prejudice
and Provincialism—The Social Question—Reading—Imagination.
Accessible as are the data of the fiction writer, the facts and
possibilities of life, their very accessibility places him under strict
necessity to sift the useful from the useless in search for the pregnant
theme. For if life presents a multiplicity of events to the writer, from
which he may select some sort of story with little labor to himself,
life also presents the same multiplicity of events to the reader, who
can see the obvious as well as the lazy writer, and who will not be
pleased with a narration of which he has the beginning, middle, and end
by heart. A tale which does not interest fails essentially, and novelty,
in the undebased sense of the word, is the root of interest. Therefore
the writer of fiction who takes himself and his art seriously must
develop the open and penetrating eye and the faculty of just selection.
All is not gold that glitters, a fact that too often becomes painfully
evident only when some tale discovered with joy and developed with
eagerness lies coldly spread upon paper. The beginner who will approach
his own conceptions in a spirit of unbiased criticism and estimation
before determining to set them down will save himself useless labor,
much[23] postage, and many secret tears. Half of the essentially feeble
work produced that has not a chance of getting published is the result
of the writer's falling in love with his own idea simply because it is
his own idea. The defect is in conception rather than in execution, and
a matter of first importance to the writer is to develop the faculty of
estimating his unelaborated ideas.
Unquestionably this faculty can be developed. The struggle for its
development is half over, in a practical sense, when the writer comes to
judge his concepts at all before writing, when he wins free of the habit
of writing just to be writing, and of choosing to work on a particular
tale because it is the best he can squeeze from his brains at the
particular moment, rather than because it is absolutely good and he
knows it to be absolutely good.
Unquestionably, too, the critical faculty is powerless to supply worthy
conceptions. But that is beside the point. If the conceptions are
worthy, the just critical faculty will recognize their merit, and give
the writer courage and confidence to send each tale across the almost
inevitable sea of rejections until it comes to port, as it surely will,
if well done. And if the conceptions are feeble, and the writer cannot
better them, it will be better for him and all concerned that he
discover the truth.
Whether the essential genius of the teller of tales, the power that
first supplies a theme of moment and then a fitting garb for it, is a
plant capable of nurture, is not for me to attempt to show, or even to
state. Fortunately, the question is academic. The dons may debate the
point, but for those who themselves labor in the literary vineyard the
thing to remember is that the same habits of observation and practice
which some claim will create the literary faculty will at least foster
its growth, if it is a gift, as others claim, and not to be[24]
artificially cultivated. Steady hours at the desk and moments with the
notebook, the cultivation of the seeing eye, the informed mind, and the
sympathetic heart, may not be able to create the divine spark. But it
may burn within one for all that; and shall one neglect to bring it to
full flame on the mere chance that it may not exist because of the
possibility that it cannot be created? If the chance of its existence is
great enough in the individual's eyes to justify the labor of writing at
all, it is great enough to justify undertaking the correlative
activities of observation and self-culture. At the least of it, these
can result only in making one a better and more complete man or woman,
irrespective of the literary result. The writer who fancies that his
labor is but to string words, and that idea or passion come to life in
the barren mind or heart, is foredoomed to failure. No equation can be
formed between something and nothing, nor can something come from
nothing. All life and all art is a quid pro quo; the writer must barter
his time and sweat for his raw materials, ideas.
There is little need to state that of writers of equal genius the one
with the deepest reservoirs of observation and information to draw upon
will produce the more significant work. In relation to expository and
argumentive writing the fact is patent; in relation to the writing of
fiction it may be less obvious, but, curiously enough, is even more impressive when perceived. The writer of special treatise
or argument may "devil" his subject for the occasion; though the writer
of fiction may specially investigate the phase of life or society with
which he deals, his investigations will aid him only in the external
matters of dress, customs, speech, or atmosphere. For the preservation
of the essential congruity and justness of the whole as a presentation
of life he must depend solely upon his[25] own innate
familiarity with life, which cannot be brushed up for the
occasion, for it necessarily derives from the totality of the
individual's experience and the use he has made of it.
In this connection it may be noted that above all else the writer of
fiction must be catholic in his interests and sympathies. He is the
sieve through which the motley stream of life is poured to have selected
for presentation its most significant aspects, and any unwisely
cherished aversions of his are so many gaps in the netting through
which, to his own loss, worthy matter constantly will escape. It is
difficult enough at best for even the most open-minded writer to achieve
some approach to an adequate presentation of a phase of life, and for
the writer whose vision is distorted by prejudice and predilection,
however perfect his technique, it is nearly impossible. The writer of
fiction is concerned with political, social, or religious dogmas only in
so far as they impinge upon and affect the individual life whose course
his pen is tracing, and his only proper and fruitful attitude toward
such dogmas is that of observer, not of fierce advocate or equally
fierce assailant. The heart of the people is sounder than its head,
perhaps because larger, and life is a complex of passion rather than a
complex of intellectual crusades. The writer of fiction addresses the
whole man, his emotional nature as well as his intelligence, and should
address him by presenting the whole man, instead of some feeble
counterfeit not actuated primarily by passion.
Emotion can be evoked only by the portrayal of passion, and
emotion—sympathy, disgust, admiration, any spiritual excitement—is the
root of the appeal of fiction. There are other elements of interest,
primarily intellectual, as in the detective story or any story of
ratiocination, but emotional appeal is the one essential[26] in work of any
compass. Emotional appeal is attainable only through a just presentment
of life, and toward life the writer of fiction must preserve an attitude
of observation and ready acceptance. In the last analysis, that is his
business. The world pays its wage to the scientist for the narrow,
intensive view; it pays its wage to the teller of tales for the broad,
extensive view.
The course of letters is marked by great failures whose essential
technical powers were nullified or at least hampered by their narrow
outlook on life, and by great successes whose achievements bear the scar
of prejudice and provincialism. In our day, the multitudinous standing
controversies of the past have been reduced in bitterness by the more
general diffusion of information and by the conflicting claims of more
numerous interests that demand exercise. Nevertheless we still have the
division between rich and poor, capital and labor, conservative and
radical. For reasons immaterial here, this division and resulting social
conflict will become more complete and bitter; the writer of fiction
will face the fact and be forced to deal with it at times; and it is to
be remembered that one may be abreast or even ahead of the best thought
of the day without being hectic, and that to draw the conservative of
fiction as a fool or a villain simply because he is a conservative is
bad art. Conceivably a man may be back in the ruck of thought and belief
because he is a fool, but he is not a fool merely because he is behind
the times. He may have had no chance to learn better, and that is
precisely the story.
Besides viewing life with a sympathetic and inclusive eye, the writer of
fiction should investigate the smaller world of books. Life is
infinitely more rich in substance than the printed word, but the
observer is not a disembodied spirit, and cannot scrutinize the[27] whole
world, cannot exhaust even his own little neighborhood. He can call to
his service the eyes of his contemporaries and of those who have gone
before, and, in a few hours reading, can live vicariously a dozen lives.
In this very real sense the world of books is practically larger than
the actual world; one can hope to exhaust its more significant matter.
By reading, the writer of fiction can gain familiarity with the actual
tissue of life, the casual relation between motives and acts—so often
obscured in real life—can mingle with nobler, baser, more significant
people than he will be apt to meet, and can estimate the efforts of
others in his own art. Reading of all sorts will yield information, and
reading of fiction will reveal the root causes of success and failure in
the difficult task to precipitate life in words.
There is little need to emphasize the difficulty of the task, twofold as
it is. One must find matter, and one must display it. Not only will
reading conduce to mental development and flexibility; it will reveal
the function of the single word. Life is seen in chiaroscuro, but words
are sharp and definite things. As Stevenson has said, the writer must
work in mosaic, with finite and quite rigid words. If he really works,
scorning to abuse a noble instrument and to prostitute a noble
profession, his difficulties will but increase with his earnestness.
Flaubert is a case in point. Only by reading can the writer discover the
resources of language, and only by reading can he find encouragement in
the spectacle of what patience and devotion have achieved.
One may employ a method of literary presentment diametrically opposite
to that of fitting the right word in the right place, the method of
taking a broad canvas, disregarding length, and, in a sort, modeling the
verbal mass, which will possess plasticity to an extent, though[28]
composed of words intractable and rigid in themselves, like the atoms
which compose modeler's clay. But this method is open only to the writer
of a novel of epic length; the verbal economy of the short story forbids
it; and it will usually be found that the books which manifest it—"Les
Miserables," "David Copperfield," "Tom Jones," "Jean
Christophe," "War and Peace," much of Thackeray's work,
for instance—owe their appeal to the essential vitality and worth of
their matter rather than to any detailed perfection of artistry. If the
story is worthy, it will not be injured by compact and artistic
expression; the function of the artist is to select the significant from
life and to present it as pungently and as perfectly as possible;
brevity in expression is as essential as economy of line in drawing. I
have read and heard it stated that Stevenson and many others eminent for
artistry are thin and self-conscious in their work, and personally I
would give much to know whether this impression does not derive from the
fact that many of the accepted great books of the world, and most of
those appearing day by day, are negligible as examples of executive
artistry, by their contrast making the occasional work that is concisely
and artistically done seem somewhat artificial. The reader is perhaps so
accustomed to imperfect work that the perfect has a touch of artificial
glitter, and seems unreal. But this is a digression. The fact remains
that the writer of fiction who would live by his art cannot afford to go
in ignorance of what has been done before him. He should read, widely
and with all his faculties on the stretch. A vast amount of experiment
lies ready on the printed page. One may not by reading learn how to do
perfect work, but one can at least discover what cannot by any
possibility be done.
The general proposition is that the writer of fiction[29] must observe
life, must estimate it, and must express the phase that his estimation
shows to be significant. The open eye, the cultivated and able mind, and
the trained hand are all equally essential, and all must work together
in harmony. Some have the eye without the hand; some the hand without
the eye; in others the faculty of discrimination is wanting; but eye,
mind, and hand may all be trained by application. No one who has not
done his best has the right to complain of failure, and he who engages
in the difficult business of letters, and neglects to use all efforts to
equip himself, is a fool and nothing else. The writer may live in
prosaic surroundings and be repressed by daily contact with people as
dull as ditchwater; yet the world is wide and man a free agent within
limits; let him strike his tent and go elsewhere. But let him first make
quite sure that the defect is in his environment and not in himself.
Otherwise, when ensconced in a snug artistic Bohemia, he may suffer the
pain of learning that some quiet, clear-eyed seer has found rich ores in
the old home life, and has wrought them to fresh shapes of beauty. And
beyond the influence of all accidents of time and place lies the world
of imagination, instinct with austere beauty, offering escape, solace,
and rich gifts to him who has the golden key. Investigate the life that
was Hawthorne's in Salem, Massachusetts, in the thirties and forties,
then read "The Scarlet Letter," and turn your eyes within if ugliness
lies stark about you. No boor and dullard may walk with you in the
fields of fancy, alone with the night wind and the quiet stars. Dream
with sanity, live with sanity, work with sanity and purpose, and realize
that life and thought are your business, and that the stream of life as
a whole is clean and fresh and sweet and utterly interesting even if you
yourself are caught in some stagnant backwater. Open your eyes and swim
for the clear reaches of the stream.
[30]
CHAPTER II
THE CHOICE OF MATTER
Selection—Sincerity—Adventure—Common Problems of
Life—Originality—Novelty and Worth—Three Elements of
Fictional Literature—Interest—Elements of Interest.
Life is infinitely various, and the possibilities of the imagination are
even more extensive; the writer of fiction has enough material at hand.
His primary task, to pitch upon a theme, is almost wholly selective,
unless he is cursed with a paucity of observation or barrenness of
imagination, in which case he has mistaken his calling. And in this task
of selection the writer must bear in mind several considerations, his
own predilections, his own powers, the intrinsic worth of the idea,
and—last but not least—the audience he is to address. The writer
should give ear to his own personal likings because he will do better
work when he has interest in the matter under his hands; he should
consider his own powers lest he attempt too much; he must consider the
intrinsic worth of his theme lest his work be essentially feeble; and he
must ponder his audience that his work may not go for naught. As to this
last, a word of advice may not be out of place. Though the average
reader may have little power to express, he usually has a well developed
power to appreciate, and there is no need to "write down" to him.
Condescension on the part of the writer of fiction is[31] less obtrusive
than in more directly informative writing, but it is instantly perceived
and resented when present. The best audience for the writer to imagine
is simply the best audience, alive in sensibilities and intelligence.
Stories—and therefore potential stories—may be divided roughly into
two classes, those meant frankly to entertain and those designed to
perform a higher function in addition. The line between them is not hard
and fast; the same basic idea will slip from one side to the other under
different handling by different authors. But there is a real difference,
and that difference is made by the presence or absence of sincerity in
the writer. The complete and rounded story will interest, which is the
element of bare matter, will be so perfectly told that its mere
structure will give pleasure, which is the element of artistry, and will
truly express some phase of life as the author sees it, which is the
element of sincerity. Stories may possess all, some, or none of these
elements, but no story which does not possess them all can be said to
fulfil completely the ideals of the art of fiction. There is no abstract
obligation to be sincere resting on a writer of fiction; he should be
sincere because his work will gain in power. A reader will feel the
presence or lack of the quality.
This does not mean that the writer of fiction should take himself and
life too seriously, a fault of which George Eliot is perhaps an example.
He should simply be true to his own artistic convictions. If he must
write "pot-boilers" for a living, he should refuse to let the hours so
spent dull his artistic sense. No taint attaches to writing an
entertaining story for the money in it; the elder Dumas, for instance,
was a far greater artist in letters than hosts of more sombre writers
who preceded and have succeeded him. And[32] the writer who has Dumas'
intrinsic gaiety and verve may write adventure and write literature too.
Back of the possibility lies the fact that the more bizarre phases of
life are somewhat accidental and not very inclusive. The writer who
deals with them must draw on his imagination heavily, not only for
initial conceptions but for details. Very possibly he may miss some of
the warm verisimilitude that derives from writing of familiar things and
constitutes the keystone of the fictional arch. The strange and striking
may gain a reader's superficial interest very easily, but "easy come,
easy go" and the story of deep-rooted appeal is the story that displays
to a reader sharply individualized human beings meeting the daily
problems that are our common human lot. These problems are not dull
because they are common and universal; their universality is the source
of their interest. The writer who can reduce a general problem of love,
hate, or labor to specific terms of persons and events, and can invest
the whole with that certain momentousness, as of life raised to a higher
power, which is the hallmark of literature, fulfils the highest
possibilities of the art, whether he be as realistic in method as
Dostoievsky in "Crime and Punishment" or as romantic in spirit as
Hawthorne in "The Scarlet Letter."
Perhaps all this is somewhat repellent. We are not all Hawthornes in
embryo—worse luck!—and though a good many aspire to do something worth
while in itself some day, another good many are more humble, and incline
to view the editor's check as sufficient warranty of success. Such an
attitude is much healthier than that of the persecuted genius who
refuses to investigate present conditions in the public taste and to
coax and take advantage of them. But it may be carried to extremes. I do
not think that many deliberately write trash, but it is apparent that a
good deal[33] of trash is written through too sedulous imitation of the
tone of current literature. There is a recognizable type of machine-made
story used by all the all-fiction magazines, and so forth. Subject to
correction, I believe that the greater part of this cut-and-dried
product is owing less to editorial conservatism than to authorial
diffidence toward truly original work. Work may be original in
substance, method, and viewpoint without being obscene or even "frank."
When they do leave trodden ways, too many young writers persist in
opposing the justifiable editorial reluctance to print anything that
might give offense in a magazine of general circulation. The sex
relation is not the whole of life, and even the sex relation may be
treated, without the conventional sugar coating, to give all essential
facts and make all essential comments and not be forbidding. We have a
great world spread before us, and there is more in it for telling than
is already printed and on the newsstands. When looking for a story, the
thing to do is to forget those that have been written, to forget
everything except the spectacle of life.
In the choice of matter the two main considerations are novelty and
worth. Freshness in substance or form will go far to stimulate the
writer and to sell the result of his labor, and essential worth is
inspiring. No man finds pleasure in trivial and useless labor, but all
normal men find pleasure and exhilaration in labor that is worth while.
The writer who has worthy matter beneath his hands, and who knows it,
will remain keyed to the requisite pitch during the labor of
composition. Numbers have testified that the truest joy of authorship is
found in conceiving and elaborating a tale before setting pen to paper,
and time spent in estimating an idea and exhausting its possibilities
and deficiencies before writing is necessary to make
certain that the idea is worth while. Moreover, it is necessary[34] that
the writer know precisely what his idea is in order to develop it
properly by excising the superfluous and emphasizing the significant.
Conscious artistry is impossible unless the author knows definitely what
he is striving to express.
The writer of fiction should bear in mind the three elements of the
story that is literature, and should ask himself whether his projected
tale is interesting, whether it is capable of being cast in literary
form, and whether it is worth while. If the idea meets all these
requirements, any failure in the completed work will be due to defective
execution, not to deficiency in the conception. If the idea fails to
meet the test as to form and worth, it may yet be worth while to write
the story, for it may sell; if the idea is not interesting, it should be
rejected without remorse. The first and highest function of a story is
to interest and entertain; indeed, artistic form is but a means to that
end, as is essential worth; and the dull, uninteresting story—a
contradiction in terms—is the most woebegone literary failure under the
stars.
The writer who allows any discussion of the art of fiction or the
content of fiction to cloud for him the basic fact that fiction must be
interesting is on the highroad to failure. It would be better for him
had he never opened a book, except of frank adventure. Nine tenths of
the ponderous and silly comment on fiction past and fiction present is
written by critics and professors who first kick up a great dust over a
work in order to display their insight in seeing through it, and nine
tenths of that nine tenths—written purely from a reader's and not from
a writer's standpoint—consists in appraising character by conventional
ethical standards and in attributing to the writer whose work is under
examination intentions and philosophies of which he never dreamed. It is
at once[35] very dull and very amusing, but the young writer whose
eagerness for all information about his craft leads him to take such
matter too seriously is in grave danger.
The writer of good fiction and the reader of good fiction are alike in
that they both realize that the chief end of fiction is to entertain and
interest, that perfection of form is desirable simply because it
heightens the illusion of a story, and that worth of matter is necessary
if the story is to be true literature because the cultured mind cannot
find interest in the trivial. Culture has been finely defined as "the
quality of a mind instinct with purpose, conscious of a tendency and
direction in human affairs, able and industrious in distinguishing the
great from the trivial." If this definition is valid—it bears its
credentials on its face—great fiction may be defined as fiction which
interests the cultured mind. The quality of arousing interest is the
criterion and determinant, and implies perfection of form and essential
worth of substance. The writer of fiction must never lose sight of the
fact, nor of the resulting necessity that all his work be interesting.
The fortunate thing is that fiction deals with so universal a thing as
life; it need not repel the ignorant and uneducated in order to attract
the abler mind.
The twin elements of fictional interest are the story and its people,
and here becomes apparent the essential weakness of the story of mere
incident. It cannot evoke interest as deep as that called forth by the
story having closer relation to character. The range of character
required by the story of incident is narrow; there are a thousand
pregnant human qualities which the story of incident cannot first
develop by action and then utilize to hold a reader's interest, but
which the writer of the more leisurely and inclusive tale of everyday
life can common[36] can be truly vivified only by showing the person in
acts displaying his essential traits, and the less dependence the action
of a story has upon character, the less real to a reader will be the
persons involved. The story of complication of incident, of mere
structural ingenuity of plot, is superficially interesting, but it lacks
the deeper appeal of the story which develops its people adequately. At
any rate, it is true that a reader can love or hate characters, beside
being interested in them; he can only be interested in an event. The
people of a story are not to be neglected as sources of interest. They
are harder to display than mere events, but they are infinitely more
compelling. A bare series of events may interest, but the interest and
appeal of what happens will be doubled if the observer is a friend of
the persons affected, that is, if he knows them. The same is true in the
case of a story. Its reader stands in the position of observer of events
and people. The only trouble is that some stories have little action
significant in relation to character, and when that is the case the
writer loses one means to make his people real for a reader. The point
to remember in searching for an interesting story is that the people are
as influential an element as the events.
[37]
CHAPTER III
CONCEPTIVE TECHNIQUE: STORY TYPES
Conception and Execution—Utility to Know Types—Novel and
Romance—Short Story—The Three Types—Emphasis—Three Elements
of Any Story—Story of Character—Character and Action—Story of
Incident—Archetypal Character—Short Story and
Fallacy of Compression—Story of Atmosphere—Other Types.
The labors of the fiction writer are of two sorts, conceptive and
executive. In actual practice, of course, the writer may have only the
faintest glimmering of his story when he begins to write, and may
simultaneously conceive, elaborate, and express as he goes along; but
that is not the method of the conscious literary artist. An
understanding adaptation of means to ends is impossible unless the
writer has a definite purpose fixed in mind from the first moment of
execution. And in writing on technique it is necessary to assume the
natural order of the total artistic or creative process, whether the
actual practice of any writer coincides with it or not. Therefore the
body of conceptive technique first calls for treatment. Strict executive
technique and also the technique of construction—which is both
conceptive and executive—will be taken up after dealing with the matter
of story types and the matter of plot.
I need not state that there is no technique of conception, mastery of
which will yield the writer the golden secret of how to create or find a
good story. That[38] depends strictly on personal ability, and not on any
objective knowledge of the mechanics of the art of fiction. But a
knowledge of the several fundamental types of story, and of the how and
why of the differences between them, cannot fail to aid the writer in
estimating and realizing the potentialities and deficiencies of a
particular idea. The writer who knows precisely where his story idea
will classify under analysis has a standard that will prove most useful
in the work of development. If it classifies as a story of atmosphere,
rather than of plot or of character, the writer will be led to
concentrate upon his proper task of creating the atmospheric illusion,
and will not dissipate his energies and spoil the effect of the finished
work by interpolating unnecessary touches of emphasis upon character or
incident.
Another preliminary word may not be out of place. A story is a story,
whether long or short; but the novel or lengthy romance is so much more
inclusive in matter and complicated in structure than the short
story—viewing the latter as a distinct literary type—that it is less
essential for the writer of fiction of book length to know with exact
definition the effect he wishes to produce than it is for the writer of
the short story of a few thousand words. The potential and usual effects
of the novel are many; it may and usually does contain chapters or
passages emphasizing all three story elements of character, complication
of incident, and atmosphere; but the short story is limited by its
brevity to the creation of a single effect, and any touch of emphasis
looking elsewhere usually will detract from the power of the whole.
Therefore it is in short story writing that a firm preliminary grasp
upon all the implications and connotations of the basic idea is most
essential, also most attainable, and therefore a discussion of
fundamental story types concerns itself[39] largely with the short story.
But much the same principles of constructive analysis utilized by the
writer of the short story may be profitably employed in developing the
various but more or less unified episodes of the novel.
The three fundamental types of story have a perfectly natural origin. A
story is the relation of what (1) certain persons (2) did (3) in a
certain place and under certain conditions of existence. Accordingly, as
the elements of personality, action, or surrounding conditions are
emphasized, we have the story of character, of incident, or of
atmosphere. As Stevenson has said, there are but three ways to create a
story, to conceive characters and select and devise incidents to develop
them, to take a plot—a climactic series of incidents—and devise
characters to enact it, or to take an atmosphere and precipitate it as
best the writer may.
There is, however, an obvious fact to remember. These several types of
story differ from one another only in point of emphasis; in each case an
element possessed by all is stressed; no type is entirely devoid of the
elements emphasized in the other two. An intended story lacking any one
of the three elements of character, of complication of incident, or of
setting is not a story, but something else. The most common example is
the composition portraying character without any plot or complication of
incident, which is not a character story, but a character sketch. It
cannot be too strongly insisted that a story is a story, consisting of a
climactic series of incidents, as distinguished from a tale, which is a
level series of incidents, unrelated save in that all happen to the same
group of characters. Plot is a matter not specifically under discussion
as yet, but half the difficulty and most of the inutility in writing on
fiction technique reside in the fact that one must treat in isolation
matters which are but elements[40] of a unified artistic synthesis. A story
is a story; its people do not merely exist, they live and act. In the
case of the story of complication of incident, the complication supplies
the story-element of the fiction; in the case of character story, the
evolution or degeneration of character supplies the story-element; while
in the case of the story of atmosphere, the climactic progression of the
particular emotional impression to the point of highest intensity in
itself supplies much of the plot- or story-element of the conception.
Another qualification should be stated. The normal story, written for
its own sake, is emphatic in that it stresses some one of its three
elements. But there is also the thematic story, written to vivify an
abstract proposition or to point a moral. The type lays no special
emphasis on character, incident, or setting, and is written with an eye
to an ulterior purpose beyond the mere sake of the story. It is not a
natural type, and may be disregarded here. Incidentally, it is not a
very successful type, and of course any success it may achieve as a work
of art cannot derive from the truth or weight of the proposition or
moral behind it.
Starting from the proposition that there are three normal story types,
it may be profitable to examine them in detail. I am not yet concerned
with the technical devices whereby character may be drawn, a plot
devised and narrated, or atmosphere created; my sole purpose is to
suggest how the writer may recognize the true character of his idea,
that in developing it he may know exactly what he is trying to do.
The story of character is concerned with the infinitely diverse traits
of our common human nature as manifested by the people of a story. The
single trait or few traits, rather than the totality of each person's
nature, should be sought to be developed, for reasons that a moment's
thought will render apparent. Character[41] can be truly realized only by
showing the person in characteristic actions and, unless the writer
desires to extend his work to a great length, he can formulate no course
of action which will illustrate a complete personality. In all its
aspects, fiction is a matter of selection, and the writer of a story of
character should concentrate his powers of description and exposition
upon the traits of personality involved in the acts of the persons. The
short story must present a relatively incomplete picture of each
character's soul; the novel may approach each person from a number of
angles; but even the novelist should consider whether he cannot give
maximum reality and vivacity to his people by not attempting a too
complete presentation of each.
If, then, the initial conception of a story involves or suggests true
traits of character, it may be advisable to develop the story so as to
throw into strong relief the quality or qualities involved. The
possibility of the wisdom of such development becomes a probability if
the traits are somewhat novel and not those possessed in common by all
men to some extent, such as the capacity to love, to hate, to sacrifice
self, ambition, the fear of death, and so forth.
It should be remembered that the hallmark of the true character story is
its progression; the persons of the story grow stronger or weaker in
their respective traits under the pressure of events. There is a
climactic moment of indecision and suspense when it is doubtful whether
the character will shape circumstances or circumstances the character.
This distinguishing attribute of the character story is its essential
quality as a story; the strict type is debarred from recourse to
complication of incident to save it from being a mere sketch; change or
progression in the characters is itself the story or plot element of the
fiction. Realization of the fact will give the writer a firmer grasp on
the truth that characters and events[42] must be developed in strict
concert and harmony. Anticipating later statement a trifle, let me say
that portrayal of the actions of a character is portrayal of the
character himself, so that his actions must be characteristic, or two
elements of the story will be at cross purposes. In setting out to write
a character story, the author deliberately chooses to emphasize
character and to depend for interest on the spectacle of its evolution
or degeneration. Since he is after all writing a story—though of one
type—the author must devise some climactic series of incidents. But the
character element is the preponderant strain of the fiction, and each
successive incident should be chosen with an eye to that element, and
its climactic value should inhere in its being climactic and progressive
in relation to the trait of character sought to be developed.
This is all somewhat abstract, but the test is much easier to apply to a
concrete story idea than it is to formulate in terms. If the idea
consists of a tentative grouping of incidents which suggests an
interesting phase of character in an interesting phase of development,
the conception may be elaborated into the story which emphasizes
character. On the other hand, if the initial idea is simply of a phase
of character which can be adequately shown in progression by a series of
incidents devised to that end, the same treatment is advisable. In each
case it is possible that such treatment will give maximum effect to the
conception.
[43]The story of complication of incident interests primarily because of its
plot, and not because of its people or the totality of its emotional
effect.[A] It is more than a type of story; in a way it is really the
archetype of all stories. An historical analysis will show
the truth of the statement. First came the tale, a chain of incidents
having no essential connection except that they all happened to the
characters. Then came the story, a chain of incidents which are not
fortuitous and accidental, but each essential to the whole design. And
from the story have sprung such variations as the character story, which
emphasizes the element of personality, and the story of atmosphere,
which emphasizes the setting, spiritual or material. But the story of
plot, which stresses the bare incident, is archetypal of
all fiction in that interest centers in the story rather than in the
persons or their environment. Perhaps the French conte, or brief
dramatic narrative, is the strictest story type of all.
I have chosen to touch upon the character story first, rather than the
more fundamental and inclusive story of plot, simply because the
potential story of plot is easily recognizable, and my sole aim here is
to state some of the tests which the writer may apply to his idea after
conception to discover its true character, that he may know how to
handle it. The germ of a plot can be distinguished at a glance, while
the question of what a plot really is requires separate treatment.
If the writer would produce a strict short story, he cannot rest content
with the apparent fact that his initial conception is the germ of a
story plot, that being the case. The story of plot may be easy to
recognize as a genre, but not all stories of plot are potential short
stories. All plot germs are not susceptible of adequate development
within the narrow limits of the short story. Ten thousand words is
probably the extreme limit of the type as a commercial possibility, and,
in a space so brief, if the chain of events is at all[44] complicated or
lengthy, it is impossible to bring out all its nuances and implications.
Too many critics and writers seem to entertain the idea that the short
story is the result of compression, but emphatically that is not true.
The synopsis of previous chapters before an instalment of a serial novel
is an example of compression, and a most repellent one. A short story is
the result of its own inherent brevity. A naturally long story, it is
true, may be shortened materially by mere rhetorical compression, but it
cannot be rendered a short story thereby, for the short story develops
its fewer incidents with as much rhetorical elaboration as the novel or
romance develops its many happenings. The short story that is a short
story—such as Kipling's "Without Benefit of Clergy," Stevenson's
"Markheim," or Poe's "Fall of the House of Usher"—gives off no
impression of verbal bareness. The short story is a literary form, with
all the elaboration of expression that the term implies. Its brevity
results from careful selection of the incidents to be set forth, and not
from concise expression of an indiscriminate welter of incidents.
Undoubtedly the matter requires emphasis. Too much has been written and
said as to the necessity of compression in short story writing. If what
is meant is rhetorical compression, bare statement without verbal
elaboration, no such necessity exists. What is necessary is care in
making certain that the story is a short story, and care to relate
nothing not essential to its development.
The French type of short story in general, and Maupassant's work in
particular, are often cited to illustrate the need for compression. In
the first place, the essential genius of the French language is such
that in translations, to English or American apprehension, fully
elaborated statement often seems somewhat bare.[45] Moreover, I cannot
admit that Maupassant's best work is equal in rounded artistry and
appeal to that of others who have chosen to write less barely and
mathematically. If compression means anything, it means squeezing
something into less space than it would normally occupy, which is not
artistry, but an attempt to do in execution the proper work of
conception and construction, to devise a story which can be given
adequate literary expression in a limited number of words.
A critical reading of almost any successful short story will disclose
that the manner of its telling is as truly the source of its interest
and appeal as is the novelty or human importance of the naked story
idea. The difference between a recital of facts and a work of fiction is
the difference between mere reporting and true literature. The writer
who strives to compress in expression, instead of carefully selecting
the matter for expression, deliberately rejects his only means to
produce a sufficiently full and rounded presentment of the particular
phase of life he seeks to depict. That means is to write with due
elaboration, lest the phrasing seem stark and flat in comparison with
the softly moulded contours of life itself. There are two elements in
literature, the fact and the form; they are equally important and should
be equally complete. When considering the fitness of a plot to serve as
the skeleton for a short story, remember that in execution the thing
must be written with due verbal elaboration, else it will be angular and
unattractive, and that the idea of many incidents, people, or places
cannot be so written in the space available. In execution, write
adequately, and in conception and construction, select.
The story of atmosphere, which emphasizes the setting in which its
people move, and seeks to bring out the emotional value of the physical
or spiritual environment,[46] is not difficult to recognize, being like the
story of plot in this respect. But it is most difficult to do well. The
story of character deals with concrete people, and the story of plot
deals with concrete events; the story of atmosphere deals with these and
something more, an intangible sensual or emotional impression, as of
beauty or horror, correspondingly more difficult to create. It demands
imaginative powers of the highest order, and perfect technical powers.
Within limits, the unimaginative author may write effectively of
characters and events, for he can see and study them objectively in
daily life, and, again within limits, they may also be presented
effectively by matter of fact phrasing. But atmosphere cannot be
seen—even physical atmosphere must be felt, or there is no emotional
effect—and all the resources of language at times become pitifully
inadequate to precipitate an emotion. It is all a matter of clear
conception and careful design, and the secret cannot be stated, but must
be learned, each for himself. However, I am not concerned in this place
with executive technique, or even with constructive technique, and
whatever hints can be given as to the creation of atmosphere would be
out of place. My object is merely to state the fundamental types of
story and the necessity that the writer recognize the true character of
his conception, that he may develop it with emphasis properly laid.
Other types of story exist, but the lines between them are not drawn by
the inherent character of the art of fiction. The love story, for
instance, may be told with emphasis on character, on incident, or on
atmosphere, and the placing of emphasis determines its artistic
character. The technique of conception is concerned only with
fundamental types, and the sole object of its mastery is to give the
writer knowledge of the essential artistic character of each of his
conceptions,[47] that he may work with a definite aim in development. My
object is not to discuss or analyze pedantically, for the sake of the
analysis itself, but simply to state the importance of discovering the
basic fictional character of the idea, that it may be properly expanded.
Strict constructive and executive technique of course require separate
treatment.
[48]
CHAPTER IV
CONCEPTIVE TECHNIQUE: PLOT AND SITUATION
Definition of Plot—Character and Plot—Dramatic Value of
Plot—Complication—Interest—Plot as Problem—Three Basic
Themes—Conflict Between Man and Nature—Conflict Between Man
and Man—Conflict Within the Same Man—Arrangement of Elements
of Plot—Climax—Major Situations—Situation and Plot.
The plot of a story is its heart and essence. This is obviously true in
the case of the strict story of plot, and it is very curiously true in
the case of the story of character or of atmosphere. For in the story
which lays emphasis on personality, the evolution or degeneration of the
particular trait which has been selected for presentation is the real
story-element of the fiction. The fact is the root of the necessity that
the action develop in concert with the trait of character, giving it
opportunity for expression. And in the story which lays emphasis on
atmosphere, the climactic progression of the particular atmosphere to
the point of highest intensity is the real story-element, which is the
root of the necessity that the action develop in strict keeping with the
atmosphere, that the effect may not be spoiled.
What is a plot? Many attempts at definition have been made, and the
results have not been illuminating.[49] Everyone has an idea of what a plot
is, but those who have attempted to state their conception briefly have
encountered difficulties. Perhaps an indirect approach to the problem
will yield results.
A tale is not a story, for a tale is a relation of events which happened
to happen to the characters. It is episodal, and the interest of the
thing inheres in each episode separately, not in the whole. There is no
essential connection between the incidents, except that they all
happened to the same group of characters. The contrary is true of a
story, interest in which is in the whole, as a progression, and, since
the difference between tale and story is made by the presence or absence
of plot, it appears that a distinguishing mark of a plot is that its
events function together as a unit. There is some connection between
them other than chance, and that connection lies in the intimate
relation between the events of a story and its characters. Event and
personality each influence or even determine each other simultaneously.
Incidentally, realization of the fact will free the writer from any
misconception that the action and the characters are separable elements
of a story. For instance, jealousy, a trait of character, may cause a
murder, an event, and a husband's chance opening of a letter addressed
to his wife, an event, may give rise to Jealousy, the
trait of character. Or the husband's loyalty will be strengthened in the
fiction if he refuses to credit appearances.
Interaction, then, between incidents and characters, arising from the
unity of the whole conception, is the first essential element of a plot.
The second essential element—and there are but two—is that the several
incidents of the story possess climactic value, not necessarily
climactic value in the sense of ascending tensity—though that is most
desirable—but climactic value in that each event should have influence
in[50] forwarding the story to a definite end, that state of quiescence
which is not attainable in real life short of the grave, but which
fiction must postulate. In other words, since a plot is made up of
incidents which influence and are influenced by the characters, and
since the story must move to an end, a plot presents a problem. What
will the persons do? if the emphasis is on personality; and what will
happen? if the emphasis is on the event.
To state it in the form of a definition, a plot is a series of events
which influence and are influenced by traits of personality, and which
are climactic in that they move to a definite conclusion, so that the
series embodies some problem of life brought to solution.
I state this merely for what it may be worth, which possibly is no great
matter to the writer of fiction. Plots are not to be found by vivifying
a definition, but a definition may prove useful in testing a story idea
when it is found, and the object of the whole discussion is merely to
give the writer some aid in appraising the essential fictional value of
his conceptions.
The fact that a plot is a problem gives the several events their
climactic value. They are steps and approaches to the solution. And a
plot is a problem simply because fiction concerns man, while man is a
free agent, in possibility at least. Given certain characters and an
event bearing upon them, and the problem of what they will do instantly
arises, and the problem of the ultimate result of their actions. Given
certain events, to reverse the emphasis, and characters on whom they
bear, and the same problems arise. A plot is question and solution in
one, and the solution must inevitably follow from the characters and
events.
It will be perceived that the distinguishing quality of a plot is its
dramatic value. A plot is a problem of life, and a problem is a conflict
between opposing forces.[51] Event and character wrestle with one another,
and the outcome is doubtful, wherein lies the interest of the story. It
is accurate to state that the conflict is between event and character,
for though character may struggle with character, nevertheless the
struggle is operative only in action, and the opposed persons struggle
with the doings, not the naked souls, of each other.
It will be perceived also that the element of complication is not
essential to a plot, as Poe has pointed out. Of course, in the story of
incident, where the reader's interest centers chiefly in the events, not
in the characters or atmosphere, complication is most useful, and in
fact supplies much of the problem- or plot-element of the fiction. But
complication is not a sine qua non, and should not be so regarded.
Complication of incident, indeed, in the story which is fundamentally of
character or atmosphere, may prove a positive handicap, adding to the
difficulties of execution and spoiling the unity of effect, if the
fiction is a short story. As has been stated, the novel is a broader
canvas, without a single emphasis if the writer wills, and here, within
the limits of naturalness, complication of plot is thoroughly desirable.
Any bid for a reader's interest is of use, only in the short story the
writer must necessarily limit himself to one sort of bid.
At that last of it, pretty nearly all of the technique of fiction
writing has root in the necessity first to gain the reader's interest
and then to hold it. That is the real object of perfection of form,
even, and the device of plot has root in the same object. In simpler and
more unsophisticated ages the stage presented not drama but mere
spectacles, as the tale did in the spoken word or printed page; the
plot, lending to the play its dramatic character and to the fiction its
story character, developed only when audience and readers lost the
child's vivid interest in whatever he sees, and began to[52] yawn at the
episodal. Pageantry and the unrelated event became stale, in comparison
with the spectacle of life itself, and then plot was found, a method of
isolating a single one of life's strands, and, by showing it in high
relief, lending it an added dignity and appeal.
The basis of the more intense appeal of the plot over that of the
episode is psychological. The hardest thing in the world to do is to
make a reader think, but the reader who does think is interested. That
is why he is thinking. Since a plot is a problem, the reader of a story
of plot is made to think, and the matter impinges upon him with some
force. To repeat former phraseology, if the emphasis is on the events,
he tries to figure out what will happen, at least wonders about it; if
the emphasis is on the characters, he tries to foresee what they will
do. Incidentally, the reader of to-day is habituated to the story of
plot. If nothing happens he will chalk a black mark against author and
magazine, as the editor knows.
As has been said—and emphasis is not out of place—a plot is a problem.
Problem, in this connection, means conflict between opposing forces,
which gives the various events and situations of a story any dramatic
value they may possess. It follows that there are three basic
plot-themes, conflict between man and his environment or Nature,
conflict between man and man, and conflict between opposed traits in the
same man. It will be profitable for the writer to bear this in mind when
combing the world for his story.
In his essay on Victor Hugo's romances, Stevenson has touched upon the
emergence in fiction of the conflict between man and Nature. Briefly,
his argument is that in the works of such a one as Scott the world and
natural forces serve but as stage and stage devices for man and his
doings, while Hugo, particularly in "The Toilers of the Sea," draws
storm, cold, and heat as[53] man's active enemies, almost endowing Nature
with a vindictive personality. Whatever the fact as to Hugo, it is
certain that to those who meet her face to face on sea and land Nature
is a somewhat stony-hearted mother, yielding food and shelter only at
the pistol-point of toil and struggle. To those of us who live in
cities, and whose concerns are mainly social, the constant struggle of
mankind against drought and flood, storm and cold, fire and famine is
obscured, but it is a living reality, nevertheless, and a rich source of
fiction that will get under the skin of the most pampered
apartment-dweller. The roots of our lives stretch far into the dim past,
when the unending struggle with natural forces was a bitter reality to
all, and adequate fictional presentment of the struggle with Nature
often proves to have an incisive appeal wanting in less fundamental
themes. Particularly, the writer may rely upon such a story's appealing
to the cultured and the uncultured mind alike, for the intrinsic human
importance of its theme is felt by all. The elements of the dramatic
problem presented are so simple that previous familiarity with them in
personal experience is not essential to their understanding.
A fine example of this theme given short story treatment is Bret Harte's
"The Outcasts of Poker Flat," while the portions of Stevenson's
"Kidnapped" dealing with David's experience on the Isle of Earraid and
his flight through the heather with Alan Breck find their dramatic
quality largely in the same theme. It is interesting to note that Harte,
however, does not emphasize the conflict between man and Nature to the
utmost of possibility, for in his story there is much emphasis on
character and the struggle of man with man. Whether the story gains or
loses in total effect thereby is immaterial; it will prove an
interesting[54] experience for the writer to recast the tale so as to bring
out more exclusively the theme of conflict with Nature. In connection
with the general discussion as to plot, I will state that if Harte had
entirely excised the theft of the party's horses by the treacherous
member, and had not brought out the contrast between the gambler, the
prostitutes, and the innocents, the story still would have been
adequately plotted. The bare situation of men and women snowbound in a
mountain cabin is a plot germ, for it suggests the problem whether they
will survive or perish.
The plot which presents conflict between man and man is
distinctly social in nature. The possibilities for the
writer of fiction in the general scramble for the almighty dollar, the
rivalry of love, the desire for revenge, and a thousand other passions
and ambitions that bring man into conflict with his fellows, are
practically infinite. Three minutes spent in running over this field for
plots will demonstrate the folly of bewailing the lack of something
fresh to write about. Perhaps some ingenious mathematician, given the
data that there are a hundred million men and women in the United
States, and that each one has some small number of desires and passions
active or dormant, will calculate the potential conflicts resulting.
Each conflict is the seed of a plot, and each plot may be written a
hundred times, each story being made different from the last by varying
the manner of treatment. There is not too little to write about; there
is so very much that keen selection is essential.
Any magazine offers examples of the exploitation, by short story
writers, of the conflict between man and man, while to portray the
conflict is peculiarly the field of the novel, with its social emphasis.
Balzac and Thackeray are supreme masters in
presenting a slice of the social spectacle; "Vanity Fair" and "Cousin[55]
Pons" depict struggle between their people, and but little else. At the
top of the social ladder the struggle is carried on by intrigue and
sugared words, at the bottom with the knife and naked fist, but the
struggle is the same in essence, and of enthralling interest to a
reader. All the world loves a winner, and all the world wants to find
out whom it is to love. The mere mechanical details wherein the struggle
finds expression and operation are the least of the plot, which is
indebted for its dramatic quality to the bare fact of struggle.
Doubtless the girl who runs daily to the public library for a novel
would be shocked to be told that she is impelled by the same human
quality that makes street-loafers and passersby gather about two
fighting boys, but she is, nevertheless. The writer who would please
her—and her father, mother, and brothers—will do well to remember the
fact.
The story which seeks to present conflict between two opposed traits in
the same man or woman is most difficult to write so as to create any
fictional illusion. It deals almost exclusively with psychological data,
of the facts of the soul, and requires knowledge and imaginative insight
as well as verbal dexterity. It is supremely easy to conceive a plot
involving struggle of the man with himself, but it is supremely hard to
give such a struggle objectivity, to expand it into a fiction operative
in action and yet developing the internal conflict. I cannot think of a
finer example than Stevenson's "Markheim." A close and critical study of
this story by one who is qualified to taste its full flavor will reveal
at once the great difficulties that face the writer who chooses such a
theme, and the high pitch of achievement attainable through proper
handling of material.
The greatest practical drawback to the giving of much time to mastering
the technique of soul-analysis[56] lies in the narrow appeal of such a
story even when perfectly conceived and written. To recur to the always
apposite Stevenson, it is safe to say that his "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"
is a thousand times more interesting to the average reader than
"Markheim," simply because the soul-struggle is so much more completely
made objective and given expression in action in the first fiction than
in the second. This is done so very emphatically that nine readers out
of ten entirely miss the point of "Jekyll and Hyde," and fail to realize
that the struggle is between two tendencies in the same man, who is
split into his good and bad selves merely for the sake of concreteness.
Most fiction readers have little love for abstractions and fine spun
analysis—witness the common repute of Henry James, to an extent
undeserved, it may be said in passing. Exclusive emphasis upon the
struggle of the man with himself will tend to confine the writer's
appeal to the intellectuals, in the special modern sense, a matter
inimical to the pocketbook, at the least of it. Psychological analysis
is most useful in developing almost any type of story, but as the sole
theme for a fiction it has its disadvantages.
When the writer has his hands on a plot, of whatever type and however
found, his conceptive labors are by no means over. It remains to recast
and rearrange the elements of the idea, that the most effective
arrangement may be discovered. A first invention is very rarely
incapable of improvement, and in the interests of artistry the author
should exhaust all the possibilities of his idea before writing, that he
may not chance upon unsuspected potentialities in his story only when it
is half written, or not discover them at all. Within limits, of course,
any story will tend to shape itself; in particular, there is much
testimony as to the intractability of characters; but one cannot
consciously strive to do any particular thing or to produce any
particular[57] effect without first knowing just what the thing or effect
is to be.
Possibly the most important matter is to arrange the incidents, the
separate elements of the problem or conflict which the plot presents, in
such manner as to give the progression a climactic character. Not only
should each major event be a definite step toward the conclusion,
solution, or denouement, but each succeeding event should be more
striking, significant, and tense than its predecessor. This sort of
climactic movement is not essential to a plot, but it is an essential
element of a good plot, particularly a good plot for a short story. The
short story is a much more strict and artificial type of fiction than
the novel; in other words, its writer has fewer resources to impress a
reader, and he must utilize to the full whatever is open to him. Among
his resources is the device of sensible movement to a crisis or climax.
Like the rest of fiction technique, the device is useful because it
tends to keep alive and stimulate a reader's interest. This it does
because ascending tensity suggests further struggle. Any flat incident,
on the contrary, less tense or striking than its predecessor, infallibly
suggests that the story is already falling to its end, and the end seems
dull because the problem is not fully worked out or even stated.
Psychologically, the point is delicate; it is a queer paradox that a
reader at once hates to think and yet wants to be made to think. But
that is a reader's condition. With equal readiness he will welcome
climactic movement and continue to read, or welcome any premature fall
in tensity and throw the story aside.
To show by example the results that may be achieved by use of the device
of movement to a climax is impracticable; these matters that cannot be
displayed by pungent quotation the student must dig out for himself by
intelligent reading. Almost any successful[58] story will display climactic
arrangement of its major events. I cannot forbear to mention the
ascension whereby Thackeray leads a reader of "Vanity Fair" up to Rawdon
Crawley's confrontation of Becky and Lord Steyne. Hawthorne's "The House
of the Seven Gables," a book in most respects so totally dissimilar,
shows a like process in leading up to the death of Judge Pyncheon.
George Douglas's "The House With the Green Shutters," less widely known,
is strongly climactic in its latter part. But examples, in short story
and novel, are infinite in number and sort.
To recapitulate, a plot is a problem of human life brought to a fitting
and convincing solution, and consists of a series of events which
displays the fact and result of a conflict between opposing forces,
spiritual and material, actuating and affecting men and women. Therefore
the chief characteristic of a plot is its dramatic value. The definition
may be turned to use not so much in the discovery of plots as in
appraising their fictional value, their power to arouse and hold a
reader's interest, after they have been found or invented.
Since a plot is a conflict between opposing forces, and since fiction
deals with man, the three fundamental plot-themes are conflict between
man and his environment, conflict between man and man, and conflict in
the soul of the same man. Realization of the fact will serve to give
point and definition to the writer's search for the idea.
Finally, a just regard for his readers will lead the writer to cast his
incidents into some climactic arrangement. The first, last, and only
proper aim of a story is to interest, and break in the expected movement
to a climax is fatal to interest.
It would be interesting to go into the matter of plot-analysis at some
length—I have in mind particularly[59] the deficiencies of Poe's
definition that a plot is a series of incidents contrived to produce a
single effect—but this book is for the writer. I shall try throughout
to keep to the writer's viewpoint and to develop nothing not of
practical utility in the work of conception, elaboration, and execution.
Thus far the discussion has been concerned with plot as a whole; it
remains to consider the events, incidents, or situations which compose a
plot. The situations of the plot or story are what its writer must cast
into a climactic consequence, and he must have some standard to measure
each before he can determine its proper place.
The fictionally significant aspect of a plot is that it embodies a
conflict between opposing forces, that is, it is dramatic. Likewise, the
fictionally significant aspect of a situation is that it displays
opposed persons—or at least opposed forces—in conflict. The writer
manipulates his material—preferably before writing—so that two or more
persons, actuated by incompatible motives, are brought into conflict;
there is a moment of indecision; then some person bends the other or
others to his will; and the situation determines. Or the writer brings a
character or group of characters into conflict with Nature, as did Harte
in "The Outcasts of Poker Flat." Here, also, there is a period of
indecision, and then either the human force or the natural force
triumphs.
The dramatic quality of any situation inheres in the struggle between
opposing forces which each presents, and rises or falls with the
essential strength of such forces. Take two instances of conflict
between opposed motives in the same person. In some humorous story a
character may be unable to decide which of two women he wants to marry.
One can cook, let us say, and he is a gourmand; the other is pretty,
and[60] he has leanings that way, too. The dramatic quality in such a story
will be slight, because the motives involved are relatively weak, yet it
will be present. But take the story of a French girl who is outraged by
a German soldier and gives birth to a child by him. Her quality of
patriotism can be built up to great intensity, if the writer wills, even
to the point where the reader will accept an impulse on her part to kill
her child. Her quality as a mother can be built up likewise. It would be
a most effective touch to have her hate the unborn child furiously, then
to arrange matters so that she should be unable to carry out her first
impulse to kill it and be forced to care for it, giving it opportunity
to awaken her dormant maternal instinct. Finally, love for France and
hatred for Germany can be stimulated again, so that she is shown veering
between the impulse to kill and the impulse to cherish. Such a situation
is intensely dramatic, for it involves conflict between two of the most
intense human qualities, love of one's country and love of one's child.
The more terrific the opposed forces in any situation, the higher its
dramatic value.
At first glance it may seem that the relative position in a story of
each of its various major situations is determined by the plot itself,
but that is not the case. It appears to be the case because it is usual
to regard the plot of a story as the entire mechanical arrangement of
the fiction, including the nature and order of the situations, which is
a false view of plot. As the previous discussion has attempted to
demonstrate, plot is merely the conflict between opposed forces of
personality and environment, at least one of the forces being of
personality. Any two stories which display conflict between the same
forces have the same plot, though one may vary widely from the other in[61]
the means employed to give the struggle objectivity and expression in
action.
The writer of fiction should realize the point. The imagination produces
concrete pictures and conceptions, and, when a story is imagined, it
will come to life in terms of concrete people and events, more or less
definitely ordered and determined. But the writer should not stop there.
He should ascertain just what opposed forces of personality or
environment give the story and its situations plot and dramatic value,
and then should seek to find whether he cannot give the basic conflict
involved more effective presentment than will be given by the persons
and situations which he has already conceived. An essentially weak
conception may offer a clue to a dramatic conflict that will have
fictional power if properly developed by persons and situations
different from those first conceived.
It will be perceived how far it is within the writer's power to
manipulate situation in the interests of art, which, in this connection,
means climax. Starting with some basic conflict, which will be his plot,
the writer can devise situation after situation in which the struggle
will become more and more acute, until, finally, it will become so
serious as to involve all the elements of the story. And with the
determination of the dramatic situation which involves all the elements
of the story, the story itself will terminate, for the struggle which it
embodies will have been settled one way or the other. This final
situation will be the climax of the story, and its outcome or result
will be the denouement. The story will be ended because the struggle or
conflict it serves to embody will have ended. One force or the other
will have triumphed.
In considering the question of situation, the writer of fiction is
considering a more specific aspect of the question of plot. Usually he
desires to find a plot of[62] real dramatic value, and likewise he usually
desires to find a situation or situations of real dramatic value. The
dramatic value of plot and of situation resides in the struggle between
the opposed forces which it presents. The more powerful the forces
involved in either case, the greater the dramatic value of the
conception. Each major situation of a story derives its dramatic quality
from the opposition of incompatible motives or forces that endows the
story's plot with its dramatic quality. In fact, it is not too loose to
say that the situation of a story is its plot, provided the main
situation or climax is meant.[B]
The purpose of the action or incidents of a story is to give the
dramatic struggle it embodies concrete expression. That is to say, the
dramatic quality of a story is specific in relation to certain persons
and certain events. Two definite men, for instance, will engage in a
definite fight over a definite woman. The writer will seek to
individualize the persons involved, which is a matter of description and
characterization, and he will seek also to picture the physical struggle
as definitely as possible, which is a matter of descriptive narration.
It is not enough to conceive a plot or dramatic situation; the writer
must also expand it into a story, which should be as concrete and
specific as its nature permits. Only thus can a reader be made to feel
the essential power of the whole conception. It follows that the action
or incidents of a story should be devised with a view to express the
dynamic elements[63] of the plot and that no incident should be
incorporated in the story unless it will serve to build up some one of
the forces involved or else serve to illustrate the conflict of forces
that have been built up previously.
[64]
CHAPTER V
CONSTRUCTIVE TECHNIQUE OF NARRATION[C]
Importance—Plot and Situation—Spiritual Values of Story—Order
of Events—Introduction—Primary and Secondary
Events—Climax—Naturalness—The
End—Preparation—Proportion—General Considerations.
A story is the relation of what certain persons did in certain places
and under certain conditions of existence, and in its broadest aspect
the art of narration includes the description of persons and delineation
of character, the depiction of scenes, and the suggestion of atmosphere.
But these matters bulk so large in themselves as to call for separate
treatment. My purpose here is to discuss constructive technique, how the
bare story, a succession and progression of events, should be planned
and built up before writing. The problem is constructive, not executive,
and should be considered and settled, within limits, before setting pen
to paper.
In fact, much of the technique of fiction writing
[65]concerns matters of conception
and construction. Giving the story its verbal flesh after it is
thoroughly mapped out in mind in accord with the canons of the art is in
truth a more or less simple matter to the writer who has any command of
language and literary facility. The result may not be a
masterpiece—which is a significant idea, justly elaborated, and
perfectly told—but it will possess one of the elements of a story
worthy to live. The trouble is that so many writers set about the task
of expression when all they have in mind is the merest germ of an
undeveloped idea or story, and then are forced to wrestle with
construction and with language at one and the same time. Each task is
great enough for the undivided attention of the ablest artist. I believe
that in the end the constructive task is pretty well done, but that the
more strictly literary task to give the conception verbally perfect
expression is usually somewhat slighted. We have so many well conceived
and elaborated stories, and so very few so perfect in expression that
they deserve to live, a fact indicating that construction can be learned
by nearly all, though literary power seems to be incommunicable. The
proper attitude for the beginner, who has not the facile practice of his
art at his fingers' ends, is to treat the first draft of his story as
merely tentative and an aid to development.
ORDER OF EVENTS
The discussion of plot and situation in the preceding chapter was
pointed to emphasize the importance of the constructive phases of
technique. A plot is not merely a climactic sequence of events or
happenings; a plot is some human struggle, some conflict
between opposed forces, that finds concrete expression in a climactic
sequence of events; and an infinite number[66] of persons and incidents may
be devised to give specific expression to a single fundamental plot
idea. Having fixed upon a plot, the writer of fiction should realize
precisely what is the human problem or struggle involved, and should
consider just what sort of characters and just what sort of incidents
will give most effective, most interesting expression to the particular
story idea. This he should be the more ready to do because a story
usually comes to mind ready formed as a series of events, and only
infrequently is the first combination the best, that is, the one which
will present most forcefully the underlying plot, struggle, problem, or
essential story idea. The writer of fiction has for material vast
infinity of imaginable characters and imaginable events; he should
manipulate that material to a narrowly specific end, the end of giving
most effective expression to his particular story idea or plot. In other
words, he is an artist, and must devise and re-devise, select and
reject, arrange and re-arrange that with which he deals.
Another condition of his art requires the fiction writer to master the
technique of construction and always to practice it before approaching
his strictly executive task of writing. A story is usually more that a
mere physical spectacle, more than a sequence of physical happenings.
Each event, each situation is fictionally significant or interesting by
virtue of its relation to the natures or spirits of the persons
involved. Through the physical tissue of what happens runs the psychical
thread of personality, relating part to part and rendering the whole
indeed one story. A story is a thing of spiritual values as well as a
physical spectacle, and it cannot be written adequately by visualizing
its events and following them with the pen. Some part of its spiritual
value rests in necessary implication from what happens, but not all. The
rest[67] must be brought out deliberately by the writer, and he cannot hope
to do so to the full unless before writing he realizes the necessity and
shapes his work accordingly. The point is of very great importance. It
would be hard to overestimate the number of potentially fine stories
that have been ruined through failure to realize that the main
situations or happenings of each fiction could not have full effect on a
reader unless many subtle matters of personality and spirit were
deliberately brought out in advance.
The first concern of the writer who has found his bare story is to
determine the order in which to cast both its major and minor events.
The necessity that the more important happenings of the story be given
some climactic arrangement, to hold and stimulate the reader's initial
interest, has been touched upon before, but the general ordering of
events is a matter of such importance that it will be discussed at
length.
The aim of any story is to interest, and the writer should endeavor to
touch his reader's interest as quickly as possible. Long, purposeless,
and therefore dull introductions—usually the result of the writer's
having set to work with no very definite idea of what he has to
do—should be avoided; the writer should consider precisely what his
story is, and then how he may best set it in motion without delay. The
technique is easy to state but hard to meet. Perhaps it may be possible
to set off with a happening sufficiently unique and striking in itself
to arouse a reader's interest; descriptive touches as to setting or as
to a character may be employed; or—after the fashion of some modern
writers—one may indulge in a little philosophical
overture forecasting the nature of the tale. A classification of the
several ways to open a story might be made, but it would not be useful.
In the first place, each good story is perfectly unique; in the second[68]
place, independent reading of fiction will show the ways much more
completely than mere statement. One slight matter is perhaps worth
noting. Often inherently dull introductory matter can be given piquancy
on the lips of a narrating character.
The writer should not distort his story merely to begin it
interestingly. The aim of fiction is to interest, but the person to be
interested is the cultured reader, not the mere sensation-sop. If a
particular story is forbidden by its content to begin with a rush, it
should not be wrenched and distorted to that end. The writer who seeks
merely to cater to current tastes with each tale will do well to devise
fictions that will subserve his purpose naturally. Thereby he will
achieve his aim the more easily, and may spare the reading public much
inferior work. But it is always well to make quite sure that any story
cannot be begun swiftly before adopting the more leisurely approach.
Kipling's "Without Benefit of Clergy" might have been begun so much less
invitingly by one less skilled.
The more complicated the plot, the more difficult it will be to arrange
its elements justly. The events of the structurally simple story usually
can be related in chronological order; one gives place to the other
without effort or preparation. The story with a complicated plot is not
so simple to order justly. In the structurally simple story nearly all
events have a primary value; each is a definite step in the climactic
ascension of the whole. In the story of complicated plot, on the
contrary, there are a comparatively small number of events having this
primary value in that they are definite steps in the climactic
ascension, and there are also a comparatively large number of minor
events having only a secondary value in that they serve to give the
primary events naturalness, intelligibility, and effect. Thus, in the
story displaying the conflict of[69] two characters, the chief events will
be those giving the struggle the most intense expression, and the minor
events, having only a secondary value, will be those which serve to
prepare the various conflicts and to build up and vitalize the two
opposed persons. Even if these minor events are only secondary in
intrinsic significance, they are essential to the story, and the task of
its writer—no easy one—is to order its primary events so that they
will form a climactic ascension in point of tensity and interest, and to
order its secondary events so that they will function naturally in
endowing the primary events with the fullest measure of significance to
the reader.
Each story is unique and characteristic, and of course very little
specific advice can be given as to the just ordering of events, primary
and secondary. There are two main necessities; the story must be told,
and it must be told plausibly. The first necessity, that the story be
told, requires that the writer take care, not only to set forth its
primary events with due elaboration, but also to develop its characters
into individualized human beings—an office chiefly performed by the
secondary events—and to make due preparation for each successive
primary event, that the reader may fully understand its import. The
second necessity, that the story be told plausibly, requires that the
events be ordered naturally as well as climactically, be told in
accordance with the canons of life as well as of art. The difficult task
of the writer is to picture his single phase of life so deftly and with
so little apparent forcing of his matter that the whole will be endowed
with the significant simplicity of art and yet have the naturalness of
life. Of course it is hard, and of course it takes long and patient
practice to conquer the secret. That is why the writer who has full
command of technique is so rare.
[70]The story itself largely determines the order of its primary events, for
their succession is the story. But the secondary events are as largely
subject to the control of the writer, who may devise, adapt, and order
them almost at will, and in just and natural ordering of them lies much
of the secret of verisimilitude. They are the mortar that binds the
stones of the edifice, and by slighting them many a fine initial
conception has been rendered feeble in execution. They need not be
elaborately treated; in fact, the technique to be acquired is to relate
them in due subordination to events intrinsically more important, though
giving them an easy and natural flow and succession. But the minor
events must be ordered justly, that the story may march becomingly from
major event to major event, and therefore the writer must struggle with
their ordering. No rules capable of statement regulate the matter; the
writer can only be told its importance and urged not to consider his
story fully developed and ready for writing simply because he has
determined the order of its main events.
Perhaps the whole philosophy of the ordering of events, major and minor,
can be stated broadly to be that in ordering the more important events
of a story the writer must regard chiefly the necessities of climax,
that is, of art, while in ordering the secondary events he must regard
chiefly the necessity to be natural, that is, to achieve verisimilitude.
Art is life raised to a higher power, and the struggle of the artist is
to present his phase of life as simply and pungently as can be done
without entirely severing the relation between his conception and life
itself.
One function of the secondary events of a story is to prepare the
elements of the main events. In the love story, John meets Joan that he
may subsequently make love to her. Another function of the secondary[71]
events is to develop character. In London's "The Sea Wolf" most of the
earlier episodes and many of the later are narrated to build up the
impression of Wolf Larsen's ruthlessness.[D] It follows that any minor
event will serve a double purpose when devised and placed so that it
will forward the mechanical progress of the story and also illustrate
character. Tarkington, in "Monsieur Beaucaire," begins the story with a
scene over the card table which not only gives the barber-prince his
necessary introduction to society but also shows the stuff of which he
is made. In constructing his story before writing, the author should
select and place each incident with an eye to its serving as many
purposes as possible. The story will gain thereby in compactness and
uniformity of interest. It is golden advice to urge the writer not to
accept the secondary events of a story as they first come to mind, but
to re-arrange and re-devise until each happening performs as many
functions as the necessities of the story permit.
There is nothing particularly new and striking about the main events and
situations of many stories that not only are getting published to-day,
but are truly interesting and worth while. Their interest—and therefore
their worth—derives from their writers' management of secondary events.
By varying the nature and succession of minor events, any fundamental
plot theme, such as the "eternal triangle" of[72] two men and a woman, may
be utilized a thousand times without essential loss of interest. As has
been stated, the naturalness and plausibility of a story depend largely
upon just selection and ordering of its secondary events,
and, curiously enough, in a very real sense the reader's interest
depends on the minor happenings. The plot must be a real plot and an
interesting one, but, at the last of it, the plot is only the skeleton.
The minor events of the story are the comely flesh that gives the
conception the attraction and interest of life. The figure may be
grewsome, but it is accurate. A thousand skulls look much alike, but no
face is precisely the same as another, even to the casual eye. The flesh
makes the difference, and the minor events of a story are its flesh.
The chief necessity in beginning a story is to begin it interestingly,
if its nature permits; the chief necessity in ending a story is to end
it—and there is no proviso as to its nature. A story is a fiction with
a plot, and a plot is a chain of events with a definite and significant
ending. The writer who has discovered or devised a true plot upon which
to hang his fiction will not struggle on aimlessly after narrating the
climax, for there will be nothing more to relate. I believe that absence
of true plot is most often responsible for the story that stumbles to a
lame and inconclusive halt—not an end—rather than executive inaptitude
on the writer's part, for the climax of a true plot is a hard thing not
to feel and realize. At any rate, when the climax is reached and the
story told it must be ended, justly but finally. There is nothing more
for the reader, unless the characters are caught in another chain of
significant events. "But that is another story."
To recapitulate, a story is a progression of events, major and minor.
The story largely determines the[73] character and order of its main
events, for they are the story itself; nevertheless the writer should
give them climactic arrangement, as far as possible. The minor events
are more subject to his control, and he should devise and order them
chiefly with an eye to verisimilitude and plausibility, not forgetting
that each should serve some definite purpose and will be the more useful
if it can be made to serve more than one.
PREPARATION
Two sorts of preparation must engage the attention of the writer of a
story. The first is purely mechanical, and is the result of the writer's
realization of the physical necessities of his story. If at some
definite point the hero is to be found in some definite place by other
characters, the writer must prepare to place him there. The necessity is
obvious, and this sort of preparation requires little discussion, except
the warning that in the complicated story it will demand close
attention. But the second sort of preparation is a much more delicate
matter, and in a sense is a great part of the art of fiction. I have
reference to the necessity that the writer individualize and vitalize
the people of his story so that the significant situations of the
fiction may have maximum effect on a reader. The problem is not so much
how to delineate character, which will be taken up later, as to plan the
whole story so that it will have body and not be a mere report.
There are three fundamental types of story, it is true, in that a story
may emphasize any one of its elements of character, of complication of
incident, or of atmosphere. But the story which depends for its appeal
on the novelty or intrinsic significance of the bare succession of its
events is somewhat rare; at least it[74] is true that fiction concerns man
primarily, and in the normal story, or, better, in the story which the
necessities of plot-structure most frequently produce,[E] the man is as
important as the event. Since the person is as important as the event,
the persons involved in any significant situation of a story must be
developed as well as the situation itself. The aim is to give the
situation maximum effect, and the concern of the writer is not so much
to develop character, strictly, as to give the body of reality to the
whole story. It is about human beings, and, however novel and
interesting the plot, unless they are given some of the vivacity and
concreteness of real men and women the fiction will be devoid of the
breath of life. The first sort of preparation builds up the physical
situations of a story; the preparation now under discussion builds up
its people.
Nothing is more common than for the beginning writer to devise or
discover an eminently worthy plot idea, and nothing is more uncommon
than for him to utilize it to the full and develop it adequately. The
reason for the failure is simple. The better the plot, the more humanly
significant its situations. They are so very significant, in the case of
the fine plot, that the beginning writer is led to think that his only
task is to outline them. But merely to outline a significant situation
or event will not give it the emotional force that fiction must possess,
otherwise the newspaper would be read in tears. The event must involve
real people, if the emotion of a reader is to be aroused. A newspaper
item may state that Mary Smith has committed suicide because deserted by
her lover, but though the casual reader will realize intellectually and
abstractly the pathos of the situation, his emotion will not be stirred
unless he is a more sensitive human precipitate than most readers. To
move his heart, rather than his mind, some particular Mary Smith, like
no one else in the world, must walk a living presence through the story
built about such a theme. The difference is between merely reporting
events and picturing life.
[75]
Like most other matters of technique, this of giving individuality and
life to the people of a story is based on the necessity to achieve
verisimilitude and interest. Human life is a great complex of millions
of men and women doing certain things, and in a story, which is a
picture of a phase of life, the people must be drawn with as much
definition and detail as the events, or the reader will not accept the
fiction as fictional truth.
In great part, the matter of developing the human elements of a story is
a problem of construction, as is the matter of preparing a natural
succession of events. The writer first must order his main events as
interestingly and plausibly as possible. He then must devise and order
his secondary events as to give the requisite spacing and naturalness to
the whole, and he also must take care to provide for such action on the
part of the characters that when they come to the main events they will
be something more than named abstractions. Of course, the writer has
means at command to vitalize his people other than to draw them in
actions illustrating their peculiarities, but it is difficult enough at
best to vivify a character, and the writer who depends solely on his
powers of direct description will achieve very meager results. I have
already referred to the part the secondary events of a story play in
developing character, and have cited London's "The Sea Wolf" as an
instance. A great part[76] of the book is devoted to a succession of
episodes which develop Larsen's striking personality. It is very
skillfully done in this respect, and the result is as memorable a figure
as exists in recent fiction. The beginning writer and even the more
practiced hand will do well to note the great part that just
construction must have played in producing the impression of the Wolf's
virility and ruthlessness.
It all may be termed a matter of drawing character, but the necessity is
to realize that in constructing his story before writing an author must
prepare for the development of its people as well as for the development
of its events. The work will have to be done sometime, if the story is
to be more than a report, and it should be done before writing, so far
as it is a matter of construction. The writer who has conceived a plot
of real merit has done much, but he has not done all. The striking
events of a plot are significant only in relation to the people of the
story, and a reader must be made to feel the reality of the characters
as well as the reality of the events. The single concern of the writer
of fiction is to lay on his page a picture of a phase of life that is
effective because it is plausible, and he must give equal attention to
the persons of the story and to what they do, both in construction and
execution.[F]
PROPORTION
In planning his story with an eye to giving it the[77] greatest semblance
of reality, the writer has one means ready to his hand which is the more
useful because somewhat mechanical. I have reference to the preservation
of proportion.
Fundamentally, proportion is a mere matter of space or length. In real
life events vary in point of the time they take to happen, and in the
story proportion may be preserved by dividing the available space justly
between the several events. Normally a love scene will take longer to
happen than a murder, which is an affair of one high-pitched moment, and
in planning and writing a story which contains both a love scene and a
murder a proper amount of space should be assigned to each. In the story
the reader passes through days in an hour and through hours in a minute;
he must not be made to pass through minutes in an hour, and through
hours of events as important to the story in a minute. A murder may be
more important in the story than a love scene, and so require emphasis,
but it cannot be stressed by great expansion without violating
proportion. Emphasis must be laid by narrating vividly, a matter to be
taken up in its proper place when discussing executive technique.
The mere fact that the writer must narrate the main events of his story
in some detail usually will lead him unconsciously to preserve
proportion so far as they are concerned. The space necessary to develop
a murder will have roughly the same relation to the space necessary to
develop a love scene as the duration of a real murder has to the
duration of a real love scene. But the minor events of a story function
on a different plane from its major happenings, and so cannot be
proportioned similarly. If a murderer must sail from London to New York
to reach his victim—either on account of the place necessities of the
story, or to fasten an impression of his animosity on the reader—the[78]
minutes of the days of the voyage cannot be related with as much detail
as the minutes of the actual killing. In planning a story, the writer
should make provision for the secondary events and the strict matter of
transition, as well as for the main events, but he should not plan to
narrate in detail until a main event is reached. The beginning writer
seems very often to be afraid to narrate in general terms, even where
the story demands no detail, and the fault probably arises from a vague
feeling that the reader will not accept the author's say-so, but must be
"shown." To an extent, that is true. However, where the matter is of
transition, merely to forward the mechanical progress of the story,
detailed narration is distortion. It will inevitably cause loss of
suspense and interest.
Realization of the relative importance to the story of each of its parts
will give the writer the standard whereby to distribute its space. In
writing the short story the preservation of proportion is most
essential; there is so little space at hand that two words cannot be
wasted in detailed narration where more general narration will suffice,
and it all comes under the reader's eye so nearly at one moment that any
disproportion in the treatment of events of equal importance will be
detected. In the novel, lack of proportion may be a more secret fault,
but it will have its effect.
GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS
In casting about for a story the writer should regard chiefly the
intrinsic merits of each idea that comes to him. But when he has pitched
upon his theme or plot, and approaches the task of construction and
elaboration, he should change his viewpoint and strive to view his
conception with the cold eye of a reader. A reader has nothing to go
upon except what the writer[79] sets down, and realization of the fact will
lead the writer in construction to provide for every matter essential to
give the story full appeal. Unless it is developed completely, it will
fail to impress one who has no knowledge of the conception except that
imparted by the writer's words. Nothing essential can be omitted or
slighted without risking failure. On the other hand, nothing unessential
can be brought out without obscuring the real story. Careful
construction and elaboration of the initial idea is necessary before
writing, that the author may have his hands free for the difficult task
of execution, and in construction the writer should occupy the detached
position of a reader when estimating what should be developed and what
suppressed.
[80]
CHAPTER VI
EXECUTIVE TECHNIQUE OF NARRATION
Mode of Narration—First Person
Narration—Variation—Advantages—Disadvantages—Plausibility—Third
Person Narration—Advantages—Avoidance of
Artificiality—Consideration of Length—Maintenance and Shifting
of Viewpoint—Attitude of Author—Style—Product of
Technique—Congruity of Manner—Story of Action—Fantasy—Story
of Character.
After conceiving and elaborating his story, the writer must approach the
task of expression. The two preliminary matters to be settled are the
mode of narration and the manner or style for which the story calls.
Though preliminary, they are most properly treated as part of executive
technique.
MODE OF NARRATION
The question of how the story may be told most easily and effectively is
much more delicate than merely to choose between narration in the first
or third person, for numerous variations in these two basic methods are
open to adoption. Each method or viewpoint has its advantages and
disadvantages, and that method should be chosen which most nearly suits
the particular story.
Variation in first person narration—the typical[81] form of which is to
have a chief character tell his own story—is possible by shifting the
story from the lips of a major character to those of a less important
personage, who is often little more than an animated mouthpiece. The
device is really an attempt to escape from the inherent disadvantages of
typical first person narration. A just regard for the reader often
requires that more be set forth than any major character could naturally
know, but some minor character may be made to pass ubiquitously through
the whole tale, viewing the essential acts of all the major characters
and relating them to the reader. Or the device may be carried farther,
and the story told in the first person by a succession of characters.
The chief advantage in first person narration by an important or the
most important character lies in the fact that the reader is accustomed
to a more or less one-sided presentation of events. That is the way he
sees things himself, as a bare succession of happenings springing from
the conflict of human motives of which he can be sure only of his own.
Something happens, and he knows within limits why he did his part in
bringing it about, but the part of the other man is obscure to him, and
he can go only on conjecture and inference. So the story told in the
first person has perhaps a slightly greater flavor of plausibility than
that told in the third person.
There is another advantage in first person narration. Some stories
cannot be launched with a rush; the significant action must be prefaced
by a considerable mass of introductory matter that is essential to full
understanding of subsequent events; and this introductory matter can
often be made less repellent to the reader when it is artfully
introduced by a narrating character. The speaking character can be made
to tell his story with a smack of personality that appears[82] somewhat
affected and flippant when the writer employs the third person. This
flippancy and affectation is apparent is some of Kipling's and O.
Henry's work, and probably repels as many as it attracts.
Generally, throughout a story, first person narration makes easier the
attainment of uniformity of style, if that be a merit in the case of all
stories as it unquestionably is in the case of the short story, with its
necessary emphasis on all formal unities. During the vogue of the
historical novel some years ago this mode of narration was ridden to
death simply because it lessens for the writer the labor of catching
what he conceives to be the tone of the particular society he is
portraying. As to the general matter of tone, Stevenson refers, in a
letter, to "The Ebb Tide," as "a dreadful, grimy business in the third
person, where the strain between a vilely realistic dialogue and a
narrative style pitched about (in phrase) 'four notes higher' than it
should have been has sown my head with grey hairs." Had the story been
told by one of the characters there would have been no difficulty of the
sort.
"The Ebb Tide" probably could not have been told effectively in the
first person, for much of its power derives from the way in which
Stevenson limns the lovely South Pacific scenes through which its poor
lost derelicts of people move. Their speech is "vilely
realistic" because they are common men, sea captain and clerk and
middle-class Englishman, and the lips of no one of them could have been
made to state effectively without distortion what his eyes saw. Any
story has certain matters which must be brought out justly if the whole
is to have due effect, and if first person narration renders it
impossible to treat such matters justly that mode of narration cannot be
used. The example of "The Ebb Tide" shows that in estimating the
availability of narration in the first person the[83] writer must consider
that the very nature and being of a character may seal his eyes to many
matters. Moreover, the reader will not readily accept in a narrating
character the literary power that is even expected in the author writing
in the third person. A story is a whole, its people existing subject to
the limitations of its necessities, and the mode of narration must
function naturally with the rest, and not demand impossibilities.
One difficulty of first person narration is not so much fictional as
psychological. If the story demands emphasis upon the good qualities of
the narrator, his bravery, devotion, love, generosity, or a thousand
others, a reader will soon weary of the eternal I. It is safe to say
that if a character must be shown in a strongly favorable light, let it
be done by the author or some other character, not by himself, unless
the moral perfection of the person is a matter solely of inference from
his acts.
The very complicated plot can rarely be handled well in the first
person, particularly if the events cannot be cast in chronological
order. On the other hand, first person narration is often a useful
device to keep from the reader's knowledge, unobtrusively and without
seeming effort, matters which he must not learn prematurely. Conan
Doyle's Watson is an instance. Thus the chief disadvantage in employing
the narrating character, that he cannot be made omniscient, may be
turned to advantage. The whole question is one to be determined only
after careful consideration of the demands of a particular story, and
the chief need is not so much to state rules for its solution as to
point out the real necessity that the writer know what he is about
before pitching on a mode of narration. It is a prevalent habit, and a
bad one, to accept a story as it first takes shape in the mind,
narrative, point of view, and all.
[84]There is a tendency among writers of fiction, particularly those who are
just beginning, to narrate in the first person, perhaps because they
feel that the reader will accept the story more readily in such shape.
Other things being equal, first person narration is a trifle more
natural and plausible than narration in the third person, but its
limitations are much more strict. At the last of it, readers are so
thoroughly habituated to the impersonal viewpoint that a writer does not
gain much in power to convince by adoption of the other. A story is
taken up because a story is wanted, and a reader is willing to accept
the conventions of the art. So incredible a fiction as Poe's "A Descent
into the Maelstrom" was probably best told in the first person, but the
average story need not strain so sedulously for verisimilitude so far as
the mechanics of narration are concerned.
Typical third person narration is illustrated by the story of action,
the wholly objective story, told in the third person. The impersonal
relator is omniscient, but his omniscience is not so obtrusive as in the
story that touches on the facts of the soul. This omniscience of the
relator is the chief advantage of third person narration, but the writer
will only infrequently find it advisable to assume omniscience absolute
and entire, involving knowledge of all the objective acts and the
subjective motives of all the characters. If the story is largely
analytical of more than one character the writer may be
forced to "know it all" in order to display his material. But
omniscience carried to such a point tends to be over-artificial, the
underlying cause of much of the artistic weakness of the story which
lays bare the souls of all characters instead of one or
two of the most significant. In his own daily life the reader is
accustomed to a one-sided presentation of the social spectacle, and
complete omniscience on the part of the[85] impersonal relator of a fiction
has the taint of artificiality, or even of bare exposition. And
exposition, which implies a mathematically complete presentation, is not
fiction, which implies shading and suppression, absolute or temporary.
Any suggestion of artificiality may be entirely avoided, and the
frequently necessary advantages of third person narration retained, by
assuming omniscience as to all the physical facts or events of the story
while rejecting omniscience as to the souls of the characters, except
the souls of one or a few. Thus the writer may escape the inherent
limitation of first person narration, that the story is told by a
character of definite powers and knowledge, and retain the chief
advantage of that mode of narration, the more or less single viewpoint,
corresponding with a reader's own outlook on life and its happenings.
This hybrid method of narration utilizes the virtues and rejects the
vices of the two strict types. By telling his story in the third person,
but from the viewpoint of one or two of the chief characters, an author
may assume the desirable omniscience as to objective facts and the
desirable limitation upon knowledge as to subjective motives. This is
not to say that the nature of a particular story may not call for strict
first or third person narration; it is merely a suggestion that the
virtue of each type may be utilized at once. Each story makes
certain demands, and the writer is not confined to two means of
satisfying them.
A reader of any catholicity of taste can recall numerous examples of the
various modes of narration, and in future reading it will be directly
profitable for the writer to note the narrative device employed, and how
it has aided or hampered the development of the fiction.
More extreme devices have been, and may be employed,[86] such as
Richardson's of telling a story in a series of letters. They are curious
rather than important.
In estimating the availability of a mode of narration the writer should
consider the matter of length. The adoption of the
omniscient viewpoint may carry the story unnecessarily
beyond due limits, for the writer who has taken to himself the privilege
to know all facts and motives may be led into depicting events or
analyzing character for his own pleasure, rather than because the story
demands it. If a story demands space, space it must have, but the
essence of literary power and artistry is to write with the utmost
brevity and pungency compatible with adequate expression. The story must
be told; every essential phase must be brought out; but unsignificant
words can only do their bit toward spoiling the desired effect. The
adoption of a too inclusive mode of narration may lead the writer
astray; conversely, the mode of narration most nearly suited to the
necessities of his story will aid in holding his pen to the line. If the
story is of action, unconcerned with motives save by implication, and
the writer tells it in the first person, or in the third person from the
viewpoint of a single character, he will be led to confine himself to
the depiction of the panorama of events, which is the work in hand. Yet,
if the story requires that the reader be given a direct view of the
spiritual workings of large numbers of characters, the writer must tell
it in the third person and assume universal knowledge as to event and
spirit. A mode of narration must be deliberately selected for each new
story with due regard to its idiosyncrasies, and to
make the choice correctly cannot fail to be of great advantage.
It is often stated that having settled upon what is most narrowly termed
a mode of narration and most[87] broadly a viewpoint the writer should be
sedulous not to depart from it. The writer of the short story should not
alter the narrative point of view, for obvious reasons. The short story
is short; it depends for its power upon dramatic effect; and in writing
it there is no occasion or excuse for any shifting of outlook. The short
story is artistically the strictest form of prose fiction, that is, it
is most strictly subject to the conventions of the art of fiction, of
which maintenance of the point of view is one. But the novel is a much
looser form, and unless the particular story is uniquely uniform in
texture, as the frank tale of adventure, shifting the point of view
often will prove necessary.
If the author of a novel has chosen to write with knowledge of the inner
workings of more than one of the characters, but not with knowledge of
all, so that he relates from the viewpoint of several characters, rather
than the viewpoint of some impersonal observer to whom the souls of all
are open, numerous shifts of viewpoint will be necessary. They are
implied in the mode of narration itself. The world cannot be looked at
through the eyes and souls of a succession of characters without a
succession of shifts. All this merely amounts to saying that certain
modes of narration which cannot be employed in writing the strict short
story may be freely employed in writing the novel. In the case of the
novel, or of the story that is somewhat brief without being a strict
short story, the task is not so much never to shift the viewpoint,
rather always to indicate the shift with clearness. Just as the reader's
interest should be the first consideration in choosing matter and
devising a plot, clarity to the reader must be considered when any shift
in the narrative point of view becomes necessary. Let the shift be
avowed and obvious; any uncertainty can lead only to confusion.
[88]It follows that writers who have chosen to tell their stories from the
viewpoints of several characters will prove the most profitable for
study as to how to shift viewpoint without confusing a reader. Chiefly,
of course, they are novelists, Eliot, Balzac, Hardy, Scott, and an
infinity of lesser lights. Galsworthy, for instance, in each of his
chapters succeeds in producing a singular unity of effect, with
corresponding clarity for the reader, chiefly by making his shifts of
viewpoint coincide with shifts of scene and person.[G]
[89]
Inextricably bound up with the mode of narration and the general
narrative viewpoint of the story is the matter of the author's own
attitude toward the story. The distinction between these matters is
fine, but real. It is possible that a given story may be told,
adequately so far as the bare story is concerned, in any one of several
different ways. Narration in the first person by a major or a minor
character may be employed, or the author may write in the third person,
assuming knowledge of all events and of the inner workings of one, some,
or all of the characters. But there is another consideration. The whole
conception may depend for its appeal upon what I am forced to call very
roughly sympathy for a character or group of characters, and a mode of
narration must be employed which will enable the author to express his
sympathy that he may evoke the reader's.
I do not wish to shift the discussion into the field of ethics, but the
point is that any chain of events may be colored in the telling
favorably or unfavorably to the persons concerned. A coarse instance is
afforded by a prosecution for crime. In making their final arguments to
the jury, prosecuting attorney and attorney for the defense alike deal
with the same facts in evidence, but on the lips of one the defendant
will be a glorified and persecuted saint. A more
delicate instance is afforded by Stevenson's "The Ebb Tide," previously
mentioned. Robert Herrick commits all the criminal acts committed by
Huish, the cockney clerk, except to attempt murder, but the reader
pities Herrick while hating Huish. This is so because Stevenson writes
of Herrick with a measure of sympathy, and tells the story, though in
the third person, almost entirely from his point of view. But of Huish
we have only his acts and words. The treatment of him is wholly
objective.
The story which develops a chain of events tending to show a character
or group of characters in a strongly unfavorable light should not be
told too objectively, or the reader will be repelled by its uniform[90]
ugliness, a matter which must be considered in choosing a mode of
narration. It is not a point of morals, but one of contrast. If the
writer has no sympathy for one or some of his people, or writes in such
manner that he cannot express any predilection, they will appear all of
a piece to a reader, with a consequent loss of interest. In this very
real sense the story whose characters are uniformly repellent may be
said to be bad art.
Generally, therefore, the writer must consider the necessities of his
story in determining the mode of narration, and must also consider his
own attitude toward its people and their doings. Its appeal to him may
lie in his sympathy for some person or persons, and unless that sympathy
be given expression in some way the story may not have an equal appeal
to a reader. The perfect fiction is a congruous expression of a phase of
life, and in it the more subtle matters of life, sympathy and
predilection have their place.
STYLE
The term style has been so exclusively used to denote an author's style
in general, rather than the style of some particular work, unlike the
styles of others by the same hand, that it is apt to suggest something
different from what is meant by its use here. To show the distinction I
cannot do better than to quote from Stevenson's "A Note on Realism."
"Usually in all works of art that have been conceived from within
outwards, and generously nourished from the author's mind, the moment in
which he begins to execute is one of extreme perplexity and strain.
Artists of indifferent energy and an imperfect devotion to their own
ideal make this ungrateful effort once for all; and, having formed a
style, adhere to it[91] through life. But those of a higher order cannot
rest content with a process which, as they continue to employ it, must
infallibly degenerate towards the academic and the cut-and-dried. Every
fresh war in which they embark is the signal for a fresh engagement of
the whole forces of their mind; and the changing views which accompany
the growth of their experience are marked by still more sweeping
alterations in the manner of their art. So that criticism loves to dwell
upon and distinguish the varying periods of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, or
a Beethoven."
In the case of Stevenson himself this process is especially manifest.
With a unique earnestness he sought from the first to adapt his manner
to his matter, and, since he grew with the years, each new tale concerns
itself with matter a little more humanly significant than its
predecessor, and is told in keeping therewith. The result is that such
stories as "The New Arabian Nights" series, fantastically conceived,
fantastically told, give place to "The Master of Ballentrae," "The Ebb
Tide," and "Weir of Hermiston," fictions worthy in every sense, the
last, indeed, an unfinished masterpiece. And with each new story the
author's style gains in dignity and restraint, in the process of
adaptation to the work. I mention Stevenson in this connection not
because he is greater than many others, nor his work finer, but because
its range was so wide that it called for many manners or styles. All
will prove a profitable study, for they are all Stevenson's and yet all
different. Writers who have been somewhat more narrow in choice of
matter have not been under so pressing a necessity to vary their manner
with each new work.
Possibly it is unwise to emphasize the matter of style at all when
writing for the apprentice author. Telling the story is usually task
enough, and style in[92] general is a product rather than an item of
technique, therefore best sought indirectly. But even if the more
delicate tones and shadings possible in writing are beyond the reach of
all save the most skilled, preservation of the broader congruities of
manner is possible by the beginner, and must be achieved if his work is
to be even passable. Such a story as "The Scarlet Letter" could not have
been told in Dickens' usual manner, nor could "The Pickwick Papers" have
been written in the style of Meredith. The manner of telling any story
must be reasonably adapted to its content, or the whole will be a shabby
burlesque, destined never to achieve the laurel of print. The writer
need not fret about his individual style, but he should ponder seriously
the manner for which each story calls.
The story chiefly of action is best told without great verbal
elaboration, which is unnecessary and tends only to hinder the march of
events. The whole thing is an objective presentation, and the open
character of its elements renders unnecessary laborious and involved
explanation. The bare facts carry their own warrant openly displayed,
and when they are shown the task is done. Sentences will tend to be a
trifle shorter than in other work, and paragraphs likewise. The writer's
chief aim will be to write not only clearly but vividly, for the story
of action must depend chiefly upon vividness for its verisimilitude. The
simpler figures will be profitable to employ, provided they are not too
good and do not call attention to themselves rather than the image they
are used to precipitate. The writer's general endeavor will be to follow
stylistically the rapid movement of events. A reading of Dumas will show
this method in use.
If there is a touch of fantasy about the tale, greater elaboration in
sentence structure and some freakishness in the choice of words will be
permissible[93] and even desirable, for true verisimilitude lies in the
accordance of manner and matter. The story with a thread of unreality in
its essential composition will not gain in power by matter of fact
telling; the measure of verisimilitude which it can attain is strictly
limited by its very nature, and can be gained to the full only by
frankly and avowedly making it what it is.[H] An instance is afforded by
Stevenson's "New Arabian Nights" series or Hawthorne's "Tanglewood
Tales."
The story placing emphasis on character, or the story of atmosphere,
unless the atmosphere itself be the onrush of events, will normally
demand more leisurely treatment than the story of action. The movement
of the story will be slower, and the style will be correspondingly
affected. Dealing with motives directly will force the writer to qualify
and distinguish, adding to length of sentences, while to precipitate an
atmosphere in words is a matter of such delicacy that the writer will be
forced to employ every resource of language, with a consequent
complication in structure. The necessity is to hold the tale in mind
before writing until its totality of character is realized, then to
strive to commit no gaucheries in execution. The right word for the
right place must be sought, indefinite advice which will prove of little
aid in writing a single story, but which will yield ample returns if
followed through careful and intelligent writing of many stories. In
dealing with this matter of manner or style, and the necessity that it
be in keeping with the particular story in hand, it is impossible to
give examples on account of lack of space. I can only refer the reader
to almost any fiction that has resisted the tooth of time. To leave
prose for a moment and turn to poetry, a reading of Milton's "L'Allegro"
and "Il Penseroso" will demonstrate the possibility and display the
result of adapting the manner to the matter. The style of both is
unmistakably Milton's alone, marked by his dignity and elevation of
tone, yet one is as sweet and light as a summer breeze, the other as
grave and sombre as a minor chord.
[94]
A reading of Jane Austen will prove profitable in this connection. Her
books are all of a piece in manner and matter. Perhaps the writer who
must please the somewhat hectic modern market will find little profit in
imitating her choice of matter, but the skill with which she weaves her
pattern will be instructive. Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights"
perfectly fits the garment to the body. The story is wild and its style
is wild. George Douglas's "The House With the Green Shutters," a more
recent book and one of singular power, is well done in this respect. It
is essentially rugged and bitter, and the author, though without
particular distinction of individual style, strikes no note not in
keeping with the general conception.
[95]
CHAPTER VII
EXECUTIVE TECHNIQUE OF NARRATION
Narration Method—Story of the Commonplace—Story of the
Bizarre—Vividness—Suspense—Emphasis and Suppression—Matter
of Weight—Expansion and Vividness—Primary and Secondary
Events—Transition—General Narration—Blending of Elements.
The writer who has discovered a good plot, so that his interest will not
flag in writing, and who has fully developed the conception, so that he
can have a single eye to execution, will meet few obstacles in setting
down the whole story. Difficulties there will be in plenty, but they
will be self-imposed. That is to say, it will be very easy to give the
justly elaborated conception expression approximately adequate, but it
will be very hard to give the conception verbally faultless expression.
If the writer strives merely to tell the story, the labor of writing
will be slight; if he strives to write with artistry and power, it will
be infinitely great.
This book is on the technique of fiction writing, not on the technique
of writing; my aim is to discuss only the matters of technique peculiar
to the art of fiction. Thus, in this chapter I shall have occasion to
state that the important event should be emphasized, and that vividness
in narration is a means to that end, but how to narrate vividly is a
question of rhetoric generally, and it is not my purpose to discuss it.
Moreover, it is emphatically true that the capacity to narrate[96] vividly
cannot be attained by the mere study of examples, the only way in which
the matter can be studied. The writer can only strive constantly in his
work to write with definition and force. It is all a matter of practice,
whether or not the capacity must be inborn. But the principle of fiction
technique, that the important event should be emphasized in some way,
whether by vividness or expansion, is subject to direct statement and to
assimulation from the direct statement. Therefore statement of the
principle is all that a work on fiction technique need attempt. The rest
lies with the writer himself.[I]
The first chapter on the executive technique of narration took up the
two preliminary problems of the mode of narration and of manner or
style; this second chapter has to do with certain other matters that
must be considered in writing a story, viewed as a chain of events.
Character, atmosphere, and dialogue will receive separate treatment, and
for discussion of the strict technique of expression the reader is
referred to works on rhetoric, except that in discussing the technique
of description in the next chapter I shall have occasion to touch upon
nicety of expression.
The method of narration is necessarily influenced somewhat by the style
the writer of a story strives first to find and then to maintain, but
the style does not entirely determine the method, or the method the
style. The matters are distinct, though mutually influential.
There are two kinds of lives, or at least two kinds of incidents, the
humdrum and the bizarre. Likewise and consequently there are two kinds
of stories to be told, the humdrum and the bizarre. Each may be
fashioned into something worth while. Whether the matter of a story is
worth while depends on the significance of the phase of life involved;
whether the story itself is worth while depends on its plausibility or
verisimilitude, which depends on the way it is constructed and told.
The humdrum story, that deals with the more common actualities of life,
the little details that are significant only in combination or in
relation to certain characters, can be told as simply as the writer
desires. He has only to set down the succession of details that
constitutes the story. Each new incident will not only advance the
narrative progress of the story, but the commonplace nature of each
incident in itself will tend to give the fiction its necessary
plausibility. Simply because each incident is common and of universal
occurrence the reader will accept it and the story compounded of such
elements. Matter of fact phrasing, not phrasing too "literary" in spots,
is most suitable.[98][J] Such a story does not require high lights of
expression, and they should not be interpolated.
The story dealing with the strange and wonderful is another matter. In
writing it the author's aim is the same as in writing the commonplace
story, to give it plausibility and verisimilitude, but the task is
infinitely more difficult. Proper construction will aid greatly, and in
execution the writer has two resources.
The first is the method of Defoe, and consists in showing the reader the
strange course of events through a lattice of familiar thoughts and
things. It is an attempt to give the essentially bizarre story something
of the plausibility and power of the story of the commonplace by
interpolating universally familiar matters of detail. They are
unnecessary to the bare story, but they are useful to give the reader a
thread of connection between his own experience and the strange fiction.
The method is persuasive, and requires a high degree of craftsmanship to
employ well. Familiar and unfamiliar must be woven together with a
careful and skilful hand. And obviously it requires space. Examples are
Defoe's work—often cited—such as "Robinson Crusoe" or "A Journal of
the Plague Year," or Balzac's "Peau de Chagrin."
[99]
The second method to give to the strange and wonderful verisimilitude
and plausibility is not persuasive, but consists in writing with such
vividness, definition, and force that the verbal picture will be
accepted without question as visual evidence. Seeing is believing. In
fact, the more strange or wild any chain of events, the deeper their
impression on a reader, provided always that he be made to see them.
Obviously, to the use of this method the highest powers are necessary,
the power to select the salient and distinctive points of the thing to
be drawn, excising all superfluous matters, the power to choose the
exact and vivid word, and, finally, the power—more, seemingly, than
that of mere word-selection—to precipitate reality in words, one
sometimes manifested by works the diction of which is not particularly
dynamic. It is the method of Stevenson and Kipling, among others, and to
the author who can employ it no degree of novelty in the physical
conditions of a story is a deterrent. He can show the thing like a
painting or a stage scene, and his reader runs breathlessly with him,
caught up in the race of events. The method demands the highest
imaginative powers in the author, that he may actually see the matter he
is depicting, in detail and in the mass, and the highest executive
powers, that he may fix its living image with his pen.
This method to present the bizarre event with all the color and body of
reality—of course it may be employed in depicting the commonplace as
well, though expression of the commonplace should not be too
heightened—is the method of the severe literary artist, because it is
compatible with the most perfect unity and the greatest brevity. To
arouse emotion in a reader the writer must have something more than mere
color in his work, but to make a reader see anything it is only
necessary always to search for the right word, which is the word both
exact and dynamic. Yet if this is the sole condition, it is a doubly
hard one. The perfectly exact word is so elusive, and, when discovered,
it is so often lacking in the requisite force. Exactness is not enough;
the needful word is the one that not only will fit the author's vision,
but give it life;[100] and it is here that figurative language finds its
office. "I saw a fleet," is exact. "I saw a hundred sail," is equally
exact, and much more vivid.
Vivid, direct writing, which does not depend on connection with his own
experience to hold the reader, is the most practicable narrative method
for use in the short story or novel of incident, that is, in the typical
fiction, where interest centers in the course of events. In other words,
it is the typical narrative method; the method of coaxing the reader
into believing the strange by showing it in juxtaposition with the
familiar is a variation from type. Narration consists in stating what
happened. If what happened was commonplace, the reader need only be told
it; if what happened was strange, the reader must be coaxed or forced to
believe it, and the writer must either coax him or narrate with such
vividness and power that the word will have the body and reality of the
fact.
SUSPENSE
The term suspense is often misused to characterize a quality of
narration supposed to result from the employment of some technical
device. What is meant, of course, is that a good story, involving real
people, justly related, will hold its reader's interest until the
denouement is reached. Suspense means continued interest, and can result
only from sound conception, careful elaboration, and adequate narration
of a story. The reader who is shown real people in an interesting
situation will be in a state of suspense through his curiosity and
desire to learn what happened next. There is no technical device to
create suspense, for suspense can result only from the worth of the
whole story. I mention the matter thus briefly on account of the misuse
of the term. If there is any technique to create[101] suspense, it is the
technique to order a story's events in a climactic ascension, and is not
an executive device.
EMPHASIS AND SUPPRESSION
A story is made up of a succession of happenings, some of major and many
of minor importance, and in telling it the writer must emphasize the
most important events to impress their significance upon a reader. It
will not do to relate the whole, indiscriminately, with as much
vividness as the writer can command, for the fictional value of the
whole necessarily resides in the relation between its chief events, and
that relation can be made apparent only by showing them in high relief.
The most important events of a story must be emphasized; events of some
but not of controlling importance must not be stressed too much; and the
very trivial events, which are usually matter of transition, necessary
only to the mechanical progress of the story, should be suppressed by
narrating without detail and in general terms.
Fundamentally, emphasis and suppression are matters of weight, while
proportion is a matter of space. There is a real relation between
preserving proportion and laying emphasis, but it is accidental. When an
important event is somewhat complicated, as a love scene, proportion
requires that it be narrated in detail, for it would take some time to
happen in reality; and due emphasis will be secured by detailed
narration. But when an important event is inherently simple in character
and brief in the time it would take to happen, proportion requires that
it be given not too much space, while emphasis requires that it be
stressed. To stress such an event, the writer's sole recourse is
vividness in narration. The physical details are few, but they must be
made strikingly impressive. Where an event is essentially[102] complicated,
a knot of many details, emphasis may be laid by detailed narration, by
expansion, and proportion will not be violated. In the case of the
important but inherently simple event there are no great number of
details to be marshalled on the page, and the writer can only strive to
invest his few words with power.
The writer should consider the matter of proportion in
allotting the space of a story before writing, as has been
stated. In writing, the mere fact that he follows events in detail with
his pen will lead him to emphasize by expansion, where the subject
matter naturally calls for that mode of securing emphasis. Where
expansion is impossible on account of the absence of details to be
narrated, the writer's realization of the importance of the event will
lead him to cast about for the vivid word. That is to say, in dealing
with the important events of a story the way to write is to visualize
the procession of happenings and to follow them with the pen in detail,
seeking the vivid and emphatic word where the event is vivid and
emphatic. When the event is a bundle of many details, setting them down
will emphasize the episode by expansion; and where the event is simple,
and a mere detail in itself, as a blow, vividness in narration will
counterfeit the force of the episode.
Normally, the succession of chief events will take up the greater part
of the space available for a story, and, if the work of construction has
been done properly before writing, the writer will have his attention
free to visualize each successive happening and to picture it. The
difficulty will be to express perfectly. The process is natural. It
cannot be too strongly insisted that the way to write the strict story
part of a story is to strive to see the thing in imagination and to get
it on paper with the breath of life in it. By[103] following his vision with
his pen the writer will take care of the matters of proportion and
emphasis without detached calculation looking to that end.
But that is not quite true in narrating secondary events and writing
general matter of transition, the part of a story that gives the main
events a natural sequence and proper spacing, or that develops
character. The main events exist only for the story; they are the story.
The secondary events and matter of transition exist largely for the sake
of the reader. Such events prepare the characters, for instance, that
the main situations may have true and full dramatic value to the reader,
while the general matter of transition serves to give the main events
spacing and the story plausibility. And in narrating secondary events,
and writing matter of transition, the writer cannot have an eye solely
to imagining the procession of little happenings and to reproducing them
in detail. If he wrote so they would bulk as large as the main events,
and the short story would fill a novel and the novel an encyclopaedia.
Instead, the writer must realize the reasons that led him to choose or
devise each secondary event while constructing the story, and must
narrate each minor event so that it will just perform its designed
function and no more. The major events of a story are primarily
significant, and it is sufficient to narrate them so as to counterfeit
them as they would be in reality. The minor events of a story are not
significant in themselves, but only in relation to something else, and
in narrating them the writer should develop only their significant
phases. They must be given reality and verisimilitude, but their aspects
and implications unimportant to the story should not be detailed and
thereby stressed. All aspects of the main events are to be detailed
simply because all aspects of the main events are important to the
story. They are the story.
[104]The discussion is somewhat abstract and involved, but necessarily so.
The technique will be easier to practice than it sounds, much easier,
for instance, than to narrate the simple but important event with due
emphasis through vividness. That necessity is supremely easy to state or
realize, but supremely hard to meet in writing a story. The technique of
handling secondary events and matter of transition is hard to state
abstractly and to grasp from mere discussion, but when it is grasped it
is comparatively easy to apply in writing, for it calls for no executive
power, merely the negative power to leave out the insignificant.
It will be seen that the process of narrating the minor events of a
story is not natural, but highly artificial. The process of narrating
the main events is natural; it consists merely in imagining and
reproducing them with as much body and color as possible. Where
undivided attention to phrasing is most essential, the writer can give
it; where it is least essential, in setting out a minor event, the
writer must give much attention to what aspects of the episode he should
emphasize. He cannot reproduce it in full detail simply for what it is
in itself. Just narration of secondary episodes and transitional
passages is a matter of calculation; just narration of the more
important events of a story is a matter of warm creation and verbal
power.
TRANSITION
In a sense, all events of a story may be said to have a primary value,
for an event is at least a happening and has some interest for a reader.
But the people of a story must be carried on from event to event, major
or minor, and the story with them. The necessity causes the insertion of
transitional matter in any story that has more than a single episode.
[105]Transitional matter has no capacity to evoke interest in itself, unless
it be so detailed as to form a succession of petty happenings, in which
case it ceases to be strictly transitional. Therefore it should be
gotten over with as quickly as possible. The writer should narrate in
general terms, as has been stated in discussing proportion, the only end
being to forward the mechanical progress of the story. No emphasis need
be laid on such matter. A frequent fault in beginning writers is lack of
capacity to pass from one event to another smoothly and swiftly. Many
seem unable to step from detailed to general narration where the story
demands it, and as a result their stories lose interest. The details of
important events are the breath of life to a story, but details without
fictional purpose only clog the action and discourage the reader's
interest. Matter of transition should be handled as swiftly as can be
done without rendering the whole story jerky and unbalanced. It may be
noted that transitional matter on the lips of a narrating character can
be given piquancy and made interesting in itself, like introductory
matter.
Often transitional matter may be entirely omitted. Thus Maupassant, in
"The Necklace," does not attempt to make the story an unbroken
chronological progression. The nature of each particular story
determines its content, of course, and where matter of transition is
necessary or desirable the writer should realize its nature and handle
it accordingly.
BLENDING OF ELEMENTS
Each story has two primary fictional elements, the people and the
events, but it has three mechanical elements, the action, the speech of
the characters, and the matter descriptive of persons or places. And
while[106] each tale is unique, and any one of these mechanical elements may
largely preponderate over the others, nevertheless the normal fiction
will devote a substantial amount of space to each. If the story
permits—a proviso implied in discussing any matter of technique—it
will be well for the writer to strive to distribute and intermingle its
action, dialogue, and descriptive matter in a texture pleasing because
varied. The whole should not be built of unwieldy chunks of description,
speech, and action succeeding one another with monotonous regularity,
but descriptive touches should be intermingled with the dialogue, and
narrative matter with word-painting and the speech of characters.
Obviously this is no absolute rule, and is perhaps not ever a matter of
strict art, but it is true that a reader quickly wearies of much of the
same thing, and a story is for its reader. Moreover, a story as a whole
will gain in verisimilitude by judicious distribution of its mechanical
elements. The matter is merely another phase of the necessity to give a
fiction the seeming of life, and should not be neglected, the more so
because it is easy and a mechanical matter. The beginner can afford to
neglect no chance for success.
[107]
CHAPTER VIII
DESCRIPTION
Interest—Secondary Function of Description—Distribution—Story
of Atmosphere—Effectiveness of Distributed
Description—Description of
Persons—Example—Analysis—Accuracy—Mechanical Limitations of
Story—Use of All Senses—Description of Setting—Two
Objects—To Clarify Course of Events—To Create Illusion of
Reality—Use of All Senses Order of Details—Contrast.
All writing is descriptive, in a sense; narration, for instance, is
simply the picturing of shifting physical conditions in a state of
fluxation. But description is usually taken to mean the picturing of
physical conditions more or less static. The term is used so here, for
the technique of describing persons, scenes, and objects generally
requires treatment separate from the description or narration of bare
events. In describing a happening of his story, and in describing one of
the characters, the writer's general object is the same, to show the
person or event with the vivacity of life, but the conditions to which
the writer is subject are somewhat different in each case. To mention
but one difference, normally much more space is available for pure
narration than for pure description. The events of a story are the
story; its people and its setting are drawn only to give the fiction the
highest attainable degree of verisimilitude. And, since the space
available for description in the normal[108] story is somewhat limited, the
writer is under stringent necessity to make each word tell. In narrating
an event, the matter has an interest of its own for a reader apart from
the manner of telling, but in describing a person, scene, or object, the
word is all in all. If the picture is not effective, nothing is
achieved.
In coming to the writing of a descriptive passage, the writer should
realize its secondary function in the story. Except in the case of the
story of atmosphere, and perhaps of the story of character, a reader's
interest will focus in the progression of happenings as such, and the
sole object of strictly descriptive matter is to give maximum
concreteness to the events by depicting their setting and
individualizing the persons concerned. What happens is the first
consideration, not where it happens nor whom it affects. Most stories
might be told without a single word of strict description, and no such
word should be given place in any story unless it will forward the
fiction to a higher degree of verisimilitude.
It follows that descriptive matter should not be written pages at a
time. Its function is to lend body and color to the whole course of
events, therefore descriptive touches should be inserted throughout the
whole course of a story. To give an itemized description of a character
at the start, or to picture the whole countryside through which the
story is to move, is a poor, because ineffective, way to write. Not only
will the reader be repelled by great spaces of description, but he will
forget the attempted picture with speed. The thing to do is to insert a
vivid word here and there where it will do the most good as the story
progresses. Description is for the story, not to give the writer a
chance to heap words.
Numerous successful authors have indulged in lengthy descriptions, but
the worth of their books does[109] not result from the indulgence. Hugo's
description of mediaeval Paris in "Notre Dame" is an example so extreme
as almost not to be in point, but most of the elder generation of
writers hampered the march of their stories by describing at inordinate
length. No matter what the eminence of those who have written so, it is
a technical fault, for it tends to render the story stiff and mechanical
and unnatural. Lengthy description is not only inimical to a reader's
interest; it is perfectly useless in a fictional sense. The sole
function of description is to give body and reality to the story, and
that function cannot be performed unless the descriptive quality runs
through the whole, and the descriptive matter is not gathered into
stagnant pools of words.
Much of the effect of the story of atmosphere may depend upon its
descriptive matter, which may constitute a great part of the whole text.
The fact does not invalidate the general proposition. In discussing the
various aspects of technique, such as this matter of description, the
initial assumption is that only the technique of the normal story will
be stated. The normal story is the story of complication of incident,
where interest centers in the course of events rather than in the people
or the setting. Variants from it, the story emphasizing character and
the story stressing atmosphere, by their very difference call for a
different handling of elements.
Aside from the fact that a single lengthy description of a person
usually will have less effect on a reader than the same amount of
descriptive matter deftly interpolated throughout the whole story, or
the fact that recurrent descriptive touches as to setting will do more
to give body to the fiction than a single lengthy description, the
writer should consider the mere rhetorical difficulty of descriptive
writing. He[110] must stand or fall by the picture he creates. In narrating,
he has another resource than perfection in expression, for the bare
event, apart from the way it is told, will interest a reader. But a
picture will not interest unless it is a picture. Rhetorical skill is
the sole determinant between absolute success and flat failure in
describing. And it is hard enough to find one or two telling descriptive
phrases without contracting with the reader to supply several pages of
them. Not only is a long descriptive passage of questionable value in
the normal story, even when well done, but very few can write a long
descriptive passage well. The matter of emphasis here comes up again for
consideration. Vividness is not absolute, but relative. One vivid phrase
will seem vivid to a reader, but fifty or a hundred together will not.
The reader will become accustomed to the higher level of expression, and
the whole will fail of its object.
In the course of a story the writer will have occasion to describe
persons and—roughly—things. Descriptive writing is descriptive
writing, but the matters for consideration in describing a man or woman
and a countryside are somewhat different, and will be taken up
separately.
DESCRIPTION OF PERSONS
As I have stated in another place, the writer cannot gain much in
capacity to express through the objective study of examples. He can only
practice the art, seriously and intelligently. But Stevenson's brief
story of an episode in the life of Master Francois Villon of Paris,
poet, master of arts, and house-breaker, "A Lodging for the Night," so
perfectly describes the persons involved that it calls for quotation.
The object is not to display perfect use of epithet, rather to[111]
demonstrate the entire adequacy of brief and pungent description.
Villon, after a short introduction, is discovered in a small house with
"some of the thievish crew with whom he consorted."
"A great pile of living embers diffused a strong and ruddy glow from the
arched chimney. Before this straddled Dom Nicholas, the Picardy monk,
with his skirts tucked up and his fat legs bared to the comfortable
warmth. His dilated shadow cut the room in half; and the firelight only
escaped on either side of his broad person, and in a little pool between
his outspread feet. His face had the beery, bruised appearance of the
continual drinker's; it was covered with a network of congested veins,
purple in ordinary circumstances, but now pale violet, for even with his
back to the fire the cold pinched him on the other side. His cowl had
half fallen back, and made a strange excrescence on
either side of his bull neck. So he straddled, grumbling, and cut the room in
half with the shadow of his portly frame.
"On the right, Villon and Guy Tabary were huddled together over a scrap
of parchment; Villon making a ballade which he was to call the 'Ballade
of Roast Fish,' and Tabary spluttering admiration at his shoulder. The
poet was a rag of a man, dark, little, and lean, with hollow cheeks and
thin black locks. He carried his four-and-twenty years with feverish
animation. Greed had made folds about his eyes, evil smiles had puckered
his mouth. The wolf and pig struggled together in his face. It was an
eloquent, sharp, ugly, earthly countenance. His hands were small and
prehensile, with fingers knotted like a cord; and they were continually
flickering in front of him in violent and excessive pantomime. As for
Tabary, a broad, complacent, admiring imbecility breathed from his
squash nose and slobbering lips; he had become a thief, just[112] as he
might have become the most decent of burgesses, by the imperious chance
that rules the lives of human geese and human donkeys.
"At the monk's other hand, Montigny and Thevenin Pensete played a game
of chance. About the first there clung some flavor of good birth and
training, as about a fallen angel; something long, lithe, and courtly in
the person; something aquiline and darkling in the face. Thevenin, poor
soul, was in great feather; he had done a good stroke of knavery that
afternoon in the Faubourg St. Jacques, and all night he had been gaining
from Montigny. A flat smile illuminated his face; his bald head shone
rosily in a garland of red curls; his little protuberant stomach shook
with silent chucklings as he swept in his gains."
The first thing to note about this fine descriptive fragment is that the
persons are definitely placed in the room. The monk before the fire is
the focal point; the others are placed in groups on his right and left
hand. Two objects are achieved thereby; not only does the picture gain
in definition, but it is given a closer relation to the story, which is
partly concerned with what happens in the room. In other words,
Stevenson describes his characters in relation to the story, and does
not merely describe each one as he has occasion to name him, in
isolation, and merely to give a reader a photograph with the name. Each
is described in relation to the story and as he comes up in it.
The second thing to note is the extreme brevity and yet the complete
adequacy of the description of each person. There is no itemizing of
physical details; Stevenson has visualized not so much each man as the
most striking characteristic of each man, and has used all resources of
language to precipitate that characteristic in words. The result is
impressive. A reader gains a clear and definite impression of the
individual[113] personality of each character, his spiritual nature as well
as his physical aspect. The definition of the impression in each case
results from the author's having described nothing possessed by any two
in common. He has shown the unique quality of each person, which is all
that is necessary.
This point of the technique of describing persons is nine-tenths of the
whole technique. The fiction writer's proper aim is not so much to build
up a physical picture of a character by itemizing the details of hair,
complexion, stature, and so forth, as it is to reproduce the person's
unique quality as an individual human being. Whether the character is an
individual depends on the writer's creative genius, but whether he seems
individual depends on his actions and the way he is described. Stevenson
states Villon's salient physical characteristics, then remarks that the
wolf and pig struggled together in his face, and a reader has the man,
soul and body. The same method, though with less emphasis, is employed
in picturing the others of the group.
A fundamental philosophical truth is that all knowledge is relative; we
know things only in comparison with things previously encountered and
classified. It follows that the difference between objects or persons is
the ultimate factor that determines the character of each. The single
unique quality of any character in a story is what the author must bring
out in describing him if he is to have on paper the vivacity and
distinction of the author's mental conception. In real life a reader
meets many men and women; he does not take trouble to phrase the
individual peculiarity of each, but he is acutely conscious of it. Each
acquaintance stands for something unique and distinctive in his eyes,
though he does not and perhaps could not state the essential difference
from all others. And, in[114] describing a person in his story, the writer
must state that person's essential difference from all others, if the
person is to have the reality of life for a reader, for the reader's
only contact with the person is through the writer's words. In life, a
reader will eliminate unconsciously from his mental representation of an
acquaintance all qualities which the latter has in common with others,
but verbal representation of a human being is shadowy enough at best,
and in a story the writer himself must eliminate his characters'
undistinctive qualities for the reader, or the persons will lack
definition and concreteness.
The third thing to note about this example of the description of persons
is a matter which it really does not illustrate, because it is perfect.
My statement is at once obscure and paradoxical, but what is meant is
that in describing a person it is possible to give so sharp a verbal
etching that the reader will believe from the word itself. It is the
descriptive aspect of narrating with such vividness that the word will
be accepted as visual evidence. As it happens, in describing Villon and
his fellows, Stevenson has found a combination of words which not only
constitutes a vivid picture but is one that a reader may realize in
imagination without loss of definition. Yet take such a touch as
Balzac's in stating that a character had a face like a glass of dirty
water. It is extremely vivid, but its vividness is somewhat superficial,
that is, if a reader dwells on it, and tries to realize the image in
thought, it will lose much of its definition. I have first-hand
knowledge of the effect on only one reader, of course, myself, but
others have confessed when questioned the same inability to realize this
particular figure without loss of definition. The important point for
the writer of fiction is that a reader will not pause to scrutinize too
closely an image verbally definite and striking; such a[115] descriptive
touch as to a minor character will perform its office of giving the
person vivacity and reality better than a more accurate but less
heightened itemization of details. In a sense, Stevenson's passage is an
example of this matter. It happens that his description can be realized
without loss of definition. That is why it is perfect. But the same
method may be employed less justly and yet have more effect than any
mere itemization of physical details.
In picturing his chief characters the writer should not rely solely upon
mere verbal sharpness. If the story is worth while they will have
saliences that should be stated as well as exemplified in action. But
the minor characters are shadowy enough at best, and any verbal
definition that can be given them will lend concreteness to the story.
If an image is not only striking, but also subject to realization
without loss, so much the better. If an image is verbally happy, but not
intrinsically perfect, it may be better to employ it than to write with
just accuracy, but flatly. I believe that accuracy should be sacrificed
to verbal felicity in no other place than in describing a minor
character. It is an aspect of the general fictional necessity that mere
literalness be sacrificed to verisimilitude, and, in describing a minor
character, verisimilitude requires that a reader be faced by what will
seem to him to be a definite person rather than some particular definite
person. Strictly speaking, a minor character need not be individualized,
but he must be drawn with the nearest possible approach to the sharp
outlines of life. A major character must be drawn definite and unique; a
minor character need only be drawn definite, though the more individual
he is made the better. It follows that any sharp verbal image applied to
a minor character will help the story, though it is within limits
meretricious.
[116]The three matters here discussed are the main considerations to be held
in mind in describing the persons of a story. They should be described
in relation to the story, as they are placed by their actions in the
physical setting. In describing the chief characters, the persons whose
personalities have significant relation to the course of events, the
writer should endeavor to bring out with maximum definition and
vividness the single unique quality of each person. In describing minor
characters, the chief necessity is to give each person as much as
possible of the definition and concreteness of life. Little space is
available, and the writer may be driven to the use of somewhat
meretricious figures. The perfect figure should always be sought, but,
if the writer cannot discover it, the literally inaccurate figure may be
better than flat writing. The general aim in describing persons is to
give maximum concreteness to the whole story, and seeming definition
will sometimes serve as well as actual definition.
The necessity that the persons of a story be described in relation to
it, as they are placed in the physical setting, requires the writer to
realize and regard the mechanical limitations of the story. If it is
told in the first person, and the narrating character perceives another
in the distance, a description of such other must confine itself to
matters apparent at a distance, until the persons approach one another
more nearly. The same necessity obtains where the story is told in the
third person, from the viewpoint of a character who perceives another at
a distance. Likewise, a character cannot be made to see through a house
or a mountain, or into the next room. A good deal has been written on
this matter, but from the wrong angle. The writer should not seek to
master any abstract rule, rather should he strive to visualize his[117]
story as he writes it from the viewpoint from which he has chosen to
tell it. If he thus gets into his story—so to speak—in describing he
will unconsciously respect the mechanical limitations of the tale.
Moreover, his attention will be free for the severe task of expression,
undistracted by any eye to precepts. The way to write a story is to
picture it in imagination and then follow it with the pen. That is why
the unpracticed writer of high imaginative powers so often writes with a
strict if unconscious regard for the laws of technique.
Another matter as to the description of persons is worth noting. The
normal human being has more than the sense of sight; he can also hear,
feel, and smell; and verbal appeals to these other senses may be
effective. The timbre of a character's voice or sound of his step, the
feel of his hand when shaken, an odor about him or her, as of liquor,
tobacco, or perfume, may be stated in describing the person. Such a
descriptive touch will often prove most useful, the more so because it
gives another dimension to the person, so to speak. A very
characteristic and impressive thing about Uriah Heep is his handshake,
as Copperfield felt it. The matter will be taken up again in discussing
the technique of describing setting, where it necessarily bulks
larger.[K]
[118]
DESCRIPTION OF SETTING
The fiction writer is a dramatist in a very real sense, but he cannot
depend for verisimilitude on flesh-and-blood actors, painted scenery,
and actual properties. He must describe all these to give his narrative
verisimilitude and concreteness. The technique of describing persons has
been discussed, and the technique of describing mere objects, the
properties of the piece, as the dagger in the hand of an assassin, is
not so much a part of the technique of fiction writing as of the
technique of writing generally. It is a question of rhetoric. But the
technique of describing setting is fictional as well as rhetorical, that
is, the writer of a story must consider what he should describe as well
as how he should describe it. His task is more highly selective than the
task of describing the persons or properties of a story. They, with the
events involving them, are the story itself; the setting or environment
of a story is not, but merely a background or stage. Yet sometimes, as
in the story of atmosphere, the setting is an integral and necessary
part of the fiction. One can only say that it all depends.
The fact that the setting is sometimes an integral part of the story and
sometimes not requires the writer to set to work differently in each
case. In writing the story of atmosphere, he must regard the setting as
matter for reproduction for its own sake; in writing the normal story,
he must regard the setting as only incidental, and should not reproduce
it unless it will clarify the course of events for a reader or serve to
give the story its necessary body and verisimilitude. The story of
atmosphere requires separate treatment; here only the technique of
describing the setting or settings of the normal story will be
discussed.
[119]
As stated, in writing the normal story, the story where interest centers
in the course of events, the writer should not describe setting unless
it will clarify the course of events or lend body to the fiction in the
eyes of a reader. General descriptive writing has no other function to
perform. Realization of the truth will lead the writer to avoid writing
great wastes of description. If a particular story requires that the
physical conformation of a neighborhood be brought out, a few words will
serve better than many, which will be apt to confuse a reader, at least
to distract his attention. And when the writer describes setting to give
body to the story, scattered descriptive touches will have more effect
than a single isolated block of description. It is another aspect of the
matter touched upon in relation to the description of persons. If a
story is to have the concreteness, definition, and vivacity of life, the
descriptive quality must permeate the whole, both as to the persons and
their environment. The descriptive task cannot be performed once and for
all, either as to the persons or the setting, any more than can the
narrative task. Narration continues throughout the whole story, for it
is the story; and likewise description must accompany each item of
narration, for description is a part or quality of the whole story.
Where the course of events is rapid, their quick succession itself will
counterfeit a like phase of life, for an observer would note the events
as such rather than the setting. But where the course of[120] events is more
leisurely, descriptive touches as to setting will be necessary to
counterfeit such a phase of life, for an observer would note not only
the happenings but the environment. A story is a reproduction of a phase
of life; a reader is its observer; and the whole must be made to stand
forth for him as a like spectacle would show in actuality.
The other necessity, to describe setting to give the story
verisimilitude and concreteness, is not so easy to state or to meet.
This sort of descriptive quality must permeate the whole story, as has
been stated, and its introduction or creation is a matter of difficulty.
The natural and best way to conquer the secret is to imagine the course
of events while standing in the shoes of the person from whose viewpoint
the story is told, then to follow them with the pen. Where the character
would see, feel, hear, or smell something, state the impression upon
him. Thus Kipling, in "Without Benefit of Clergy": "... Old Pir Khan
squatted at the head of Holden's horse, his police sabre across his
knees, pulling drowsily at a big water-pipe that croaked like a
bull-frog in a pond. Ameera's mother sat spinning in the lower veranda,
and the wooden gate was shut and barred. The music of a marriage
procession came to the roof above the gentle hum of the city, and a
string of flying-foxes crossed the face of the low moon." Kipling has
imagined his story as Holden would have lived it; not only has he seen
through Holden's eyes—he has heard with Holden's ears. In this short
passage there are three appeals to the sense of sight, and two to the
sense of hearing, and the fragment gains by stating more than visual
impressions.
The point has been noted in discussing the description of persons, but
is worth enlarging upon. The task to give body to a story is difficult
enough at[121] best, and the writer can afford to neglect no resource. Of
the five senses whereby man grasps his surroundings, that of taste is
probably of the least use to the writer of fiction, but the senses of
sight, hearing, smell, and touch can all be utilized on occasion. A
character at sea can be stated to have seen the waves of a storm, felt
the force of the gale and the sting of driven raindrops, and tasted the
salt spray, also to have smelt the musty fo'c'sle when he went below.
Each touch will give the whole picture added reality for a reader. The
beginning writer is too apt to rely solely upon what a character might
have seen. A deserted house has a smell as characteristic as its look,
and the fragrance of violets is as impressive as their visual beauty.
Night can be told from day by its odor, and the rattle of typewriter
keys in an office is as suggestive of modern industry as a serenade is
of other days and other loves. A hero can feel his sweetheart's soft or
toil-roughened fingers as well as see her expensive silks and furs or
cheap and much worn dress. Life is a complex of many sense-perceptions,
and the more numerous and varied the fleeting impressions a character is
stated to have caught, the more concrete and real the story will be for
a reader.
Description is the usual but not the happiest term to denote the general
process of giving a story a setting and environment of its own. It
is—or should be—more than a process of picturing scenes. All pertinent
and striking sense-impressions received by the characters should be
stated, for only thus can the nearest approach to a just representation
of life be made. The writer's sole object is to give the fiction the
concreteness of life; it cannot be achieved by painting verbal pictures
for a reader, but it can be achieved by stating justly the ways in which
the totality of the environment affected the characters. Just
description of the[122] characters will make them real men and women for a
reader, and just statement of the effects of their environment upon them
will make them real people in a real world.
The strictly executive technique of descriptive writing is not hard to
grasp, however hard it may be to find the desired word. The impression
that the character involved would receive first should be stated first,
and the less striking details should follow in the order of their
impressiveness. Thus, in describing a skating scene, the observant
character should be made to see the interweaving skaters and to hear the
peculiar whinnying ring of the skates before he sees individuals. It is
all a matter of visualizing, or, better, visualizing and living the
story in the shoes of the character from whose viewpoint it is told. The
writer who will live each story thus in imagination, and will state the
successive impressions the character would naturally receive while
moving through such a chain of events in real life, will do far better
work than one who strives to carry in his head a body of rules and
precepts and to write with observance of them. Technique cannot be
discussed without directly stating principles, but the business of
actual writing is natural, not mechanical and artificial. The writer
becomes artificial precisely when he forgets he is writing a story and
begins to daub in descriptive matter without relation to the characters
or the events. The thing to do is to get inside the skin of the
character from whose viewpoint the particular story or particular part
of the story is told, to see with his eyes, hear with his ears, smell,
taste, and feel with his nerves, and to state no impression as received
by him that the course of events would not allow him to receive. A
horse-thief fleeing from a posse will have no eye for the beauties of a
landscape. If the writer desires to show the scene for the sake of[123] its
contrast with such an event, he must do so lightly and quickly. A reader
will be mounted with the pursued man, and his eyes will be ahead.
As to the matter of contrast between event and setting, no rules can be
stated. All that can be said is that sometimes it is a useful device.
But the main purpose of descriptive matter in the normal story is to
give it concreteness, and generally the purpose will be realized best by
stating the sense-impressions which would be received in actuality by
the characters. A story will gain much in naturalness and plausibility
thereby, for the same reason that narration in the first person or from
the viewpoint of a single character is the most natural and plausible
way to write, if the particular story permits.
One other thing may be useful to note. In describing a person, the
writer should strive to state his unique quality as an individual; in
describing a scene, also, the writer should seek to bring out its unique
quality. That quality should be sifted out and realized in imagination,
and then the writer should search diligently for the few telling words
that will precipitate it. As the story moves on, men, women, and
children, houses, ships, and electric cars, streets, deserts, and
smiling fields, will come beneath the writer's pen. And they must all be
given reality, not for their own sakes, but for the sake of the story.
[124]
CHAPTER IX
SPEECH
Potency of Dialogue—Mechanical
Distribution—Naturalness—Directness—Dialect—Situation—Three
Resources to Meet Demands of Situation—Physical
Effect—Ellipsis—Elements of Language—Style—Verbs of
Utterance—Transcription of Speech for it Own Sake—Creative
Process.
When the writer of a story is not using narrative or description, he
will be transcribing the speech of his characters. And in the matter of
transcribing speech the writer of fiction has a chance comparable with
that of the dramatist and the practitioner in the graphic arts. The
effect of narrative or description upon a reader is secondary and
derivative; the effect upon him of written speech or dialogue is very
nearly primary. The fiction writer has not the actor's studied tones to
give dialogue complete life and body, but the appeal of written speech
is infinitely more direct and compelling than that of any other sort of
writing. A word is a word, whether spoken or written, and cannot be read
without setting up some echo in the ear. When the writer of a story
describes its hero, a reader may or may not see an image, faint or
distinct, behind the words. But when the writer sets down his hero's
words, a reader cannot choose but hear. Even if the words be unnatural
and stilted, they will be heard. That is why badly managed dialogue is
so potent to ruin a story.[125] The speech of the characters in a story is
strongly impressive, whether for good or ill. The more powerful a tool,
the more damage it will do if mismanaged.
Thus the essential force of dialogue or written speech may be a handicap
or an assistance. If a character's words jar upon a reader, they will do
so strongly, if they are natural and in keeping with the whole
conception of the person, they will do much to give him the breath of
life. It follows that the writer of fiction should give due attention to
the transcription of speech, the more so because superficially the task
is easy.
Perhaps the first consideration is the mere mechanical distribution of
dialogue. In real life only the after-dinner speaker talks at inordinate
length. Conversation, except that of the bore, is essentially
fragmentary. Not only is each person's part fragmentary, but the whole
conversation is usually somewhat brief. People caught in a more or less
rapid sequence of events have no time to talk at length, and a story is
a more or less rapid sequence of events. The writer must counterfeit a
like phase of life with his story, and to do so he must mingle the
mechanical elements of the story in a texture pleasing because varied.
The mechanical elements of a story are its narrative, its description,
and its dialogue or speech of the characters; these must blend and
intermingle, varying the appeal to a reader and simulating the pattern
of life. An unfailing sign of the amateur, at least of the amateur with
no innate sense of fictional values, is a story made up of hard and
angular blocks of narration, description, and dialogue. The skilled
writer—if the particular story permits, a proviso always to be
understood—will intermingle speech with action and description with
both. Dialogue should no more be written pages at a[126] time than should
description, and if a great deal of speech must be transcribed en bloc,
it should be broken up to some extent by descriptive touches and even by
narration more detailed than that part of the story naturally calls for.
The next consideration is to make the people of a story talk naturally.
The necessity has affiliations with the necessity that the speech of any
person be made characteristic, for dialogue is an efficient aid in the
portrayal of character. The writer must make each person talk like a
human being, even if not like some particular human being. Good, nervous
dialogue will be full of elisions, mere exclamations, unfinished
sentences, gaps that a reader will bridge readily for himself. He will
be skilled in the business, for that is the kind of talk addressed to
him every day. In more sedate and leisurely ages, if we may judge from
the tales then written, people could frame a sentence on the lips, but
it is a lost art now. To be "literary" in transcribing speech is to
invoke almost certain failure. "Literary" dialogue usually is ruinous. A
reader's interest may survive stilted and affected narrative or
descriptive writing, for most readers have read so much of such writing
that it is almost expected, but stilted and affected dialogue will kill
interest once and for all. In narrative there is something behind the
word for the reader, even in description there is a faint something, but
in dialogue there is nothing at all. The word is the word; if it fails,
the failure is total.
Yet it will not do to be quite literal in transcribing speech. If the
speech of real life is broken and fragmentary, it is also impossibly
wordy and purposeless. The lawyer who has spent weary hours in reading
transcripts of testimony knows the fact to his cost. The writer of
fiction has not space to set down with minute accuracy just what his
people probably would[127] have said during the progress of the story; he
must counterfeit the auditory impression of real speech by eliding and
leaving sentences unfinished; but this mechanically broken and abrupt
speech must have the purpose and direction which is wanting in real
speech. The characters must not only talk naturally; they must say
certain definite things and convey definite and necessary information,
directly or by implication. There is little need to emphasize here the
necessity that the writer have some fictional purpose in making a
character say something, except to warn against transcribing speech
solely for the sake of its suppositious intrinsic wit or vivacity, for
each story will assert its own claims over the talk of the characters.
The question of dialect has been debated often and at length, both for
and against. There are many fine stories in dialect in whole or in part,
but their merit does not result from the employment of dialect, though
the dialect may be a necessary part of some of them. In the larger
sense, the question is merely one of naturalness. The pronunciation of
no man is in exact accord with the ideal standard of the dictionary; all
have mannerisms of speech and accent. In some sections such mannerisms
are so common and marked as to form a dialect, almost a patois, and, if
a story involves a character from such a district, fidelity
to fact requires the writer to write dialect when the person is
speaking. Dialect in a story must be intelligible to one unfamiliar with
it, which requires the writer to iron out its greatest divergences from
the normal in an endeavor to retain its piquancy while avoiding its
obscurity. The question is not one of technique, but one of material.
The only insistence of technique as to dialect is that it must be
intelligible.
Unquestionably there is prejudice against the story told wholly in
strongly marked dialect by a narrating[128] character, both on the part of
editors and readers. The type had a vogue some years ago, but its
commercial and artistic defect is that it tends to be unintelligible.
Dialect is a useful aid in characterization, as is any slighter
mannerism of speech. The matter will be taken up in discussing the
portrayal of character. Here I am concerned only with the more general
aspects of the management of dialogue.
As stated, the first necessity in writing dialogue is to place the word
where it would be spoken in life, during the action, not in isolated
masses of speech. The second necessity is to write naturally, and yet to
invest the hasty and elided speech of the characters with purpose in the
fiction. Dialogue must be not only natural and easy; it also must be
significant, significant in relation to life—which is the matter of
naturalness re-stated—significant in relation to the characters, and
significant in relation to the story. That is to say, the justly written
bit of dialogue will be natural, will illustrate character, and will
inform a reader, directly or by implication, of something he must know
if he is to catch the full savor of the story. These are the most
general conditions to be borne in mind in writing dialogue. It remains
to discuss the necessity that a writer consider the matter of situation
while transcribing speech. The necessity requires discussion. Not only
is it stringent, but it is politely ignored by too many books on
technique.
The abstract statement is that the same person will talk differently
according to his situation at the moment. Jones is Jones, of course, but
the Jones who discusses preparedness with Smith is a different Jones
from him who telephones to summon the doctor for his dying child, and
his speech in each case will not be the same. My lady will not berate
her maid for a fault as[129] she will reprove her lover, and the head
bookkeeper talking to a subordinate and to the boss would impress a
listener as two different persons. The man and his speech are influenced
by the event. The writer of fiction, being under constant necessity to
counterfeit life, must keep the speech of his characters in accord with
the situation as well as with the general looseness of actual talk.
It may be said that this necessity to write dialogue with an eye to the
situation of the persons is merely a more narrow phase of the general
necessity to be natural. That is true. The writer will never go astray
who lives his story in imagination and sets down the speech of the
characters as it would have been phrased in actuality. The only trouble
is to determine just how the persons would have spoken, and it is a
trouble because it requires more than a vivid imagination. Imagination
will embody the course of events for a writer, will touch in the setting
with glowing color, but imagination alone will not supply the words
spoken. To find them, the writer must employ his intellectual faculties
as well as his imaginative powers, and precisely for the same reason
that the characters must employ their intellectual faculties in
speaking. One who writes a story lives vicariously, lives another's life
for the time being, and where that other would be forced to think, as in
speaking, the writer must think likewise. Where the other would be
forced only to observe, as in witnessing events or observing setting,
the writer can rely solely on his imaginative powers.
There will be little difficulty in meeting the demands of the situation
that is casual and commonplace. Speech that is merely easy and natural
is adequate. If the incident is not particularly significant in a
dramatic or emotional sense, the way that the character would talk in
such circumstances is not hard to find. The[130] story requires that a
Southern gentleman of the old school welcome a stranger to his house,
let us say; it will not be hard to find the host's words on that
occasion. But suppose he must discover a few pages farther on that the
stranger is his daughter's seducer. What will he say? The writer must
find for him words that will chime with the tensity and dramatic value
of the situation. To meet the necessity the writer has three resources.
The first lies apart from the matter of speech. By just portrayal of the
physical effect of such a discovery upon a character the writer will
accomplish much. To put it flippantly, the character will be made to
talk naturally by making him speechless. To put it justly, in such a
heightened moment in a story narration should be very detailed, and the
writer should show the physical effect of any discovery upon a character
before transcribing the words born of the moment.
The second resource of the writer to meet the necessity that a
character's words fit the emotional and dramatic qualities of a
situation is largely mechanical. Even casual speech is elliptical and
exclamatory; speech born of excitement or agony of soul is strongly so.
The more broken and fragmentary the character's speech, the greater the
suggestion of emotional stress and upheaval.
The third resource of the writer is a matter of diction. English is a
language compounded of Anglo-Saxon and Latin and Greek elements. The
primary basis of the tongue is Anglo-Saxon; that is why it is English,
and not a Romance language. We learn the simpler, less abstract part of
our vocabulary, the part that stands for fundamentals, in childhood; the
rest is acquired later. Not only is the Anglo-Saxon word the word we
know best; it is also the word which will express our deepest loves and
dreads and hates. The[131] Latin element of the language gives it its
flexibility and its capacity to express ideas, but its capacity to
express emotion resides in its Anglo-Saxon element. Love, hate, birth,
death, God, devil, father, mother, sister, brother, sin, lust, greed,
filth, hope, care, weep, laugh, smile—all are strictly English words of
Teutonic origin, and all are much more forceful and suggestive or
connotative than any Anglicised Latin equivalents. The writer of fiction
should realize the fact, and should make his people use strictly English
words when caught in a pregnant situation. A lawyer, in discussing a
case, properly may be made to employ the word deceased, for instance,
but when informed that his wife has died suddenly, "Dead?" he should be
made to say, "Dead?" That is very obvious, of course, but it will serve
for an illustration.[L]
The question of character intrudes here. All speech should be
characteristic of the person uttering it, but the necessity that the
word should fit the moment is more stringent than the necessity that the
word should fit the person, provided that the moment is so tense that
its force might be expected to strip any husk of mannerisms from the
persons involved. Indeed, the more strikingly individual the casual
speech of a character, the greater will be the effect of making him
utter in a crisis the broken and disjointed English words that come to
the lips of all of us when our loves or our pocketbooks are threatened.
[132]
After stating the necessity to make dialogue accord with situation, and
after pointing out the three resources of the writer to this end, a word
of caution may not be out of place. In all human probability the writer
will have for the significant situations of his story a much keener
feeling and appreciation than any reader. There is some danger
that the writer's feeling for his own situations will lead him to make
his people talk a thought too brokenly for acceptance by a reader
without the same keen appreciation of all the emotional and dramatic
values of the situations of the story. The danger cannot be overcome by
toning down the dialogue; the writer must force a reader to feel the
power of all the situations of the story. In other words, dialogue in
tense situations must meet the fact of situation, and each situation
itself must be built up for a reader by proper development and adequate
writing of the whole story. The art of fiction is a whole, as a story is
a whole, and perfect handling of one element alone of his story, as the
dialogue, will avail the writer nothing.
In transcribing speech, the less the writer thinks about the style or
manner in which he has chosen to tell the story the better. The first
consideration is to be natural, that is, to write as some real person
would talk, and, if possible, to write as some particular person would
talk. But the general tone of the story must be considered. The
necessity is less stringent or nonexistent in writing the novel, with
its permissible variety of texture, than in writing the short story of
unity of effect. If the people of a story are super-normal, their lips
must not drop banalities. That is a matter of character. But if the
single effect sought to be produced by a story is of horror, for
instance, its people cannot be permitted to make remarks that will
hinder the attainment of the effect, which is a matter of preserving the
general tone of the story. The speech of[133] the characters must be in
keeping with them, in keeping with the significant situations, and in
keeping with the story as a whole.
There is one point about the management of dialogue which should be the
less neglected because it is purely mechanical and very easy. A page of
dialogue should not present to a reader a monotonous succession of "he
saids" and "she saids," simply because the reader will feel the
repetition and some of the illusion of the story be lost. The verbs
characterizing utterance are infinite in number; moreover, it is
frequently possible to set down nothing but the words of the speaking
character. Thus Henry Sydnor Harrison, in "V. V.'s Eyes.":
"'Did she hurt herself?' said Carlisle, third-personally, to the elder
girl, who had suspended her game to stare wide-eyed. 'What on earth is
the matter?'
"The reply was tragically simple:
"'A lady stepped on her Junebug.'"
"Sure enough, full on the vestibule floor lay the murdered slum-bug, who
had too hardily ventured to cross a wealthy benevolent's path. The
string was yet tied to the now futile hind-leg. Carlisle, lingering,
repressed her desire to laugh.
"'Oh!... Well, don't you think you could catch her a new one, perhaps?'
"'Bopper he mout ketch her a new one mebbe tomorrow, mom ... Hiesh,
Rebecca!'
"Moved by some impulse in her own bouyant mood, Carlisle touched the
littlest girl on the shoulder with a well-gloved finger.
"'Here—Rebecca, poor child!... You can buy yourself something better
than Junebugs.'
"The proprietor of the deceased bug, having raised her damp dark face,
ceased crying instantly. Over the[134] astounding windfall the chubby
fingers closed with a gesture suggesting generations of acquisitiveness.
"'Is it hers to keep?' spoke her aged sister, in a scared voice. 'That
there's a dollar, mum.'
"'Hers to keep ...' replied the goddess, smiling."
Dialogue so managed is infinitely more natural and fitting than the
he-said, she-said sort. Of course, the more characteristic the speech of
the characters, the less the need for verbs of utterance. The primary
office of such verbs is to indicate the person who is speaking, and, if
the words spoken do that, the verb may be omitted. The secondary office
of verbs of utterance is to characterize the manner of speech, and here
it is well not to be too extreme. A character may snarl or bellow or
invite or plead, for instance, but if he is made to flame in words there
will be a suggestion of strain and artificiality for a reader.
Intelligibility and suitable—not unsuitable—variety should be the
writer's aims in managing dialogue.
The total amount of dialogue any story will contain depends on its
nature and character. Possibly it is true that the more strictly
dramatic a story, the greater will be the proportion of dialogue to the
rest of the text. At any rate, a writer should never transcribe speech
at any length simply for its own sake in an endeavor to trick a reader
into thinking that the story is livelier than it is. Dialogue is
attractive to a reader, but it is attractive in a story only when it is
an essential element of the story. The writer should not depend on the
intrinsic wit and vivacity of his characters' speech. Even if it is
interesting in itself, apart from the story, the fact will not help the
story as such, for a reader's attention will be distracted from its
movement. Mr. Dooley's talk is beautiful, read apart and by itself;
thrust into a short story, it would hurt the tale.
[135]Finally, a word as to the actual creative process of writing dialogue.
The way to narrate is to live and see the story's happenings in
imagination; the way to describe is to feel the totality of the story's
environment or setting in imagination as some character or characters
must have felt it; and the way to write dialogue is to be each speaking
character in turn for a space, and to write as the particular person
would have spoken. As stated above, the writer will have to think as
well as to imagine. He will have to comprehend the essential nature of
each speaking character, his personality, education, and habits of life
and mind, in order to discover the words that would be called forth from
such a person by each new event. The task is not easy. But the writer
should bring his full powers to bear upon it, for the dialogue of a
story is tremendously effective, whether for good or ill.
[136]
CHAPTER X
PORTRAYAL OF CHARACTER
The Three Modes of
Characterization—Dialogue—Action—Description or Direct
Statement—Aims of Characterization—To Show the Nature—To Show
the Man as a Physical Being—Character and
Plot—Characterization by Speech—Characterization by
Statement—Characterization by Action.
Characterization is an unlovely term, but it stands for much. In fact,
it stands for so much that it is the hardest point of technique to
discuss adequately. In the fiction writer's vocabulary, it stands for
things as diverse as the necessity that the whole action of a story be
significant in relation to character, and the necessity that the persons
of the fiction seem real and individual, apart from any unique quality
of their actions. Whether the action of a story is significant in
relation to character depends upon whether the writer has discovered a
real plot and developed it properly; whether the persons of a story seem
tangible and unique apart from their actions depends upon the writer's
skill in describing them and transcribing their speech. That is to say,
characterization is a matter accomplished by narration, by description,
and by the transcription of speech. A reader of a story has a clue to
the natures of its people in their actions, in their words, and in what
the writer has to say about them.
It may be well to enlarge somewhat on the respective[137] functions of the
three modes of characterization. Dialogue, action, and description or
direct statement by the author all serve to give the character concerned
individuality in the eyes of a reader, but all do not function in
precisely the same manner or to precisely the same end. A few
illustrations will make this clearer.
Suppose a story involving a character whose most salient trait is
cruelty. The author may demonstrate this quality in the person by
stating directly that he is cruel, by showing him in wantonly heartless
actions, and by placing on his lips words which only a cruel man would
utter. So far, so good. Each sort of demonstration will add something to
a reader's realization of the character. But more is necessary. Cruelty
is not a particularly unique trait; moreover, if a trait is unique,
merely investing a character with it will not serve to give him the
solidity and liveliness of a real person. Whether cruelty or any other
trait is brought out, if it alone is brought out, the person will be a
disembodied moral attribute rather than a man or woman. To secure a
maximum effect upon a reader, the writer must manage to show some
particular cruel person rather than a cruel person. And he must resort
to the same means employed to show the strict character-trait,
description or direct statement, dialogue, and action. But the writer's
aim will be different. He will be concerned with the person's appearance
and effect upon an observer or listener rather than with his nature. As
Stevenson did for Villon in "A Lodging for the Night," the writer of a
story involving a cruel person may call him a "rag of a man, dark,
little, and lean, with hollow cheeks and thin black locks," or may
employ any other combination of words that will give a definite picture
of the man, viewed merely as a physical object, whether he be thin or
fat, ruddy or pale, tall[138] or short. And, in setting down a cruel
person's speeches, the writer not only may make them cruel in content,
but also may make them unique and individual by some mannerism of
speech.
What I am trying to show is the fact that characterization, as the term
is commonly employed, includes description as well as the strict
portrayal of character. I have taken up the matter of the description of
persons under that head, and I shall take up, in this chapter, the
matter of speech as both illustrating character and individualizing the
person. The whole difficulty of discussing technique lies in the
necessity to treat in isolation matters which are
influential in numerous directions in a story. In the
latter part of this book I am following the conventional mode of
discussing separately the matters of description of persons, dialogue,
and the portrayal of character, but only after much pondering whether
such treatment is advisable. The advantage is clearness; the
disadvantage is loss of relation between matters mutually influential.
For instance, writing dialogue is descriptive writing in a very real
sense. A reader of a story stands in the position of an observer of
certain persons. Their mannerisms of speech, which come to him through
the ear, serve to build up his total impression of them as much as their
physical appearance, which comes to him through the eye.
The process of characterization, then, however accomplished, is the
result of two very different aims on the part of the writer of a story.
The first aim is to show the essential natures of the people of the
fiction, and may be attained by illustration in action, by direct
statement, and by transcribing their speech. The second aim is to make
them appear real men and women, apart from their natures, and may be
attained by description—which is direct statement—by transcribing[139]
their speech, and even by action. In all three matters of narration,
description, and dialogue the double process may go on. Narrating a
character's victorious fight with a bigger man will leave on a reader a
twin impression of the person's strength—a physical attribute—and
courage—an attribute more strictly of character. When Stevenson,
describing Villon, states that the wolf and pig struggled in his face, a
reader is made to see the cruel sensuality of the man's face as a
physical object, and to feel the cruel sensuality of his nature as a
spiritual fact. If an avaricious character is made to make a miserly
speech, a reader will have a clue to his nature; if he is made to make
it with a lisp or stutter, there will be a descriptive touch as well.
Characterization may be accomplished by narration, by description, and
by dialogue, and characterization, as the term is commonly used,
includes the description of persons as physical objects as well as the
strict portrayal of character.
The writer of fiction who seeks to acquire the technique of
characterization should note two facts. The sort of characterization
which consists in displaying the essential spiritual natures of the
people of a story is largely a matter of plot, of the sequence and
character of each person's actions. If the writer states that John is
miserly, and puts miserly words on his lips, the reader will never
believe in John's avarice if he does a generous thing in the story.
Actions speak louder than words. A reader will believe in John's avarice
from the writer's mere statement and John's words, if John's actions are
not significant adversely to the trait. In other words, personality and
event must have true relation, on account of the inherent nature of a
plot, a matter previously discussed. The second fact for the writer of
fiction to note is that the sort of characterization which consists in
giving the people[140] of a story the vivacity and concreteness of real men
and women is superficial but extremely important. A story is concerned
with the spiritual natures of its people; it shows their growth or
decay; the process is the story itself, particularly in the case of the
story of character. But a story does not deal with disembodied moral
attributes. It deals with men and women, and, if it is to be effective,
a reader must receive some definite physical impression of each person
as well as a knowledge of his nature. In the whole philosophy of fiction
writing, characterization, as commonly understood, functions thus: the
natures of the several major characters are primary elements of the
fiction, as are the events; the impression an observer and listener
would receive from each person must be built up for a reader that the
fiction may have the concreteness and reality of life for him.
Speech, direct statement, and action, the several means whereby
characterization in its two aspects may be accomplished, now may be
discussed.
CHARACTERIZATION BY SPEECH
As indicated, characterization is a double process. The writer endeavors
to reveal the natures of his people and to individualize them in a more
superficial but equally important sense. Their speech may be made to
reveal their spiritual natures, and it may be made to individualize
them.
The process of making speech reveal character strictly is not difficult
in itself, though it may be difficult to do so
unobtrusively. A sentimental man will reveal his
sentimentality when he says sentimental things, just as a hypocrite will
reveal his hypocrisy in hypocritical words. Cruel words will reveal
cruelty in the person who utters them, and generous words will[141] indicate
that their speaker is generous. So far as possible, the speech of any
character should have relation to that phase of his character which is
significant in the story. The cruel man may be avaricious also, but, if
his cruelty and not his avarice is the trait which has influence upon
the events of the story, his words should reveal his cruelty rather than
his avarice. The content of his speeches should indicate his possession
of that trait of his character which is influential as to the events of
the story.[M]
The difficulty will be to find a natural place for these indicative
speeches. The primary necessity in fiction writing is to be unforced and
natural, and a character cannot be made to say words indicative of his
inner nature unless he would naturally utter them under the influence of
the circumstances of the moment. Here, again, the way to write is to get
into the skin of the person involved, to live the story vicariously in
his person, and, when events would naturally call from him words
revealing his pertinent trait, to transcribe them. Primarily, a story is
a story, and its writer must meet all its necessities within its
limitations.
Lack of space forbids giving examples of the revelation of character by
speech. Dickens will prove a profitable study in this connection. The
words of Pecksniff, for instance, reveal as much of the soul of[142]
Pecksniff as we need to know. All good stories, in greater or lesser
degree, display the method in use.
The second use of his characters' words to the writer of fiction is to
individualize them. It is not a matter of content, but one of manner.
Irrespective of what the person says, the way he says it, if unique,
will serve to increase the definition of a reader's conception of him.
If a character is made to stutter, he will gain in actuality and
concreteness for a reader. The instance is coarse, but will serve to
indicate what is meant. Dickens is unrivalled in his capacity to employ
this device, although the writer of a short story or relatively compact
novel will meet difficulties in following Dickens' technique of
characterization. The "demmit" of Mantalini, the "dispoged" of Sairey
Gamp, the greasiness of Chadband's words, the rounded periods of the
immortal Micawber give a reader the greater part of his idea of each
person.
This sort of characterization may well be called description. The aim is
not to reveal the person's inner nature—though the content of a
mannered speech may do that, of course—but to add to the definition and
reality of any attempted picture of the person by calling in the sense
of hearing. Unlike the effect of descriptive words on a reader, the
effect of written speech is nearly primary, though it lacks something of
the freshness and impressiveness of the spoken word. Writing descriptive
of a character and his mannered words function together to individualize
the person for a reader. The people of a story must be made to appear to
be real men and women, if the fiction is to have its necessary
verisimilitude and consequent effect, and mannered speech will do much
to invest the speakers with reality.
[143]
The process must not be carried beyond the bounds of naturalness. A
mannerism of speech may be too pronounced, in that it tends to arrest a
reader's attention and distract it from the flow of the story.
Unnecessarily distorted spelling, for instance, employed in an attempt
to be too strictly phonetic, will call attention to itself rather than
individualize the speaker, that is, it will destroy the illusion of the
story. "Yuh" for "you" is an instance. We all "yuh"
more or less, I think, and for the writer of a story to insist thus
pedantically on strict phonetic accuracy tends to make the whole fiction
labored and unnatural. The whole trick is to suggest any particular
distortion, and yet to have the words as intelligible for a reader as if
the spelling were normal.
Mispronunciation, of course, is not the only mannerism of speech that
may be availed of. In fact, the tendency is to abuse it. An open ear
toward the casual talk he hears will give the writer many useful hints,
and so will reading the work of others.
The speech of class and class varies, as does the speech of man and man.
A lawyer in a story should be distinguishable from a sailor by the very
content of his vocabulary. So should a doctor from an engineer or a
brakeman, or a musician from an artist. But it must all be done
naturally. The writer cannot drag in by the ears technical terms of any
profession solely that a reader may be informed indirectly of the
speaker's profession. But a doctor or lawyer, for instance, will
generally be in a story because it requires the presence of a lawyer or
doctor, and therefore the story will offer opportunity for him to reveal
his place[144] in society by his speech. Incidentally it may be noted that
this matter emphasizes the necessity that the writer of fiction be
observant in life and omnivorous in reading. He should know the manner
of speech of any considerable class of men. It is true, of course, that
no two lawyers talk precisely alike, but it is also true that it is
possible to suggest a lawyer speaking by a proper choice of words, and
that is the thing to do, naturally and unobtrusively. If the speech of a
character is individualized in some manner, and if, in addition, a
reader can gather his business or profession from his words, he will
gain much in reality and definition.
The content of the talk of the characters of a story, then, should
reveal their inner natures, and their idiosyncrasies of utterance and
word-choice should be devised and set down to intensify the impression
of their individuality initiated by the writer's strictly descriptive
touches. Characterization is a double process, and neither aspect of it
should be neglected, whether the writer is narrating, describing, or
transcribing speech.
CHARACTERIZATION BY STATEMENT
So far as characterization by direct statement is a matter of
individualizing the persons of a story as mere physical objects, apart
from their inner natures, it has been discussed in stating the technique
of the description of persons. It was there stated that the writer's
endeavor should be to catch and fix in words the most salient attribute
of the character. And usually it will be the case that a person's most
striking physical attribute will have relation to some fact of his
spirit, as in Stevenson's description Villon's sensual face hints of his
sensual soul. The fact serves to make more obvious the truth that
characterization is a[145] double process of individualizing superficially
and of revealing the person's nature, and Stevenson's description of the
medieval French poet is an instance of how the writer of fiction may
attain both ends in a single phrase, and avoid the suggestion of
artificiality in directly stating that a character is good or bad or
brave or cowardly, as the case may be. Instead of stating that Villon
was sensual and cruel, Stevenson states that the wolf and pig struggled
in his face. A reader sees the man's face and comprehends his nature,
and comprehends the spiritual fact the more thoroughly because reaching
it inferentially from a mere picture. The point is worth noting.
However, the writer of fiction frequently must state his characters'
moral attributes directly. Not all conceivable persons wear their souls
in their faces; if some ruddy, bluff old gentleman is a villain at
heart, the writer can only say so, unless he is willing to depend wholly
on the revelation of spirit worked by the character's deeds. And
sometimes such a revelation comes too near the end for the other
purposes of the story. Much of the interest or suspense of a tale may
depend upon the reader having knowledge of the natures of the people who
struggle with one another singly or in groups. Or direct statement as to
a character's nature may be necessary to emphasize the significance of
his acts. Stevenson's "The Ebb Tide" is an example. The book is
concerned with the unavailing struggle of a weak man to be other than
weak, and the author prefaces the course of events with a thumbnail
biography of the weakling that invests the progress of the story with
something of the inevitability of fate. The method is a favorite one of
Stevenson's, and is employed in most of his longer work. Each brief
sketch is directed to bring out the character's trait or traits of
significance in the story, and the whole fiction[146] gains point thereby.
Turgenieff composed a biography of each of his characters to deepen and
clarify his own realization of them, and incorporation in a story of a
swift and significant sketch of a character's previous life likewise may
serve to deepen and clarify a reader's realization of the person.
Stating directly that any person is good or bad or brave or avaricious
may give a reader a key to his acts, lending them point, but direct
statement is the most infirm mode of characterization. Any mere
statement is less impressive and less compelling than a demonstration.
And direct statement of a character's nature must be reinforced and
proved by his words and deeds. It is difficult enough at best to invest
a fictitious person with reality, and the writer can afford to neglect
no device.
As in fulfilling all other necessities of his story, in characterizing
by direct statement the writer must be easy and natural. The requirement
is somewhat indefinite, as stated, but real. Statement should not be too
bald; a little subtlety will be profitable to employ. To state that a
character is bad, simply, is too childlike, unless the story is told
from the viewpoint of a child. The matter of viewpoint must always be
considered in characterizing by direct statement, for obvious reasons.
If the writer takes the position of an impersonal observer, to whom the
souls of all characters are open, he can write pretty much as he wills.
If he writes from the viewpoint of a single character, whether in the
first or third person, he cannot assume too inclusive knowledge of the
souls of the others. The matter has been discussed elsewhere.[147][N]
CHARACTERIZATION BY ACTION
The value of action as a means to give a reader realization of the
physical appearance of a character is somewhat slight. To show the
person as performing a feat of strength will suggest that he is a
powerful man, but physical prowess is not a visually definite quality.
Powerful men are not always even large men. Action is greatly useful to
reveal the soul, but not very useful to reveal appearance.
However, between narrative and strict descriptive writing a borderland
exists. A person may be described as having a sneaking look. That is
strict description. But the writer also may relate how the person slunk
down an alley to avoid meeting someone he dared not face. The
descriptive value of the word "slunk" as to the person will be as great
as the narrative value of the word to the event. It is merely the matter
of vivid and effective narration approached from a new angle. Narration
consists in stating what happened to certain persons and what they did,
and a descriptive quality, both as to the persons and the events, should
permeate it. Visualization of the story in imagination will show the
way.
[148]
If action is the least effective way to hint of the characters'
appearance, it is by far the most effective way to display their
natures. The whole purpose of the story of character is to display the
fact and demonstrate the consequences of the possession of certain
traits by a group of persons or even by one person. And in any real
story, that is, in any fiction built about a plot, the traits of a
character and the events will be mutually influential. Either the
characters will be devised to develop the events, or the events will be
devised to develop the characters. The moral quality of an act is a sure
index to the moral quality of the person who commits it. A story must
reveal character simply because it consists of a series of events
involving and produced by men and women. The writer's endeavor is not
merely to narrate the events for their own sake, but also to realize
just what sort of people must inevitably have acted so under the given
conditions, and to employ his subsidiary means of characterization so as
to bring out no trait unnecessary to the events.
There is one exception to the rule that the writer should endeavor to
bring out only the traits of character strictly material to the events.
Of course, the primary necessity in fiction writing is to develop the
whole story naturally. But a story is for its readers. To give some
stories full effect upon a reader it is necessary to invest one or more
of the characters with a trait or traits not strictly necessary to the
development of the story. Usually the aim will be to awaken the reader's
sympathy that he may follow the fortunes of the person or persons with
greater interest than the bare content of the story would evoke. For
instance, if a story shows a character whose unlovely traits lead him
into difficulties, investing him also with some pleasing attribute will
deepen a reader's interest[149] in his fate by arousing active pity for him.
I have touched upon this matter before and from another angle in
discussing the necessity that the writer select a mode of narration
which will permit him to express his sympathy for a character that he
may evoke a reader's. Stevenson's treatment of Herrick in "The Ebb-Tide"
was instanced, and one who has read the book will recall that its author
gave Herrick attributes of mind and soul more pleasing than inefficiency
and weakness, though weakness was the single quality demanded in Herrick
to render inevitable the course of events.[O]
No specific technique of characterization by action can be stated; it is
a matter of conceiving and elaborating the whole story justly. The fact
for the writer is that a person's acts reveal his inner nature, and the
necessity that the writer must meet is to devise events and characters
having a natural and plausible relation. If this is done, the essential
substance of the story will be sound, at least, so far as character is
concerned. Then the writer must meet the other necessity to make his
people appear to be real men and women apart from any distinction of
their inner natures. If both necessities are met, a reader will be faced
by real people doing things for real and adequate reasons, which is a
great part of the art of fiction.
All the acts of a person's life, great and small, would reveal his whole
nature. But a story usually does not take a person from birth to death,
and, if it does, it is concerned with a phase of the life rather than
with the whole life. The art of fiction is highly[150] selective, and
necessarily so. Not only must the writer of fiction produce his effects
within a limited space, but he must consciously eliminate here and
suppress there in order to make apparent the real significance of his
picture of life. The significance of one man's life may lie in his
constant loyalty to and sacrifice for his family; the significance of
another's in his complete disregard of his obligations as a husband and
father. In either case, the writer who sees material for a short story
or novel in such a life must select for reproduction chiefly those acts
of the character which are significant as to the trait sought to be
brought out, otherwise the story will be without point and meaning.
Viewed superficially, a story is a mere string of events that happened
to happen, a thing easy to write without forethought and calculation.
But the truth is that a story is a chain of events at least influenced
and sometimes even determined by character. If the influence of
character in the fiction is predominant, it cannot be written justly
without careful weighing and selection of the incidents that suggest
themselves to the writer.
Having conceived a plot and devised characters to enact it, or having
conceived characters and devised a plot to develop them, the writer
should outline the main course of the story, mentally or on paper. He
then should realize definitely and precisely what traits of character
are primarily significant in the story, and should prepare to develop
them so as to reinforce the effect of his people's acts upon a reader by
characteristic dialogue and description and direct statement. The writer
should consider next whether a due regard for a reader's interest
requires that he invest his people with attributes not strictly
necessary to the main events of the story, and therefore not to be
revealed by each person's part in such events. Finally, the writer
should realize that he must give each person a[151] definite physical
presence and illusion of actuality, and should prepare to do so by
visualizing them in imagination. If all this is done at all, it is
certain that the story will be a better piece of work than if the writer
set to work with only a vague prevision of the course of events as his
material. And if it is done justly, and the writer has adequate
executive powers, the story will be worth while, at least in relation to
character.
[152]
CHAPTER XI
ATMOSPHERE
Definition—General Atmospheric Value of Fiction—Tone of
Story—Preparation of Reader for Climax—Examples—The Story of
Atmosphere—Short Story—Setting—Slight Dramatic Value of Type.
Atmosphere—as the term is used by the writer of fiction—is a most
indefinite word; it may be well to preface discussion of what it stands
for by a definition. And in defining it is often conducive to clearness
to state what a thing is not before stating what it is.
In the first place, atmosphere is not setting, although the setting of a
story may aid in producing its atmosphere. The frozen wastes of a
sub-arctic region or the man-made squalor of a slum may operate
powerfully to produce on a reader of a story placed therein an
impression of desolation or of misery, but that impression will derive
from something other than the setting, and will merely be reinforced
thereby. If a slum story is essentially cheerful and light-hearted in
content, its reader will not be oppressed by the setting, however
truthfully touched in, unless the writer deliberately makes his people
seem miraculous in point of their capacity to avoid the contagion of
their surroundings. The young girl in "The Dawn of a To-Morrow" is an
instance of what is meant by the qualification.
Atmosphere is not setting, nor is it anything at all[153] that is in a
story. It is not the quality of the environment; it is not the general
quality of the people or their acts; it is not the quality of the theme
or plot. What is it? It is the general emotional impression made on a
reader by the whole story. It is nothing that is in a story; it is the
emotional effect produced by the story on a reader. Just as a scene, an
event, or a person, unless very commonplace, will have some emotional
effect on an observer, any story that is told so as to create the
illusion of reality will have some emotional effect on a reader. As
Stevenson said to Balfour: "I'll give you an example—'The Merry Men,'
There I began with the feeling of one of those islands on the west coast
of Scotland, and I gradually developed the story to express the
sentiment with which the coast affected me."
A distinction should be noted here. "The Merry Men" is a strict story of
atmosphere; its author, as he implicitly states, started with an
emotional effect, or "sentiment," and devised only such persons and
action as would deepen on a reader the emotional impression initiated in
this case by the setting. But, as has been stated, any story told so as
to create the illusion of reality will have some totality of emotional
effect on a reader, apart from its specific emotional effects in various
parts, unless the fiction is very commonplace. That is to say, the
strict story of atmosphere, which has been touched on briefly in
discussing story-types, subordinates its action and its people to its
totality of emotional effect; in the normal story, whether
it stresses personality or event, atmosphere, or totality of emotional
effect on a reader, is a subordinate consideration, resulting from the
necessity that an observer of persons and events be affected thereby in
some general way. At least it is true that the writer of a story of
complication of incident or of character cannot permit[154] any
consideration of atmosphere to interfere with the events in the first
case or the persons in the other. Whatever totality of emotional effect
may reside in his work will be inherent in the conception, as it would
be inherent in such a spectacle for an observer, if the story should
happen in actuality.
The sensible—because the most profitable—way for the writer of fiction
to fit the matter of atmosphere into his general artistic philosophy is
to disregard it entirely, except where it constitutes a primary
consideration, that is, except in relation to the strict story of
atmosphere. The reason for this cavalier treatment of the matter has
been brought out. If any story is told so as to create the illusion of
reality, some general emotional effect will be produced on its reader,
will be inherent in the conception, as it would be inherent in the
spectacle, if actual. It all comes down to this: by telling his story
justly as a course of events involving real people in a definite
environment, the writer will produce on a reader whatever totality of
emotional effect is inherent in the conception. If there is no totality
of emotional effect inherent therein the writer cannot produce it except
by changing the whole conception and writing a different story. In the
case of the strict story of atmosphere the writer's attitude is
different. He sets out, not with a story, but with an emotional effect,
and devises people and events and setting to produce it.
The point can be made clearer by more specific discussion. Assume that a
writer has conceived a story with a definite plot, involving definite
people, set in a New England village. Anybody who knows New England or
has read Alice Brown or Mary E. Wilkins Freeman can testify that such a
story, justly told, will have a definite and peculiar atmospheric value.
But its atmosphere, its totality of emotional effect on a[155] reader will
be inherent in its setting and people, perhaps even in its events. The
story itself will determine its atmosphere, which can be only the
peculiar impression that a New England village, its people and their
lives, produce on an observer. By choosing to write such a story, or by
choosing to write any definite story, a writer debars himself from
creating any atmosphere not involved in the story selected for writing.
On the other hand, if a writer desires to put together a story of
atmosphere, he starts with an emotional effect as the basic conception,
and then casts about for a setting, people, and incidents that will
produce such emotional effect. It all depends upon what the writer
starts with. If he starts with an emotional effect, he may narrate any
course of events, and draw any sort of people, and place the tale in any
sort of setting, provided only that events, people, and setting be such
as to produce the desired atmosphere or effect. But if the writer starts
with a definite story, the only atmosphere he can create thereby is the
atmosphere inherent in the conception.[P]
[156]
Though it is true that a writer may and should disregard the matter of
atmosphere in writing a story which he has conceived as a definite
course of events involving definite people, since any atmospheric
possibilities of the fiction will be inherent in the conception and will
be realized by telling it justly as to people, events, and setting,
nevertheless a qualification must be stated. No story is conceived as
definitely as it is written; the writer first grasps the plot or main
situation, perhaps also the characters, and then expands the outline
into a congruous presentation of a phase of life by filling in details
as to environment, people, and events. This filling-in process may and
should be performed partly at least before writing, but even if the
writer postpones it until he is wrestling with the problem of execution,
he must remember one thing. Any story has a general tone, largely
determined by its climax or main situation. This tone or key of a story
is not its atmosphere strictly, perhaps, but the dividing line between
the two matters is very faint. The atmosphere of a story is its general
emotional effect upon a reader, and its tone is very nearly the same
thing, being the result of its writer's having justly performed his
selective task by transcribing only such matters as harmonize with the
main situation, tragic or comic. And a writer must regard the matter of
the tone of a story in developing and writing it, if it is to have the
significant simplicity and unity which alone can give the fiction
maximum power and effect.
The practical problem can be stated most simply thus: a reader's
intelligence and sensibilities must be prepared for the crisis, climax,
or main situation by incorporating in the story only such matters of
environment, personality, or event as harmonize with the emotional
character of the main situation. The necessity is most stringent, of
course, in the case of the short story, but it is a consideration to be
borne in mind in writing any type of fiction. It is merely another
aspect of the general question of preparation, which has been touched
upon before. The situations of a story must be prepared in a mechanical
sense, that is, the writer must prepare to place his people where each
situation demands that they be placed; the people themselves must[157] be
developed and individualized, that the situations may have full dramatic
value; and the mind and heart of a reader of the story must be prepared
for the climax, which is the whole story in little.
If the main situation of any story is essentially tragic, it will never
do not to hint the fact until the climax is reached, when a reader will
be overwhelmed, rather than upborne and stimulated, by the torrent of
battle, murder, or sudden death. The opening scene of "Macbeth" presages
the lurid character of the whole play, and serves to key reader or
spectator for murder. Likewise, in the case of a story essentially light
and happy in content, the purpose of the writer is to develop and
present one of life's many attractive phases, and that purpose will be
defeated or at least hampered if woebegone people and unpleasant
situations are given place in the fiction.
Considerations of contrast may lead the writer to incorporate in his
story matter out of keeping with its general tone and main situation,
but the effort is really to emphasize the general tone by striking a few
discordant notes. Contrast is too delicate a matter to be discussed with
any profit; whether or not the device shall be employed in any story is
a problem that only the artistic sense of the writer of the particular
story can answer.
It is very easy to say that a story should be told so as to prepare a
reader for the climax, that he may accept it, yet, in a sense, the thing
can be achieved only by adequate practice of the whole art of fiction.
The general necessity is to make the whole course of events seem real
and actual; the more specific necessity is to give a reader a definite
clue to the nature of the story, that he may not be shocked into
disbelief by the climax. This must be done unobtrusively, as every other
technical device must be employed, under penalty of failing in its
office.
[158]A quotation showing effective employment of the device will not be
useless. Stevenson's short story "Thrawn Janet" leads up to an encounter
with the devil, and the author loses no time in preparing a reader for
the entrance of his satanic majesty. The story begins thus:
"The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the moorland parish of
Balweary, in the vale of Dule. A severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful
to his hearers, he dwelt in the last years of his life, without relative
or servant or any human company, in the small and lonely manse under the
Hanging Shaw. In spite of the iron composure of his features, his eye
was wild, scared, and uncertain; and when he dwelt, in private
admonitions, on the future of the impenitent, it seemed as if the eye
pierced through the storms of time to the terrors of eternity. Many
young persons, coming to prepare themselves against the season of the
Holy Communion, were dreadfully affected by his talk. He had a sermon on
1st Peter, v. and 8th, 'The devil as a roaring lion,' on the Sunday
after every seventeenth of August, and he was accustomed to surpass
himself upon that text both by the appalling nature of the matter and
the terror of his bearing in the pulpit. The children were frightened
into fits, and the old looked more than usually oracular, and were, all
that day, full of those hints that Hamlet deprecated. The manse itself,
where it stood by the water of Dule among some thick trees, with the
Shaw overhanging it on the one side, and on the other many cold, moorish
hill-tops rising towards the sky, had begun, at a very early period of
Mr. Soulis' ministry, to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who valued
themselves upon their prudence; and guidmen sitting at the clachan
alehouse shook their heads together at the thought of passing late by
that uncanny neighborhood."
[159]Here Stevenson loses no time in keying his reader to the general pitch
of the story. It is a task that the writer of any story must undertake.
The general nature of the tale should be suggested as soon as possible,
and the story should not be allowed to falsify its introductory hints,
but should reaffirm them constantly, until all the divergent strands of
the fiction are knotted together in the climax, which will need no
interpretation. Take another instance from Stevenson, the beginning of
"Markheim," where Markheim murders the dealer in curios.
"'Yes,' said the dealer, 'our windfalls are of various kinds. Some
customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend of my superior
knowledge. Some are dishonest,' and here he held up the candle, so that
the light fell strongly on his visitor, 'and in that case,' he
continued, 'I profit by my virtue.'
"Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes
had not grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness of the shop.
At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he
blinked painfully and looked aside."
A little farther on:
"The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business
voice, though still with a note of irony, 'You can give, as usual, a
clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?' he
continued. 'Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!'
"And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tiptoe,
looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with
every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite
pity, and a touch of horror."
Note how strongly and withal how naturally the whole of this, and
particularly the last sentence, suggests[160] that Markheim has come into
the shop to do murder. The story is keyed to tragedy at once, its reader
with it. His mind is prepared in advance, that the significant event,
when it is related, may be accepted without question.
As stated, this matter of keying the story and its reader to the pitch
of the main situation or climax is not precisely the matter of
atmosphere, but it has close affiliations therewith. It is even more
important to the writer of fiction. Any atmospheric value in a story
will be brought out by telling it justly as a course of events involving
real people in a definite environment, and preparation of a reader for
the main situation of a story is a part of just and adequate narration.
The writer's hints of the character of what is to come must be unforced
and natural, but they must be effective.
It is obvious, of course, that the more tense or strange the main
situation of a story, the greater the necessity that a reader be
prepared for it. If the main situation consists in commonplace
characters doing some commonplace thing, a reader will accept the
spectacle without artificial preparation, but if the main situation is
highly dramatic, the normally placid course of a reader's thought and
feeling must be agitated and stimulated in advance, or he will not rise
with the climax. In other words, the fiction will not have
verisimilitude emotionally. A story is both a physical spectacle and an
emotional progression; the author must write both for the reader's eye
and for his soul. If any story touches emotional heights, its reader
must be stimulated thereto by proper preparation.
It remains to consider the matter of atmosphere, as the term is used
with relation to the strict story of atmosphere, which emphasizes the
emotional value of the whole for a reader rather than the significance
of the events or characters.
[161]The intrinsic difficulty to blend such diverse matters as people,
events, and setting or environment into an even emotional unity requires
that the strict story of atmosphere be a short story. Even if it is not
a short story in point of actual length, it will be a short story in
point of structure, that is, it will lead relatively few characters
through little diversity of setting to a single main situation, or
perhaps even to no main situation, in a dramatic sense. As noted in
discussing story types, the progression of the particular atmosphere to
the point of highest intensity gives the strict story of atmosphere much
of its story-character. The human element is incidental and subordinate.
However, the task of keeping people, events, and setting true to a fixed
emotional tone is so difficult that a writer cannot sustain the effort
for long. Many novels or relatively lengthy stories have high
atmospheric value; Hardy's Wessex novels possess the quality, as does
much of Joseph Conrad's work, "Almayer's Folly," for instance; but it is
generally true that the intrinsic difficulty of the story of atmosphere
tends to confine it within brief limits. It is certainly true that only
the skilled hand can compass the feat of writing it at all.
I have stated that the setting of a story is not its atmosphere, and
that is true. Nevertheless the setting is most often what determines the
emotional effect of the whole. A hundred instances might be cited—"The
Merry Men," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "Almayer's Folly," "The
Return of the Native." This results from the fact that setting or
environment is much more potent to produce a relatively definite
emotional effect on an observer than either a person or an event, the
two other elements of a story. A murder may produce a very definite
feeling of horror in an observer or reader, but the emotion, while
definite, is not linked[162] inevitably to murder alone. Many other
spectacles will horrify. Likewise, a person may produce a feeling of
disgust in an observer or reader, but so will an infinite number of
other persons, all radically different from each other and the first.
But the emotional effect of the west coast of Scotland is special and
peculiar to that setting; there is no single word in the language
characterizing it. That is why Stevenson had to write "The Merry Men" to
state it, just as Poe had to write "The Fall of the House of Usher" to
state the specific emotional effect of that particular house, and Hardy
had to write "The Return of the Native" to state the emotional value of
his Wessex moors.
Moreover, when the writer finds the germ of his story in a person seen
actually or in imagination, it is more than likely that the emphasis of
the completed work will be on character, and when he finds it in an
event or situation, it is more than likely that the emphasis of the
completed work will be on plot. But when a countryside or house or
stretch of sea-coast suggests a story, it can hardly result otherwise
than that the completed work will emphasize the emotional value of the
setting.
The setting of the strict story of atmosphere may determine its
emotional effect, but the emotional tendency of the setting must not be
affected adversely by the people or the events. That is why the setting
is not atmosphere, though it may determine the atmosphere. A gloomy and
terrific setting will have small emotional effect upon a reader if the
people and events of the story are not such as to deepen the impression
initiated by the setting, for the people and events cannot be
emotionally neutral. If they are seemingly real, that is, if the story
is well told apart from the matter of atmosphere, they will make some
impression on a reader. Unless their impression is of a piece with that[163]
of the setting, the unity of emotional effect will be destroyed. And if
there is no unity of emotional effect, there is no atmosphere, in the
strict sense.
Confession is good for the soul; let me say that if there is a technique
of writing so as to produce a unity of emotional effect I am unable to
state it. The matter is exceptionally delicate, and only the broadest
sort of abstract statement can be made. One can state—as I have
stated—that the emotional effect of a story of atmosphere is usually
initiated by and dependent on the setting, and that the emotional effect
initiated by the setting must be reinforced by the writer's choice and
handling of people and events. But that is about all that can be said. A
specific story of atmosphere might be taken and examined in detail with
profit, if space were available; yet the devices employed by its writer
would not completely exhaust the resources of atmospheric writing, and
abstract statement of them here will not cover the whole technique.
Poe's technique in "The Fall of the House of Usher" is not identical
with Stevenson's in "The Merry Men," nor with Conrad's in "Almayer's
Folly."
Fortunately, the strict technique is not of great practical importance.
Any story will gain in power by possession of an atmospheric quality,
but that quality will be present if the basic conception is not trivial
and feeble, and if the story is told adequately as to its three elements
of setting, personality, and event. Any emotional value inherent in the
thing will then be felt by a reader, as he would feel the emotional
value of the spectacle, if real. Any story that is lived vicariously by
its writer in the person of the character from whose viewpoint it is
told, and is written justly as a course of events involving real people
in a definite environment, will have all the effect on a reader
attainable by the particular conception. And as to the strict[164] story of
atmosphere, it will be hopeless for the writer of fiction to attempt it
until he can handle the less artificial and less difficult forms with
some approach to real facility and adequacy.
One specific point of the technique of writing the strict story of
atmosphere should be noted, for it is important. The emotional effect is
usually initiated and determined by the setting, natural or artificial,
as a tropical island or a house. Characters and events must be
subservient to the particular emotional value. It results that there can
be no real dramatic opposition of characters and traits in the strict
story of atmosphere, for the moral nature of an individual has no
affiliation with the emotional quality of a countryside or any other
setting. Development of strict traits of character, which are essential
to drama, will not serve to deepen for a reader the emotional suggestion
of a setting. The writer of the strict story of atmosphere must seek to
invest his people with such traits as will reinforce the emotional
suggestion of the setting, and these traits cannot be strictly of
character. Rather they will be attributes of appearance, action, mind,
and soul. Insanity is an instance of such an attribute of mind, not
strictly of character. The point is difficult to state abstractly, as is
the whole of the technique of atmosphere, but a reading of either "The
Fall of the House of Usher" or "The Merry Men" will clarify my meaning.
The people of either story are less human beings than humanized
emotional abstractions, of the same stuff of gloom or mystery as the
house or sea. It is needless to state that the whole weakness of the
story of atmosphere as a fiction results from the necessary devitalizing
of its characters, for fiction primarily concerns man, his conflicts and
his loves.
[165]
CHAPTER XII
THE SHORT STORY
Definition—Two Types—Dramatic Short Story—Atmospheric Short
Story—Origins—Assumed Unity and Singleness of Effect of
Dramatic Short Story—General Technique of
Form—Characterization—Interest and Too Great
Simplicity—Limitation upon Complexity—Length—Coherence of
Form—Compression.
A story is a fiction with a plot, as distinguished from a tale, which is
a string of incidents that happened to happen to the characters. In the
story the events are linked together by the natures of the people
concerned; personality influences event and event influences
personality. And the short story is, simply, a short story, a fiction,
possessing a plot, that could be and has been told adequately within
brief limits. A plot is a dramatic problem. Therefore the short story
may be defined roughly as a story embodying a dramatic problem which can
be stated and worked out adequately as to all its elements of
personality, event, and setting within relatively brief limits.
The general nature of the short story having been stated, it is
necessary to qualify and distinguish. Fiction is concerned primarily
with the intrinsic interest and significance of man and his acts, the
elements of drama, but there are three fundamental types of story, two
of which are normal and the other abnormal. The types are the story
stressing personality and the[166] story stressing incident, which are
normal, and the story stressing atmosphere, which is abnormal in that
persons and events are subordinate to the emotional value of the whole
for a reader, which is usually determined by the setting. Personality is
the most prominent element of the story of character, and the events are
the most prominent element of the story of complication; each story
stresses one of the twin elements of drama, the persons and their acts;
and each story possesses both of such elements. That is, both the story
of character and the strict story of plot—plot as a mere sequence of
events—have some dramatic value. But the strict story of atmosphere has
no dramatic value; its nature forbids that it should. The emotional
effect is usually determined by the setting, and the human traits that
will intensify a setting—and with which the characters must be
invested—are not such as to give rise to a dramatic opposition between
the persons. The definition of the short story as a story embodying a
dramatic problem which can be presented adequately within brief limits
does not cover the short story of atmosphere.
In other words, there are two types of short story, apart from the three
types determined by the placing of emphasis upon any one of the three
fictional elements of personality, event, and setting—the dramatic
short story and the short story of unity of effect. The dramatic short
story is either the story of character or the story of complication of
incident; the short story of unity of effect is the story of atmosphere.
The two types here contrasted—the dramatic story and the atmospheric
story—could not be covered adequately or to any purpose by a single
definition; they are radically different. In defining the short story I
have defined merely the dramatic short story, and in discussing it I
shall confine myself largely to the dramatic[167] short story likewise, for
the story of atmosphere has been considered elsewhere.
Knowledge of the origin of the two basic types of short story, the
dramatic story and the atmospheric story, will clarify the writer's
conceptions of the types. The story of atmosphere, or story of totality
of emotional effect on a reader, was first consciously perfected by Poe,
wherein lies America's single claim to having originated a distinct
literary type. By following in prose his poetic philosophy—as stated in
"The Philosophy of Composition"—Poe produced such stories as
"Ligeia" and "The Fall of the House of Usher," which
have little or no real dramatic value, yet which are certainly not mere
tales, for they have plot- or story-value. As I have stated, in the case
of the story of atmosphere, such as these two of Poe's, the climactic
ascension of the particular emotional impression to the point of highest
intensity supplies much of the plot-or story-element of the fiction.
On the other hand, the dramatic short story, embodying a true plot, may
be said to have originated in France. The type was suggested by Poe's
work; the mere mechanical hint, that of a brief story, was received
eagerly by French writers, and the dramatic element, entirely altering
the fundamental character of the fiction, was speedily injected. The
result has been that the offshoot has entirely overshadowed the parent
stem, and this simply because there is so much more material for the
dramatic story than there is for the story of unity of emotional effect.
The story of atmosphere is most difficult to do well, so that relatively
few are published; it has no wide popular appeal, with the same result;
while the range of emotional effects is narrow that may be produced on a
reader by a work of fiction, that is, there is less material for the
story of atmosphere than for the dramatic story.
[168]It is time now to notice a matter concerning which much glib statement
has been made, the "unity" and singleness of effect of the short story.
The usual remark of the writer or talker on short story technique is
that the ideal or typical short story will manifest the dramatic unities
of time, place, and action, and will produce a single effect. But it is
notorious that only relatively few stories do manifest the dramatic
unities, so the speaker or writer goes on to say most lamely and
indefinitely that the laws of technique must give way to the
requirements of any particular story. Grant me for the moment that the
dramatic unities are not essential to the perfect short story, that
Maupassant's "The Necklace" is as technically perfect a short story as
Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado," and the viciousness of preaching thus
to the short story writer becomes apparent. The only definite thing he
is told, that the unities are essential to the perfect short story, is
false.
The vice of such statement originates in failure to distinguish between
the two types of short story, the story of atmosphere and the dramatic
story. The story of atmosphere, of totality or unity of emotional effect
on a reader, can hardly escape manifesting the dramatic unities of
place, time, and action. The emotional effect will usually be that of a
single definite place, for reasons brought out in the preceding chapter;
the time will be brief, on account of the inherent difficulty to sustain
the atmosphere; and there will be little complication or prolongation of
the action, for the same reason. But the dramatic short story is not
subject to the limitations imposed by the necessity always to regard
atmosphere, or emotional effect, and it may or may not manifest the
dramatic unities.
The way to state the relation between the matter of unity and the
dramatic short story, the short story[169] of true plot, is this: on account
of the limited space available, the plot for a dramatic short story will
tend to involve relatively few shifts of setting, relatively short
spaces of time, relatively few and relatively simple events, and
relatively few persons. No other sort of plot can be adequately handled
within narrow word limits. The short story must be written with verbal
fullness and elaboration, that its phrasing may not be bare and unlike
the shaded contours of life, and the plot complicated as to any one of
its three elements of personality, setting, and event cannot be
adequately developed in a few thousand words. The short story is the
result of just conception and selection, rather than of mere rhetorical
compression. Stevenson's "Markheim," for instance, is written more
elaborately than almost any other episode in fiction, long or short,
that is, any other episode of equal length in point of the time it would
take to happen in actuality.
Poe was the first writer to say much of anything definite about his art,
and commentators on technique who have followed him have merely expanded
his thesis rather than said something new. The only trouble, in relation
to the short story, is that Poe spoke of unity and singleness of effect
with his own peculiar type of short story in mind, the short story of
unity or totality of emotional effect, the short story of atmosphere.
When he stated that the short story—his type of short story, the short
story of atmosphere—should possess unity and produce a single effect,
he stated the truth, but when it is stated that the short story meaning
both the story of atmosphere and the dramatic short story—should
manifest the unities and produce a single effect, the statement is
false. In the first place, the dramatic short story is not the result of
the same technique as the story of atmosphere; in the second place, the
unity stated by Poe to be essential[170] to the story of emotional effect is
not the same thing as the old dramatic unities, which are mechanical.
The fact that the story of atmosphere can hardly escape manifesting the
dramatic unities does not amalgamate the two matters. Poe's unity is
unity of emotional effect: the dramatic unities are singleness of time,
place, and action, a matter that can be preserved by anyone, though
usually at the expense of the interest of the story. How few have
written and can write so as to produce a unity of emotional effect need
only be suggested to enforce my point.
The matter would not be worth treating thus minutely were it not for the
strong tendency to mislead of any statement that the short story must
manifest the dramatic unities. Within very elastic limits, the unities
are a convention of the drama, but they are not a convention of fiction,
long or short. The art of the stage and the art of the story differ
radically; the advantage given the play by the conciseness of its
spectacle is compensated by the advantage given the story by its more
inclusive character and greater flexibility. I have said that a plot or
story of plot is a dramatic problem, and the word "dramatic" has
connotations of the stage, but what was meant was
that a plot is a conflict between persons, within a single person, or
with nature. It was not meant that a plot or story of plot is subject to
the conventions of the stage. The art of fiction is infinitely more
inclusive and flexible than the art of the stage, and the writer of
fiction must utilize to the full the advantages of his art in order to
compensate his work in the eyes of a reader for its weakness—relative
to the play—in vividness and body.
One may say that the spectacle of life is infinitely various, so that
the writer of fiction has plenty of material for stories at hand. But
life,[171] despite the efforts of Mrs. Grundy, is subject to no conventions,
social, moral, or artistic, and the short story writer who brings all
his ideas to the dramatic unities as a first test will winnow little
grain from the chaff. When the short story writer finds a hint for a
story he should consider whether he can bring out with his few thousand
words all the matters necessary to the fiction's having full effect on a
reader, but the less he frets about any abstract unity or singleness of
effect the better. The words have a plausible sound in discussion, but
they mean nothing, except in relation to the story of atmosphere. It
means something to say that the dramatic short story should possess
unity of tone; it means something to say that it should possess unity of
style; but it means nothing to say that it should possess unity, simply,
unless the dramatic unities are meant, and in that case the statement is
false. Some short stories happen to possess the dramatic unities; more
do not.
By the very nature of the conceptive process the writer seizes his story
ideas in terms of persons, events, or atmosphere. And when he has a
definite story idea he first should develop it so as to give it maximum
effect, and then should consider whether he must write a short story or
novel or romance to give his developed idea adequate expression. The
writer who starts with some abstract knowledge of fiction technique, and
seeks to vivify rules of construction into a definite story, will
accomplish very little. Good stories are not conceived that way, and
good writers do not go to work that way. The story is the thing, and it
does not lie between the covers of this or any other book on technique.
It lies in the people and events the writer sees in reality or in
imagination, and to find it the writer must turn to life or to his
dreams. After the story is found the writer's knowledge of and facility
in technique will[172] come into play in the work of development and
execution.
The broad outlines of the technique of the dramatic short story were
implied in the statement that it will tend to involve relatively few
shifts of setting, relatively short spaces of time, relatively few and
relatively simple events, and relatively few persons. Its unity of
tone—which is characteristic of the short story, dramatic and of
atmosphere—results from its simplicity as to persons, events, and
setting, and its unity of style results from its unity of tone. The
elements of the short story are less complex than those of a longer
fiction, and the fact causes all the modifications in the general
technique of fiction as manifested by the short story. In the short
story, for instance, there is less opportunity than in the novel to
manage secondary events to build up character or personality. The whole
process must be swifter, and the writer must depend largely on direct
statement and description.
This matter is of some importance. As to setting, the technique of the
short story and of the novel are identical; there is merely less setting
in the short story—speaking quantitatively—because the type involves
fewer shifts of place, even if the action does not happen in one place.
And the technique of the short story and of the novel are identical as
to action; the short story merely involves fewer episodes. But as to the
people, the technique of the short story and of the novel differ. It is
true that the short story involves few persons, relatively to the novel,
just as it involves relatively few shifts of setting and relatively few
events, but the difference is more than quantitative, and so affects the
technique of the type. It affects the technique of the short story
because characterization is a matter achieved by showing the person in
action, by describing him, by transcribing his speech,[173] and by stating
his qualities directly. That is to say, characterization goes on in
every part of the story, except where setting is being touched in. And
it will go on there, to a slight extent, if the environment is given in
terms of the impressions received by the character affected. On the
other hand, narration, or verbal treatment of the event, and the
description of setting, or verbal treatment of the environment, are more
or less distinct and separate elements of a story. The matter is
delicate, and I run some risk of being obscure here, but the net result
of the simplicity and separateness of both the narrative and the
descriptive process is that the narrative and descriptive technique of
the short story is the narrative and descriptive technique of fiction
generally. Writer of novel and writer of short story can narrate a
murder in much the same way, or touch in a countryside with identical
technique, but they cannot handle their people similarly.
Perhaps the point can be made clearer. The writer of a novel and the
writer of a short story alike must invest their people with the
vivacity, distinction, and concreteness of real men and women, but where
the one has five hundred pages, let us say, the other has only five
thousand words. It is a task difficult enough at best to precipitate a
man in a few drops of ink. It is also difficult to narrate the man's
actions with some of the vividness of reality, or to touch in a real
world for him to move in. But note this. Where the novelist must deal
with a large number of events and scenes, the short story writer has
only a few to handle; he has about as many words available for each of
his few as the novelist has for his many. That is not the case in
creating characters. The process of characterization must permeate any
fiction, forwarded by the narrative matter, the dialogue, the
expository[174] matter, and the descriptive matter alike. And the novelist
has five hundred pages to initiate, reinforce, and complete the illusion
of personality where the short story writer has but five thousand words.
The novelist has more people to vivify, it is true, but not enough more
than the short story writer to give the latter an equal chance if he
follows the same technique.
It all comes down to this: a story, long or short, can be broken up into
its several episodes and scenes, which are mechanically separable, but
its people move through the whole. Since any event or any scene is in a
sense a mere item of a story, not universally influential, the technique
of handling event or scene simply as such is much the same, whatever the
type of story. But since the element of personality is universally
present and influential in a story, the technique of characterization
varies with the essential nature of the story as a whole.
The result of the condition upon the general technique of
characterization as applied in the short story must now be stated.
I have said already that the whole process must be swifter, but that is
not very definite. Expanded, the statement amounts to saying that the
short story writer cannot develop personality with the fullness and
diversity of the novelist; he must concentrate his verbal resources upon
the trait developed by the few events of the story and upon a few
striking peculiarities of appearance and speech. As to the strict trait
of character, the story itself will point the way. It will have one main
situation, and probably that one will be of such a nature as to involve
relatively simple attributes of soul in the persons concerned. As to the
more superficial matter of making the persons seem real and lifelike,
the writer must describe sharply, rather than at length—as Stevenson
did in "A Lodging[175] for the Night"—and must make his people talk as
individually as possible. The general aim, of course, is the same as in
the longer story, to present real characters of unique appearance and
speech. And the writer's resources—again of course—are
the same, but the brevity of the short story forces him to concentrate
upon one matter of soul, one matter—or at most a few—of appearance,
and one matter of speech. The whole art of fiction is selective; even
the novel cannot present justly the complete man; and the short story,
simply because it is short, is the most highly selective fiction of all.
It cannot present the whole man, but it must seem to. A reader will not
feel the absence of traits not involved in the events, and by vivid and
brief descriptive touches, reinforced by unique speech, any character
can be invested with what will be accepted as a complete physical
presence.
As stated, the story itself, if a true story and not a tale, will show
its writer that his expository matter or direct statement as to
character must bear only upon the traits involved in the plot-situation
of the story. The necessity is not peculiar to the short story, but it
is more insistent than in the case of the novel. The other points of the
technique of characterizing in the short story are purely verbal, and
the writer's success depends upon his faculty in pungent description and
in handling speech.
The remainder of the technique of the short story, apart from the matter
of creating real men and women, is not verbal, but constructive, and is
implied in—as it results from—the brevity of the fiction. Unlike the
novelist, the writer of the short story has space for nothing but the
story. He cannot drag in by the heels episodes unessential to the story
solely for the sake of their intrinsic interest; he cannot waste words
upon unessential persons. He is faced by two facts—that[176] his story must
be interesting, so that it will probably have to involve considerable
complication as to persons, events, and setting, and that it must be
told with enough verbal fullness and elaboration to give it the body and
seeming of life. Trimming between the necessity to interest and the
necessity to invest his story with reality, the writer first must find
an interesting story, and then, in writing, or in developing and
writing, must be vigilant to transcribe nothing unessential to the
story, or he will be forced to exceed his space-limit.
The process comprehends most of the technique of the short story. The
whole difference between it and the novel is that the novel is more
discursive. Much of the novel's interest, quite permissibly, may inhere
in persons, episodes, and matter generally without relation to the main
thread of the story. But a short story's interest may not inhere in
matter foreign to the thread of the story. That is the case not because
of any arbitrary requirement that it be a "unity," but simply because a
short story cannot be told adequately as to the story without exceeding
the word-limit if unessential matter be incorporated with it.
The fallacy, whether on the part of commentator on technique or writer
of fiction, in approaching the short story as some sort of artificial
fictional unity lies in the implicit disregard of the necessity to
interest. The first necessity is that a story interest, and to meet it
the writer must devise some complication of persons, motives, and
events, and usually that will involve some diversity of setting, or
change of place. The second necessity is that the story be told so as to
create the illusion of reality, and to meet it the writer will be forced
to exhaust his few thousand words. The necessity that the story interest
can be[177] met only rarely without violating the unities of the drama;
therefore they are not a convention of the art of the short story. Apart
from the matter of unity of tone and style, the short story is a unity
only in that it is one single story, nothing more, nothing less. That
is, each word is essential to the fiction as such. But that does not
mean that the story or plot is a unity in itself. It may involve much
diversity in the three fictional elements of personality, event, and
setting, the last of which includes time.
I emphasize the matter because the beginning writer is apt to devise
stories too simple to present a real problem to awaken a reader's
interest. There is also the converse fault, of course, that of devising
a story too complicated to be given adequate expression in few words,
but this fault will tend to correct itself through the difficulties the
writer will meet in execution. The other will not tend to correct
itself. The more simple the story, the easier it will be to write with
some approach to adequacy. The writer who fancies that a short story
must involve as little as possible diversity of people, events, and
places may very well continue to devise stories too simple to awaken
interest, however effectively they may be told. He will have no trouble
in writing each one within his space, but he will have trouble in
getting them published, for each will be lacking in essential fictional
value, the capacity to interest. Here I can make only general statement,
and it is impracticable to dwell on the fact that real and highly
individualized characters will invest a simple story with all the
interest of a more complicated fiction. The general truth, however, is
that the interest of a tale lies in the problem it presents and solves,
that a problem involves complication and diversity, and that a writer
may go astray who seeks only the dramatically unified and simple plot.
His[178] work will interest a reader if he creates real people, but the
capacity to do so is a rare faculty. At the bottom of it, a story, long
or short, is a sequence of events; they should not be too simple, for,
apart from the human element, simplicity presents no problem to awaken a
reader's interest.
The sole limitation upon the complexity and diversity of the short story
as a whole is the difficulty to develop in few words a plot complicated
as to personality, event, place, or time. Accordingly, the plot suitable
for a short story will tend to be simple, but it need not be so simple
that the events, apart from the people, will not awaken interest.
Moreover, the unskilled writer who has experienced the difficulty to
develop an interesting plot in few words will be astonished by the
results of a little forethought and careful planning before writing.
Elimination and suppression of inessential and relatively unimportant
matters will enable him to set forth adequately, though in a few words,
a story of real body and interest.
The whole discussion should awaken realization of the fact that the
short story is the most difficult form of prose fiction. To the general
difficulty of all fiction it adds the difficulty that whatever is done
must be done in a few words. The writer of novel or romance has only to
interest, and his space is practically unlimited. The short story writer
must interest, and he must interest in few words and pages. He must
depend solely on his story; he has space for nothing else. He should
remember that each item of unessential matter given place by him will
lessen by just so much the number of words available to give the real
story verisimilitude and consequent interest and appeal. To take the
conceptive aspect of it, in devising a short story he should remember
that inclusion of any accidental and unessential matter must lessen by
just so much his[179] power to awaken interest by some diversity and
complication in the real story.
When a story idea is found, the writer should determine precisely what
matters must be brought out if the fiction is to have full effect on a
reader, who will have only the writer's words to go on. The writer
should realize precisely what elements of personality are significant in
relation to the main situation, which is the story in little, and should
prepare to develop the motives and traits involved. He should determine
precisely what will be the most effective physical movement for the
story, the nature and order of events, also the setting or environment.
He should consider the essential nature of the main situation, or
climax, and, if he cannot manage that preceding events shall prepare a
reader for it, he should prepare from the beginning of the story to hint
what is to come, as Stevenson does in "Markheim." Finally, he should
grasp the developed story as a whole, and be vigilant to transcribe
nothing unessential, for if the story is real fictional knot or problem,
and worth while, he cannot do so without sacrificing essential matter or
exceeding his limits.
The physical brevity of the short story certainly has great influence in
the direction of simplicity. But its brevity does not subject the
dramatic short story to the conventions of the stage. It must be a
unity, so-called, but only in this, that every word must be necessary to
develop the story-idea, which, in itself, may be simple or somewhat
complex. The short story of atmosphere is another matter.
Coherence is a word much better than unity to express the most
significant attribute of the dramatic short story. The form is coherent
in that every word, line, and sentence has relation to the story itself.
The novel is relatively incoherent in that it often embodies[180] whole
stories without relation to the main story, or matter without relation
to any story at all. The most pungent way to put the point of the whole
discussion is to state that the short story, viewed merely as a sequence
of words, is coherent in that each word serves to forward a single
story-idea to its conclusion. That is not to state that the story-idea
itself is coherent or a unity. It is a unity in that it is single, one
story, but the one story need not manifest unity of time, place, and
action. The sooner the short story writer clears his head of any notion
that the verbal coherence of the dramatic short story involves some
indefinable unity in its matter or story-idea, or some equally
indefinable singleness of effect, the better for him, his work and
pocketbook.[Q]
There would be no great profit in summarizing here the items of
technique treated in other chapters. All are of use in the short story,
functioning as in other forms of prose fiction. Apart from the matter of
characterization, the peculiar technique of the short story is
constructive and supervisory, rather than executive. The writer must
make certain that he has one story and nothing else, for only one story
can be adequately[181] developed within brief limits. In writing, he must
take care to transcribe only story-matter, for the same reason. But in
narrating an event, or in describing a setting, after he has determined
that event and setting are essential to his single story, the writer may
employ the technique of general narrative or descriptive writing.
Whatever the form of fiction, its aim is the same, to show real men and
women doing in a real world the things one might expect from their
natures and the circumstances of their lives.
In the chapter on story types something was said as to the current
insistence upon the verbal compression of the short story. As stated
there, the short story, dramatic or atmospheric, is not the result of
mere rhetorical compression, rather of the inherent brevity of the
conception. The executive technique of long story and short are
identical, except as to the single matter of characterization. The short
story develops its fewer episodes with as much rhetorical elaboration as
the novel develops its many, and the writer who conceives that a short
story can be produced by verbal paring and filing is on the highroad to
failure.
[182]
CHAPTER XIII
THE NOVEL
Novel and Romance—Romanticism and Realism—Techniques of Novel
and Romance—Incoherence of Novel Relative to Short Story—Novel
as Medium of Self-Expression—Interpolation of Personal
Comment—Significant Simplicity—Permissible Inclusiveness of
Novel—Full Development of Personality—Variety of
Action—Length—Initial Idea—Story—Life—Society—Singleness
of Story—Social Emphasis.
I have a small dictionary on my desk which defines the novel as a
"fictitious prose narrative or tale presenting a picture of real life,"
and the romance as "any fictitious and wonderful tale: a fictitious
narrative in prose or verse which passes beyond the limits of real
life." The definitions state a distinction easier to feel vaguely than
to justify. One may say with truth that Jane Austen's "Sense and
Sensibility" or Trollope's "The Warden" presents a picture of real life,
but can one also say with truth that Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter" or
Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" passes essentially beyond the
limits of real life simply because each book states a physically
impossible thing—the brand of his sin over Arthur Dimmesdale's heart
and the metamorphosis of Dr. Jekyll? Either matter is a
mere symbol, devised to give concreteness to a spiritual fact. Is it not
true than human life, the material for fiction, has its spiritual
actualities as well as its physical facts? and does not the romance—as
it is[183] commonly understood—differ from the novel merely in that it
narrates a real adventure of the soul rather than a real adventure of
the body?
The fact is patent, I think, that the writer of fiction will gain small
benefit from conceiving the romance as something separate and apart from
the novel; likewise, that a book on technique without confusion may
treat the writing of long fiction generally as the writing of novels. It
is true, of course, that the essential bent of any particular writer may
lead him to deal with the facts of the soul rather than the facts of the
body, or that any particular story may be a spiritual rather than a
physical adventure; nevertheless the story of the spirit must still
develop facts and show their relations, and the technical resources of
its writer are precisely the same as those of the writer who deals
predominately with the more concrete physical facts of life.
It would be interesting to go at some length into this question of
romance, all its connotations and implications. In particular, there is
an antithesis in common thought, with romanticism and realism the two
opposed members, which it would not be too dull to discuss. But the
discussion would not give much light to one who desires to acquire a
knowledge of the mechanics of fiction, long or short. It is permissible
to call a realist one who transcribes predominately physical details,
and it is permissible to call a romanticist one who transcribes
predominated [typo for "predominantly"?] spiritual details, but in both
cases the basic technique is identical. The realist can confine himself
to physical facts because his story deals largely with the everyday
actualities of life, and its subordinate spiritual values will be felt
by a reader through inference from the facts. The romanticist must state
spiritual facts directly because they are the very stuff and essence of
his story. He is none the less a realist[184] if there are spiritual
actualities—an indisputable proposition—and if he states them as they
exist for him.
The critical discussion that treats realism and romanticism as opposed
artistic philosophies is so confused that it would serve no useful
purpose to go into the matter here. What little I have to say on the
subject will be said in the next chapter. But it is not inappropriate to
call attention to the fact that every story conceived—in Stevenson's
phrase—from within outwards, the only genesis for a work of art, is
merely a subjective reality; it never happened. Perhaps it is so
essentially commonplace that it probably has happened sometime; perhaps
it is so little abnormal that very possibly it has happened. Or perhaps
it may be of such a nature that it never could have happened. In any
event, whatever the nature of the story, its verity and reality as a
fiction depend solely upon its writer's elaborative and executive
powers. If his hand falter, tangibility and concreteness in the matter
of the story will not save it, will not make it seem real to a reader.
The lives of most men are commonplace, but the relatively few lives that
are not commonplace are as real and actual as those that follow beaten
paths. In the lives of most, the spiritual element is subordinate,
perhaps, but in the lives of some few it is enormously influential and
supremely real. Realism, the artistic philosophy, asserts that fiction
should present only the real. The assertion is nonsense for two reasons.
First, the commonplace, or, if you please the inevitable, the only
reality which realism admits, is not the only reality. Second, the
verity or reality of fiction cannot be ascertained by any objective
test, cannot be determined by the physical possibility of its matter,
its people and their acts, for a fiction is purely subjective, a
conception, and conceivability is the sole[185] test of its verity. The
writer of a story transcribes what he sees, not necessarily what is.[R]
As stated, the writer of fiction will derive small benefit from
conceiving novel and romance as entirely different types of fiction. The
distinction between them used to be insisted upon much more pedantically
than is the case to-day, and the present tendency to call any story of
book-length a novel is a healthy sign. The technique of the novel, in
the narrow sense of a picture of society, and the technique of the
romance, in the narrow sense of a story not of "real" life, are broadly
the same. And where there is no difference in technique the artist
should admit no difference in type. If he does admit any difference in
type, and allows it to influence him, his conceptive faculty will be
hampered and that is artistic death. It is hard enough to find a story
that is worth while, a story that will interest, without subjecting
one's self to the added and totally unnecessary difficulty to bring all
one's ideas to the measure of some fancied type as a first test. The
writer of fiction should be warned that it is supremely difficult to
avoid becoming artificial and mechanical, and that he will surely become
so if he does his conceptive thinking in terms of analysis. In the first
place, the analytical habit of mind is directly opposed to the creative;
in the second place, the analysis that divides long stories into novels
and romances in the special sense is false. The way to find a story is
to look for a story, forgetting all that pedants have written and
failures practiced. The silly criticism that classifies fiction by its
content is beneath contempt; the writer of fiction who heeds it is
supremely foolish.
In the following discussion the term "novel" will be used simply to
denote a plotted fiction of book-length.
[186]
Contrasting the short story and the novel, and dwelling on the relative
coherence of the briefer form, I had occasion to state that the novel is
relatively incoherent in that much of its interest for a reader quite
permissibly may inhere in matter with little or no relation to the main
thread of the story. Of course, incoherence is not a point of the
technique of the novel. Incoherence is not a point of the technique of
anything, except of some of the ultra modern schools in music, painting,
and verse. The statement as to the incoherence of the novel was made
incidentally in developing the argument that the short story cannot be
incoherent because its brevity forbids that it present even its single
story-idea adequately and also set forth irrelevant matter. On the other
hand, the novel may set forth irrelevant matter because its length is
not only a greater but a more elastic quantity than that of the short
story; if the interruptions of the story are not too frequent and
sustained, the power of the story over a reader will not be lessened to
any appreciable extent. That is not to say that the novelist should seek
to interrupt himself.
A good many serious writers—so-called—choose to write the novel simply
because it does offer an opportunity for direct self-expression greater
than any afforded by briefer fiction. They are confined to fiction—may
they pardon the remark—because they have met, or feel that they will
meet, difficulty in finding a publisher for their various theories
stated as such; so they blithely write a novel, with insertions of
politics, religion, sociology, what not, and palm it off on the unhappy
public for a story. Of course such direct expression of one's opinions
is not self-expression through the medium of a work of art. It is only
choosing deliberately to do poor work for the sake of money or
notoriety[187] or vanity. Writing the "problem novel" is not quite the same
thing. If a social problem, as the friction between capital and labor,
is utilized as the fundamental plot—or conflict-theme of a novel, a
good deal of personal opinion may be introduced by the author without
injury to the artistic coherence of the story. But it is well to
remember that the primary aim of fiction is to interest, an aim that can
be achieved most easily and most completely by telling a good story.
Propaganda is apt to be supremely dull anyway, and it is bound to seem
dull to one who is looking for a story and nothing else. The practical
implications of a work of art must be mere implications, resting in
inference, or the work will be feeble and misshapen.
The novelist can indulge in personal comment and yet present the whole
of his story, for his space is practically unlimited. The writer of the
short story must sacrifice either the comment or the story. The result
is that the typical novel is more incoherent than the typical short
story. The finer the book as a whole, the easier it is to forgive or
overlook the defect, for defect it is. One can forgive Thackeray his
rambling asides and his diffidence in approaching his story, for in all
of his books the story is present and in each it is a fine thing. But
"Vanity Fair," for instance, is too significant a fiction to suffer
constant interruption without causing a reader to become impatient. If a
story is essentially weak, interpolating personal comment and unrelated
matter generally will make it weaker; if it is essentially fine and
significant, passages without bearing on the story will irritate the
reader.
Whatever the art, whoever the artist, his task is to hold pen or chisel
or brush true to the outlines of his conception. If his hand leave its
proper course, whether of set purpose or through inaptitude, his work
must suffer. The art of fiction is so infinitely difficult[188] that the
practitioner should welcome rather than bewail his obligation to hew to
the line, for by concentrating upon the story and nothing else he will
be led to leave no gaps in his presentment. A work of art is a thing of
significant simplicity. Just because the novelist works in words, just
because his materials have some significance for a reader in
themselves—unlike the clay and marble of the sculptor, the stone of the
architect, and the pigments of the painter, which, unwrought upon, have
no message for an observer—the novelist is not at liberty to throw
words together without some set purpose. The inherent significance of
each word must have just relation to the whole, if the whole is to have
the direction and significant simplicity of a work of art. The real
condition is that the novelist, unlike the writer of the short story,
may tell his story adequately and do something else, but the artistic
quality of his work will suffer, that is, its power over a reader will
be diminished, if he interpolates foreign matter. Artistry is simply the
faculty to realize to the utmost the inherent power of one's
conceptions, and the artistry of any fiction lessens as the appeal of
the story for a reader diminishes. And the appeal of a story as such
must diminish with every interruption, unless its power over a reader be
very great, and in that case any break in its movement will irritate and
offend.
I have cited Stevenson's "The Ebb-Tide" a number of times already, and
the book may be instanced here. It is a tremendously powerful bit of
work, considering the nature of its matter, and its power over a reader
in large part results from its author's having confined himself strictly
to the story. The conception is significant, and the story as written is
significant because the conception is set forth whole and unmarred. The
reader's attention is not distracted by matter irrelevant to[189] the story.
Its theme, the impossibility that a weak man should be other than weak,
however he may be circumstanced, is developed adequately, and nothing
else is developed. No book could be more wisely recommended to the
writer of fiction for study of the essential technical processes of
fiction. It shows adequate treatment of personality, adequate treatment
of events, and adequate treatment of setting, shows fictionally real
people doing fictionally real things in a fictionally real environment.
Above all, it is a story, nothing else, and is pointed to bring out its
value as a whole; that is it has the significant simplicity of a true
work of art. It is coherent as to the story it embodies, and in its
coherence lies its power. The bare conception is somewhat weak in that
it tends to arouse an intellectual rather than an emotional interest in
a reader; moreover, the conception is positively unpleasant and
depressing, in the conventional sense; but the book as written is a
powerful thing because it realizes to the full the inherent capacity of
its matter to interest and impress by telling the story adequately and
by bringing out nothing but the story.[S]
[190]
The novel, then, should be coherent as to the story it embodies, but
that is not the whole of its peculiar technique. The story itself may be
widely inclusive, may, in a way, involve a number of stories. The
novelist should not seek deliberately to combine the unrelated, but he
need not follow a single thread. He can turn aside into bypaths of
action that will bring out the natures of his people with more fullness
than the straight course of the story itself, and he can involve his
minor characters in sub-plots, relatively unimportant stories of their
own. Generally, the novelist will seek to develop personality with
greater fullness and detail than the writer of the short story, and, as
a result, the action of the novel will be more diffused and looser, less
pointed, than the action of the short story. Or, conversely, the long
story necessarily involves more varied action than the briefer form, and
therefore develops more varied traits in the actors. Relative to the
short story, the novel is a natural type of fiction in that it can make
some approach to presenting the whole man, with all his contradictory
and inconsistent traits and impulses; relative to the novel, the short
story is an artificial type of fiction in that the comparatively direct
and pointed character of its action forbids that it develop more than
one or a few significant traits of personality. The writer of the short
story cannot qualify and distinguish as to his people's natures, and
that is why the fine short story is less humanly significant than the
fine novel, for no man is pure saint or pure villain, pure this or pure
that. We are all bewilderingly inconsistent, wherein lies most of the
interest of life. The novel can show its people blown here and there by
the winds of desire, as in life, and that is what the short story cannot
do.
Each story is a rule to itself, so far as the question of scope and
variety of action is concerned, but the[191] novelist will derive small
benefit from introducing unnecessary people and unnecessary events
merely to lend a greater illusion of movement or bustle to the whole.
Action, in fiction, is action which plays a necessary part in the story,
and the novelist should not interpolate insignificant events any more
than he should interpolate his own opinions on life and morals. His task
is to tell some particular story, no more, no less.
It is difficult to state the relative inclusiveness of the novel without
laying a false emphasis on its permissible scope and
variety of content, for the novel should be exclusive as well as
inclusive. That is, it should not be a mere welter of people and what
they do, but should possess some single human significance, some primary
reason for being, by which its writer can test the availability of
matter that suggests itself to him. Between the conciseness and
singleness of "The Ebb-Tide" and the unnecessary length and complexity
of some of the Victorians lies a golden mean easier to recognize in
specific books than to state abstractedly. "The Ebb-Tide," though not a
short story in point of length, is somewhat brief, and it is a short
story in structure, in point of the singleness of its story-idea, the
small number of its characters, and the comparative simplicity of its
action. Of course, it is none the less a fine novel, a fine long story;
the point is that there are thousands of other stories, equally fine,
perhaps more humanly significant, which cannot be written so concisely,
but which need not run to the length of "David Copperfield," "The
Virginians," or "The Cloister and the Hearth." To attempt to set
mechanical limits of length for the novel would be mere silliness, but
it is true that the average idea for a long story can be given complete
and adequate expression in one or two hundred thousand words. Usually
there is no need to write at much greater or inordinate[192] length, unless
irrelevant matter is introduced for its own sake. And the introduction
of such matter for its own sake can only hinder the effect of the story
itself on a reader. It may render the book, the mere sequence of words,
more interesting, but irrelevant matter cannot render the story itself
more interesting. The distinction should be noted and realized, for the
novelist's aim is to interest through his story, not merely to interest.
There is another way to approach the matter of the novel's relative
inclusiveness and length, perhaps a better way. Where the novelist first
conceives his story definitely as such, as a course of events, he should
bring all matter which suggests itself for writing to the test of
relation to the story. He has only to write the story, duly elaborated,
and thereby he will take care of the matters of length and complexity
and inclusiveness without detached calculation to that end. But if the
novelist finds his initial idea in terms of a life or of a phase of
society, the idea does not plot or diagram the whole story for him. He
has yet to evolve the story as such, and he may devise as short and
simple a thing as "The Ebb-Tide" or as long and complicated a thing as
Tolstoi's "War and Peace." Usually it will be found, I think, that the
very long novel—"Tom Jones," "Jean Christophe," "David Copperfield,"
"Anna Karenina," "Les Miserables," "The Virginians"—was first conceived
in terms of a life or a society, rather than in terms of a definite
story. It is certainly true that only the life of an individual or the
life of a society can serve to bind together the motley elements of a
very long novel, giving it some artistic coherence. "David Copperfield"
can be called one story in that it consists of Copperfield's life and
related matters, but "Our Mutual Friend" is in no sense a single story.
It is merely a number of stories devised to be told together and
therefore dovetailing to some extent.
[193]It all comes down to this: if the novelist conceives a definite story,
he has only to tell it, but if he conceives a life or a society he has
yet to devise his story. And the matters which can have some relation to
a life or a society are much more varied than those which can have some
relation to a course of events. In other words, the conception of a
story as such limits the writer's choice of matter. If one starts with a
story, one can tell only the story. If one starts with a life or a
society, one can write pretty much at large.
In discussing the short story, it was possible to state that it must
embody one story-idea, for the physical brevity of the form prohibits
adequate development of more than a single story. But if I stated that
the novel must embody one story-idea, no more, no less, the statement
would be false, for the length of the form is practically unlimited. As
Dickens did in "Our Mutual Friend" and other books, the novelist can
tell together three or four unrelated stories if he so desires. He has
the space. The question is not whether he can but whether he should tell
more than one. The answer is that he should confine himself to one.
Perhaps a little supporting argument is called for.
The most obvious criticism of this limitation upon the novelist is that
it savors strongly of artificiality, rather than of art. The reader may
think of Dickens himself, his marvelous people, the world of delight in
his books. But Dickens, it may be said with all reverence, was no
story-teller. His is a fictional world turned upside down. His stories
are less than nothing; his major characters are less than nothing; but
his little people are gods. All his books are mere cardboard beside the
works of such a one as Dostoievsky, but in each book—with a few
exceptions—there is some stupendous Weller or Micawber, not a man, but
a god. One goes to Dickens almost as to vaudeville, and "Pickwick"[194] is
his best book because it is no story. In it Weller and the others run
wild unrestrained by the necessities of any predetermined course of
events. But a story is a predetermined course of events, actually or in
effect, and the mere fact that Dickens could write poor stories and yet
interest by his wonderful people does not falsify the technique of
fiction.
Again, the fact that the novelist should confine himself to one story at
a time does not debar him from following side-issues, provided they have
relation to the main course of events, or from creating minor people
like Dickens', if he has the power. Dickens could have placed his people
in real stories instead of in the weak fictions they serve to ennoble.
Finally, I will state abstractly the conditions from which result the
artistic, not the physical necessity that the novelist confine himself
in each book to a single story-idea.
The aim to interest is the aim of fiction, long and short, and the body
of a writer's resources to accomplish the aim make up the body of
fiction technique. But the aim of the writer of plotted fiction is not
simply to interest; it is to interest through a story, a course of
events functioning together in that they embody some sort of problem.
Leaving aside the matter of executive artistry, and premising that the
writer will realize to the full the possibilities of his story, it is
accurate to state that the interest a story will arouse will be in
accordance with the human significance of the problem it embodies.
Adequate fictional treatment of the problem to win love or to make a
living will be more interesting than adequate fictional treatment of the
problem to escape payment of an income tax. And the possibilities of any
problem of life to arouse a reader's interest can be realized to the
full only by setting out that problem[195] and nothing else. Only by showing
the thing in isolation and high relief can the writer reveal to, and
force home upon a reader its ultimate significance. If anything
unrelated to the story or problem is brought out, something of the power
of the story as such will be lost. Likewise, if two or more stories or
problems are each completely developed in one book, neither will have
that singleness of appeal to a reader which is essential if each is to
have maximum effect.
In other words, a novel does not function as a mere physical spectacle;
being a story, it must have a motive, an artistic purpose; and if it has
more than one it will be at cross purposes as a work of art. That is not
a mere "artistic" defect. It is a practical defect in that motive,
purpose, and story will not have extreme effect. Nor is it to say that
the novel may not be very complicated as to any or all of its three
elements of people, events, and setting. "Anna Karenina" is complicated
enough, in all conscience, but every item of the novel has relation to
its one story either in that it serves directly to develop the horrible
tragedy of Anna's life or in that it forwards the presentment of the
society which she renounced.
The painter cannot put two different pictures side by side on the same
canvas without hampering the effect of each; still less can he commingle
the two. The architect cannot build on two designs at once. Nor can the
novelist—if he would have each story realize to the full its inherent
capacity to interest—combine different stories in the same book. He can
develop personality in great detail; he can follow by-paths of action;
he can involve his minor characters in subplots; but the main course of
the story must be single, not duplicate or triplicate, that the whole
may have point and significance.
The reader will observe that this book lays absolutely[196] no restrictions
on the conceptive faculty. It preaches that the way to write fiction is
to look for a story, and, when it is found, to write it so as to give it
full effect. It may be a short story; it may be a novel. It may have its
genesis in a dream, in a life, in a situation, in a society. But,
whatever its nature, whatever its length, its effect on, its interest
for, a reader, can result only from itself. The story as such cannot be
fortified by the introduction of foreign matter, although the interest
of the writer's text as a mere sequence of words may be heightened
thereby. But the aim of the writer of novel or short story is to
interest through his story as such, not merely to interest. A newspaper
is interesting, yet a newspaper is not a story, however much fiction it
may embody.
The novel or long story is apt to have a strong social emphasis simply
because the interplay of society and the conflict of its members supply
much more material for stories than the more isolated phases of human
life. The novelist is under no obligation to reproduce a social
spectacle in each book, but more often than not he will find that he
must do so to bring out the full value of his conception. It follows
that he will do well to go about with an observant eye, for it is the
little details of the novel of manners that lend verisimilitude to the
whole. And such matters cannot be invented; they must have been
observed; for a reader knows them whether or not the writer does too.
[197]
CHAPTER XIV
CONCLUSION
Story and Tale—Realism the Method—Realism the
Dogma—Philosophy of Fiction—Interest—Power of the Real
Problems of Life—Test of Merit—Aim of Executive
Artistry—Verisimilitude—Ultimate Artistic Significance of
Plot.
The purpose of this book has been to shed a little light on the
essential technical processes of the art of fiction; to state a general
philosophy of fiction has not been my aim. Accordingly, the text touches
only incidentally upon the fundamental types of fiction and a writer's
fundamental purposes in adopting any one of them as a medium for
expression of himself or his conceptions. Partly to justify some of the
text, and partly because it may prove of practical service, I shall
state briefly a general theory or philosophy of fiction-not my theory,
merely, nor that of anyone else, but simply the theory which is implied
in the content and aim of the art itself.
The content of fiction is man and what he may experience, in body, mind,
and soul; the aim of fiction is to interest. Certain results follow, but
before stating them it will be well to clear the way a little.
I have stated that a story is a fiction with a plot, and have defined a
plot as a dramatic problem, that is, a course of events which function
together as a whole in that they influence and are influenced by
character[198] or personality. And nine-tenths of the technique of fiction
is concerned with the object to develop a plot. To develop a tale, a
fiction, long or short, without a plot, only direct narrative and
descriptive writing is requisite; it is the plot-element of a fiction,
with all its implications as to personality, that forces the writer of a
story—a fiction with a plot—to weave together cunningly each strand of
his matter, narrative, exposition, dialogue, description, that the whole
pattern may show fictionally real people doing in a fictionally real
world what one might naturally expect from their natures and the
circumstances of their lives. The task is infinitely more difficult and
delicate than to take a Sinbad the Sailor or a Cinderella through a
course of happenings without essential relation to the nature of either
person, who is, in each case, a mere human focal point for the events to
be precipitated upon. Accordingly, this book concentrates upon the
fiction of plot, or story, rather than the fiction without plot, or
tale. The technique of the fiction of plot comprehends and includes the
technique of the tale, which could be ignored here without loss.
Whether or not a fiction possess a plot, and is a story, or lacks a
plot, and is a tale, it will be concerned with people and what they do,
the man and his acts. Long or short, a fiction must deal with man, at
least with personality, as do London's "The Call of the Wild" and
Kipling's "The Ship That Found Herself." Since fiction deals with man,
it deals both with physical and spiritual facts, with the facts of the
soul and the more tangible things of the body and the earth. It results
that either the spiritual or physical element of any fiction may largely
outweigh the other, at least, preponderate over it. That is, the long
story may be what is known as a novel or what is known as a[199] romance,
and the brief story may reveal the fate of the spirit rather than the
fate of the body and mind.[T]
Precisely at this point one encounters a difficulty raised by critical
comment on fiction, the whole complex of obscurantism about "realism"
and "romanticism." Instead of wasting space in trying to unravel the
threads of the tangle as stated by those who have knotted it, it will be
much easier and much more profitable to state a few facts that will
demonstrate the essential fallacy of such discussion.
In the first place, realism characterizes a method, one that might
better be called the method of stating the concrete in detail. If a
story is concerned largely with the more common actualities of everyday
life, it is possible that its writer may best create his illusion of
reality by itemizing the physical facts in some detail.
In the second place, "realism" has been elevated from a mere technical
method into an artistic creed or dogma. The assumption is made that only
the more tangible matters of life are realities, and that fiction should
seek to present only the real.
It is unnecessary to do more than state that the first term of this
assumption is false. Not only are there facts of the spirit as well as
facts of the body and the phenomenal universe, but the spiritual fact is
precisely the fact which is fictionally significant. Fiction deals with
man for man, and man is man just and only because he has an intelligence
and a soul, enabling him to impose his will upon brute matter and to
rise superior to evil fortune.
The second term of the realists' assumption is that fiction should
present only the real. And the essential[200] fallacy of the assumption is
this: it ignores the fact that the first aim of fiction is to interest.
Philosophy, not fiction, must give us a test of truth and reality.
Irrespective of what is real—a question that the confirmed realist
answers falsely, because partially and exclusively—one who denies the
reality and significance of the spiritual life of man, and therefore
refuses to give it fictional treatment, debars himself from presenting
much interesting matter.
It might not be too dull, incidentally, to go into the question of how
much the world of the spirit shall be allowed to impose its necessities
on the world of the flesh, but the matter is subordinate, part of the
general question of verisimilitude. Frequently, to give concrete
fictional treatment to a fact of the soul, the writer will have to
falsify deliberately as to physical facts, as Stevenson did in "Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."
Realism, the technical method expanded into an artistic dogma, has much
to answer for. In the hands of the French, it has been responsible for
much that is uselessly unpleasant and brutal; in the hands of English
and American writers, it has been responsible for much dullness. The
unpleasant facts and petty concerns of life alike are significant only
in relation to the persons they affect; in themselves, they are dreary
or repellent items. If the ugly fact has no relation to the story as
such, it should not be given place; if the commonplace detail has no
relation to the course of the story, and will perform no office in
lending reality to the fiction in a reader's eyes, it should not be
transcribed.
The misconceptions that cluster about realism the dogma affect adversely
both the writer of long fiction and the writer of short fiction. But the
writer of short fiction, if he has read even a little critical comment
in an endeavor to inform himself of the essential nature[201] of his art,
will have been confused and misdirected by the eternal quarrel over the
short story, what it is, whether it is a distinct literary form, its
totality or unity of effect, and so forth. I have said much on this head
in discussing the short story, and shall not repeat the argument here.
It is enough to say that the short story most certainly is a distinct
literary form, in that it is brief enough to be read at one sitting and
embodies a plot or dramatic problem, which is not true of the tale. But
its distinction from other forms of fiction, plotted and unplotted
alike, does not lie in its totality or unity of effect, except in the
case of the short story of atmosphere. The dramatic short story, whether
it stresses character or the event, differs from the novel or romance
not in that it possesses a plot—so do the longer types—but in that it
is brief. And it differs from the tale—which also is brief—in that it
possesses a plot. The short story of atmosphere is abnormal, and a type
in itself.
As was stated in the chapter on the short story, the only sense in which
the dramatic short story can be said to possess unity is purely verbal.
As a mere sequence of words, it possesses unity in that each word is
essential to the story. That is not to say that the matter of the story,
its people, situations, and settings, is "unified," whatever the word
may mean so applied. The form is verbally coherent, but not necessarily
coherent in substance, except that it embodies one plot—or story-idea,
no more, no less. The one story-idea may involve great diversity in its
three elements of people, events, and setting. It would not be worth
while to discuss the general false emphasis upon the unity of the short
story were it not for the strong tendency of such discussion to lead the
writer to devise stories too simple really to interest, apart from the
appeal to their characters.
[202]It seems to me that the question of realism and the question of the
dramatic short story's assumed unity of substance are the two pitfalls
into which the feet of the writer of fiction who reads the mass of
comment on his art are most apt to stray. It is difficult enough to find
an interesting story without having one eye blinded by a false artistic
philosophy. Generally, in reading critical comment on specific stories
and authors and on the art of fiction, the writer of fiction will do
well to remember that such matter is written for the general reader, not
for the practitioner of the art, and that the poor critic must say
something! He cannot discuss technique, for he would be both dull and
unintelligible to the general reader. So he says what he does.
It remains to state a true artistic philosophy for the writer of
fiction, that philosophy which is implied in the content and aim of the
art of fiction itself. The content of fiction is man and what he
possibly or conceivably may experience; the aim of fiction is to
interest. It would be more accurate to state that the content of fiction
is personality and what it may experience—witness any animal story, or
Kipling's story of a steamship, cited above—but fiction deals so
exclusively with man that the first statement may stand.
Since the content of fiction is man and what he possibly or conceivably
may experience, the writer of fiction is at liberty to go to fairyland
or South Boston, to heaven, hell, or the stock-exchange, for the
material for his story. He is subject to no limitations, for whatever he
can conceive is open to his use. If he does choose to leave the homely
earth, however, he cannot return until he has finished the story. If his
story moves in a fairy world subject only to physical laws of its own,
such basic conditions of the story must continue to operate. But that is
a matter of achieving the[203] aim to interest rather than a matter of
content, of telling the story so that it will seem real even though it
is unbelievable.
The reader will note that the content of fiction gives him opportunity
to write so terrifically "realistic" a thing as Dostoievsky's "House of
the Dead," so nobly "romantic" a thing as Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter,"
or so finely fantastic a thing as Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland." The
sole limitation upon his work is his own conceptive and executive power,
unless he foolishly subjects himself to the bondage of some special
school. As time goes on, his own essential bent of mind and heart will
gradually reveal to him the sort of matter he can handle best.
The influence upon the fiction writer's philosophy of the aim and
necessity to interest may now be discussed.
An important point is that there are degrees of interest. A strongly
novel course of events will catch and hold a reader's interest, but the
interest aroused by a fiction presenting a novel course of events and
nothing else is not quite the same thing as the interest aroused by a
story which shows real men and women meeting the real problems of life,
material or spiritual. The interest aroused by mere novelty is a matter
largely of the intelligence; it tends to be evanescent because it has
little or no relation to the emotional nature. On the other hand, the
other sort of interest, that aroused by the spectacle of real men and
women meeting the real problems of life, is deepened and intensified by
the emotional element of sympathy and hate for lovable and hateful
people. And the real, though perhaps intrinsically simple problems of
life—to make a living, win love, overcome temptation—are precisely the
problems which are humanly significant because universally experienced.
The story which[204] shows real people struggling with such a problem will
have a keener interest for a reader through his familiarity with its
matter in personal experience. Such a story appeals to the emotions both
through its people and through its theme.
This matter is well worth dwelling upon, for, apart from merit in point
of executive artistry, the only standard whereby a story can be
estimated as relatively significant or relatively insignificant is the
standard of interest, that is, interest for the ideal reader, the reader
of open and able mind and sympathetic heart. The aim of fiction is to
interest, and the story which most deeply interests most completely
fulfils the ideals of the art. "Les Miserables" is a greater book than
any one of Jules Verne's mechanical romances, not because it is better
written, and not because it is a terrific indictment of society—as a
modern reviewer might put it—but simply because its people and matter
generally arouse the most poignant emotional and intellectual interest
in a reader qualified to feel its power. The interest aroused by Verne's
sort of story—H. G. Wells' earlier work and Conan Doyle's "The Lost
World" are more recent examples—is real, but almost exclusively
intellectual, therefore relatively weak and evanescent. Books such as
"Les Miserables" cannot be forgotten; the details of the story may
vanish from the mind with time; but a reader will retain through life
the memory of the book's power, the memory of the eagerness with which
he followed the fortunes of its people.
Between masterpieces that will incorporate their essence and memory with
a reader's very life—books such as "Les Miserables" and "The Scarlet
Letter," to name together the utterly dissimilar—and stories that can
serve only to while away an idle hour or two, there are fictions of
every sort and condition, the[205] product of all sorts of aims and
philosophies, artistic and moral. Apart from the matter of executive
artistry, each must take rank as relatively good or relatively feeble in
accordance with its power to evoke interest. Some—as the detective
story or any story of ratiocination—have in high degree the power to
call forth a reader's intellectual interest; some—as the fictional
comedy of manners—may interest slightly the mind through their plot and
the heart through their people; but each is significant as a fiction
solely by virtue of its power to enthrall a reader of open mind and
sympathetic heart.
If the power to interest the ideal reader is the sole test of a story's
merit as a fiction—and no other test can withstand examination even for
a moment—it inevitably follows that to be a masterpiece a story, long
or short, must show fictionally real men and women coping with the
material and spiritual problems of our common human destiny. No other
matter can arouse the deepest and most abiding interest in a reader.
However perfect a writer's technique, if he chooses to write of physical
or spiritual matters that are relatively trivial and insignificant, he
cannot hope to do the finest work. Of course, it is unnecessary to say
that the writer of fiction rests under no moral or artistic obligation
to attempt a masterpiece in each story he undertakes. He is under
obligation to attempt to interest in some degree.
Thus far, in discussing the influence upon the fiction writer's
philosophy of the aim and necessity that fiction interest, emphasis has
been laid upon the question of matter. But from the aim and necessity
results the whole executive technique.
The general proposition is that significant matter cannot arouse a
reader's deepest interest unless it is presented to him effectively, nor
can relatively insignificant[206] matter arouse whatever interest is
attainable by it unless it also is presented effectively. The writer of
a story must seek to invest it with reality in the eyes of a reader, and
his resources to perform this difficult task make up the body of the
technique of fiction.
It follows that the best story in point of executive artistry is the
story which realizes most fully the inherent capacity of its matter to
interest. However significant the content of a story, if the writer's
hand falter in execution, something of the fiction's appeal for a reader
will be lost.
The general aim of executive artistry or technique is to invest the
story with such reality that a reader will himself see so much of the
thing as is physical and feel so much of it as is emotional or
spiritual, for only thus can be evoked the full measure of interest
inherent in the matter. Unless the writer's words constitute in
themselves a primary spectacle and experience for a reader, instead of a
mere secondary relation, the story cannot have full effect. A reader
will not accept the mere say-so of the writer, who must spread upon his
page the very stuff of life itself, rather than mere words.
How difficult the task, it is unnecessary to dwell upon, but one thing
should be noted. This necessary power to precipitate reality, this
literary power, only infrequently involves writing in a "literary"
manner or style. The essence of literary power is to present the
particular matter fittingly, not artificially. If the particular story
concerns simple, everyday people and simple, everyday events, it should
be told in simple, everyday language, for such language will serve best
to precipitate the matter for a reader. Literary power is the power to
adapt the word to the matter, not the power of "fine" writing. Some
stories call for little[207] verbal elaboration, while such a thing as "The
Fall of the House of Usher" exhausts the capacities of language, but
whatever the nature of any story, its writer's artistry and technical
capacity are measurable by the degree in which he succeeds in endowing
it with reality and verisimilitude, not by the verbal noise and agility
he makes and displays.
Verisimilitude, of course, is a relative term. The matter of the story
of everyday life is essentially tangible and concrete, and its writer
can invest it with tangibility and concreteness in a degree higher than
is attainable by the writer who deals with fantasies and dreams. The
measure of verisimilitude attainable by any story is limited by its
content. If it deals with fine-spun fancies, it cannot attain the hearty
solidity of the story that deals with the matter of fact. No writer can
do more than precipitate his conception in his words; if the conception
itself is essentially airy and impalpable, so must the story be airy and
impalpable. In fact, the perfect fictional illusion is that which most
nearly produces on a reader the exact impression the matter would
produce if actually experienced. If a story is strictly unbelievable—of
course any story is conceivable, or it would not have been written—the
writer can do no more than create an illusion of fictional verity, not
of literal verity. That is, a reader will accept the author's basic
assumptions and the whole story as well, if it is developed logically
from the assumptions. Any fairy tale is an instance of what is meant.
I will mention briefly one other consequence of the aim and necessity
that fiction interest. Usually the story, or fiction embodying a plot,
will interest more deeply than the mere tale. Therefore the writer of
fiction usually will choose to write stories rather than tales. The bare
fact is that the highest type of fiction,[208] the fiction of greatest power
over a reader through its human significance, is adequately plotted
simply because it does show real people meeting a real problem of life.
At this point becomes apparent how much that grossly abused word "plot"
stands for. Broadly, a plot is a dramatic problem, and a dramatic
problem results from the opposition of man and man, the opposition of
man and nature, or conflict within a single man. The element of mere
complication is not essential to a plot, not being essential to a
dramatic problem. "Dramatic situation" is perhaps a better term than
"plot," for it has none of the associations of complication that cling
to the latter. Even "dramatic situation" is objectionable, because it
has connotations of the stage, and suggests an acuteness and tensity, a
general brevity and pitch of struggle that is not essential to fiction.
"Robinson Crusoe," for instance, though not very tense, is adequately
plotted; it shows man's struggle for bread, shelter, and raiment. "Don
Quixote" is adequately plotted; it shows man in the grip of a dream, and
so at odds with all the world.[U] As stated, all great fiction is
adequately plotted simply because it shows real people faced by the real
problems of life. The plot of a story of worth stands for its author's
effort to isolate one of life's significant elements or problems, and,
by showing it in high relief, to invest it with that certain dignity and
momentousness, as of life raised to a high power, whereby a reader may
be laid under a spell more absolute than any to which the confused and
shifting spectacle of life itself can subject him. In the last analysis,
great fiction does more than to interest; it whispers to a reader of the
significance and worth of human life, and heartens him to live his own.
[209]
[211]
APPENDIX A
SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STUDENT
It is surely obvious that the only way to learn how to write is—to
write. The only way to learn how to do anything is to try until the
secret is conquered, and the more difficult the feat or art the longer
must be the apprenticeship.
Stepping from abstract study of technique to the actual writing of a
story is a violent transition. The student has only a very general
knowledge, and now he must give it narrowly specific application. He has
read a brief discussion of the mechanics of the art of describing a
person, for instance, has read Stevenson's description of Villon and his
fellows; now he himself must write a description of Napoleon or Lizzie
Smith or John Arthur McAllister; and he desires to write as well as
Stevenson.
The only thing to do is to go at the task patiently and with courage.
Put the best of you at the moment into each thing you undertake, but do
not expect each single item of your work to show an appreciable advance,
and do not be discouraged if each thing you do seems as poor or no
better than what has gone before. Your first, second, tenth, or
fifteenth story may be patent trash, in point of execution, but never
mind. After a year or so of intelligent and directed writing the results
of your study and application of technique will begin to appear. It is
impossible that they should[212] show themselves at once, for technical
study will cramp and constrain you until you have gained some real
facility in writing in accordance with the canons of art. That is true
of all arts, of course. No tool can be used properly without practice.
Perhaps you may desire to submit your practice work to magazines and
publishers as you go along, and if you mean to have a serious try at the
game it is advisable that you do so. The fact that you are writing for
submission will serve as a stimulus; you will receive helpful incidental
criticisms from editors, if your work shows promise; and, above all, you
will gradually acquire the necessary knowledge of the market, its needs,
tendencies, and desires. However, I do not believe it advisable for one
who is trying to learn to write to ape deliberately the tone of
particular magazines, with an eye to possible sales. That is a trick of
the trade—and permissible enough—but it is no way to learn to write
fiction. The skilled hand can direct his efforts so, but the apprentice
had better center his efforts upon finding some good story and upon
writing it to the best he knows how.
A few specific bits of advice as to how to go about practicing the art
of fiction may not be useless. Technique is conceptive, constructive,
and executive, and the beginner should exercise his latent powers in
each department.
The technique of conception is practiced unconsciously by anyone who
seeks to find a story for writing, but exercise of the conceptive
faculty should not be limited to the times when you desire actually to
write. You should form a habit of thinking creatively, of mentally
shaping into stories the material offered by observation, thought, and
reading. If this is done, and notes kept of your promising ideas, you
will have on hand constantly considerable amount of material,[213] and you
will not be forced to waste time in casting about for an idea when the
spirit moves you to write. Moreover, I think most essentially feeble
stories are stories conceived and thrown together on the spur of the
moment as the writer sits and looks at a sheet of white paper, and if
you have five, ten, or a hundred stories more or less completely blocked
out in your files or in your mind, you can choose for writing one fitted
to your mood and also worth the writing. It is almost impossible to
judge the worth of an idea immediately after it is conceived; by
separating the conceptive and executive processes you will be led to
avoid much waste labor in developing what is essentially weak.
A more mechanical exercise of the conceptive faculty, but a very
valuable one, is to shape and re-shape what I will term abstract
stories. As stated, a story or plot is a dramatic conflict, showing the
opposition of man and nature, man and man, or opposed traits in the same
man. The process of developing an abstract story is to select from a
list of human traits and motives two or more which present an essential
opposition, such as avarice and generosity, then to seek to give the
basic abstract opposition most effective concrete fictional expression
by devising persons to be invested with the traits and by devising a
course of action to show the persons in conflict under the influence of
the traits. Thus, taking the traits of avarice and generosity, husband
and wife, for instance, may each be endowed with one, and a course of
events devised to give the necessary conflict between them expression in
action. The writer of fiction who will perform this exercise now and
then, as opportunity offers, not only will chance upon much valuable
material; he also will acquire a firm grasp on plot, the story-essence
of a story, and will be led to realize that mere complication[214] or
ingenuity is the least of a plot. The exercise is valuable because it is
the only possible way to exercise the conceptive faculty in detail. A
story-idea gained from observation usually is seized as a whole, but a
story-idea gained by manipulating human traits and motives is built up
from nothing by combining its elements. The story built up in this way
probably will involve a social conflict, a conflict between man and man,
rather than between man and nature or opposed traits in the same man,
because the opportunity for combination is greatest in the first case.
The next point is how to exercise the constructive faculty, how to
practice constructive technique, and here you have many resources, only
a few of which need be mentioned.
In the first place, you can study the ways the masters have put together
their stories; this, though not quite practice, is almost as valuable,
if conscientiously and properly done, and is a necessary basis for
practice. For obvious reasons your laboratory analysis of
fiction must confine itself largely to the short story, though you can
go through the process mentally and less thoroughly in reading longer
work.
Provide yourself with a collection of short stories in one volume and a
few from current magazines that you think good, also with a number of
different colored inks or crayons. Read a story through a couple of
times, that you may know definitely what it is, and then read it again
critically, underlining every word, except those which serve only to
forward the progress of the story as a mere course of events, and
striking out every word or passage which seems to you inessential to the
whole. Use a single color to mark a single process, and neglect the
superficial character of the words, whether they be narrative,
descriptive, or serve to embody dialogue. Thus, dialogue may serve to
forward[215] the progress of the story as a course of events, in which case
it should not be underlined, may serve to characterize, in which case it
should be underlined with the color taken to mark characterization, or
may serve to touch in setting, in which case it should be underlined
with the color taken to mark any passage where the author strives to
touch in the environment. It will not be profitable to be too minute, to
employ too many colors; the matters you will require to make visually
distinctive are not many. Straight narration, including the whole
physical progress of the story, whether detailed or general, requires no
color; characterization, including the process of individualizing a
person as to his nature, as to his appearance, and as to his speech,
requires one; the process of touching in setting requires another; the
process of preparing a reader emotionally for succeeding events requires
a third; the process of intensifying atmosphere—if the story is of
atmosphere—requires a fourth. And mark each passage in accordance with
its main purpose or function, for many passages will subserve more than
one end.
A number of stories treated in this way will be most profitable to
study. In particular, each one will display graphically and yet in
detail wherein lies its value as a fiction, whether in its people, in
its events, or in its setting, and will show plainly the cunning
blending of elements which is at once the fact and the result of the
technique of construction.
In the second place, you can exercise your faculty of construction by
closing the decorated book or magazine and trying to reproduce two or
three of the stories you have studied. In doing this no effort should be
made to transcribe from memory; realize, rather, the basic theme of each
story, the general character of its people, and the main course of its
events, and strive to produce as effective a thing from such materials[216]
as did the author. The very great value of this sort of practice work
lies in the fact that you have a positive standard of comparison ready
for your story when it is written. Place yours and the original side by
side, and you can see precisely where you have failed, if you feel that
you have. In examining your own work, look to the matter of expression
less than to the matter of construction; see if you have realized the
necessity to build character here, to touch in setting there, even if
your attempt to do so has failed in a degree through lack of executive
deftness.
In the third place, the faculty of construction can be exercised in
original work, and to do so does not necessarily involve writing a
complete story. Ten stories can be blocked out and roughly shaped in the
time it would take to write one, and the more rapid process is
preferable for the beginner because it will teach him that the first
conception is not usually the best conception. Write thousand-word
outlines of ten stories as you have opportunity, put them aside for a
while, and then see if you cannot re-shape their people, re-devise and
re-order their events, to make them more effective, more interesting
fictions. In blocking out a story do not state happenings merely;
indicate your people's natures, their looks, their speech, and indicate
where you would touch in setting, depict character by action, speech, or
description, or hint to a reader the emotional quality of what is to
come.
It will take a very real degree of courage and perseverance to carry out
a course of practice in conceptive and constructive technique long
enough to accomplish its end. But if you will lay out for yourself along
the lines indicated here such a course of study and practice, and then
will perform the necessary work, you will certainly gain more insight
into the essential processes of fiction than you can acquire merely by[217]
accepting at face value such story-ideas as may come to you and by
writing them out one after the other. In particular, you will acquire
the faculty to re-mould and re-shape your material, instead of seizing
each idea too uncritically. And that is half the battle, for it is
precisely the attitude and habit of the professional as contrasted with
the attitude and habit of the amateur.
Little need be said as to the best way to practice the technique of
execution. When you find or devise a story that you feel is truly worth
the writing, write it as best you can, after careful and directed
planning. You can also try to reproduce the work of others, and again
the great value of this sort of practice lies in your having a positive
standard of comparison ready for your work when it is written. Or you
can practice piecemeal, if you have the necessary enthusiasm, can go
about with a notebook in your pocket, as did Stevenson, and try to
precipitate in telling words the casual impressions that come to you. At
all events, write from a primary spectacle, whether of the imagination
or of actuality, and try to reproduce something definite in your words
rather than to string together vociferous but meaningless phrases.
[218]
APPENDIX B
SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHERS
The instructor in fiction technique has my hearty sympathy. His must be
all the woes of manuscript reader, editor, and friend of the author
rolled into one.
It would serve no purpose to list here the inherent difficulties of the
business of teaching the art of the story, such as that made by the fact
that the instructor must deal with a number of individuals differing not
only in point of powers but in point of earnestness. But there is reason
to note one thing. The aim of the course should not be academic. It
should not be allowed to degenerate into a course in the appreciation of
fiction, the most constant danger to which lecturing and abstract
discussion on fiction technique is subject. The student should not be
permitted for a moment, even, to become merely the appraising
connoisseur rather than the humble practitioner of the
art. Such shifting of viewpoint is fatal.
History can be taught piecemeal; so can mathematics and a hundred other
subjects; but the art of fiction cannot, even if it is teachable at all.
The one great secret of the art of fiction is the art of construction,
and it will profit a class little to assign short exercises in handling
specific elements of a story, the elements of personality, event, or
setting. The whole secret of fiction writing is to blend all these
matters into an interesting and significant whole, and the only[219] way to
seek or impart it is to construct and write or to require the class to
construct and write whole stories. And the proper use of a text-book,
aside from general study by the class and the discussion of
reading-assignments, is for reference in criticising the stories that
have been written by and read before the class.
The general aim of the teacher should be to keep the student writing,
but writing with a definite aim. The simplest sort of story to
write, of course, is the story of plain action, and, concomitantly with
discussion of plot, it will be advisable to outline for writing two or
three relatively simple stories. Choose these from magazines not too
recent; give the class the main course of events, the people, and the
setting to work from; and read the original story when reading and
discussing the work of the class, for a fixed standard of comparison is
extremely valuable. As the course proceeds, more complicated stories can
be outlined for reproduction, and from the first it will be useful to
require the student to hand in with the story he has written an outline
of a story of the same general type, but original with himself. After
telling the class where they may find each story they have unconsciously
worked upon, state its chief values as succinctly as
possible, and point out wherein each student's work has or has not
realized such values, and also indicate any value in the class-work not
present in the original. Incidentally, point out the merits and defects
of the original outlines handed in with the complete stories. Of course,
the whole business must be highly selective; discuss fully a little of
the best work, rather than say a few inadequate words as to each
student's.
As the opportunity offers, it will be advisable to engage in oral
story-building with the class. State two or more traits or motives that
involve a conflict,[220] and then call upon individuals to outline a story
presenting the dramatic opposition. Or assign for reading a particular
newspaper of particular date, and require individuals first to state
what news item seems to offer the best suggestion for a story and then
to outline the story suggested by it. This sort of work is extremely
valuable in itself and to keep the class from forgetting that they are
trying to learn the secret to find, develop, and write good stories.
Finally, as to the matter of original work. When the student is asked
completely to develop and write a story of his own, it will be best to
let him work in any direction he pleases, rather than to require him to
show some particular type of story. The matter of type can be touched on
in discussion. And, to emphasize the importance of construction, it will
be well to require submission of a completely developed outline of each
story before writing, also to discuss and re-shape these with the class,
stating their outstanding values and weaknesses. The general endeavor
should be to impress upon each student the fact that the material of
fiction is infinitely plastic, so that he should shape and re-shape his
conception before writing until he is certain that he has exhausted its
possibilities. The matter of verbal execution should not be given any
great emphasis simply because it cannot be treated in class with any
great profit. The instructor can say that this passage is bad and that
good, hardly more. But a poorly constructed story can be taken apart and
rearranged more effectively, and the process can be grasped by the
student because it is somewhat mechanical. Furthermore, the technique of
fiction and the technique of verbal expression are different matters,
and the instructor in the first will be wise if he leaves the matter of
nice expression to the instructor[221] in the second. Of course, obvious
verbal crudities in class work should be pointed out.
The real service that a course in technique can perform for an earnest
student is threefold. It can lead him to realize keenly that the aim of
fiction is to interest, that this aim can be attained most completely by
presentment of a human conflict or problem, and that adequate fictional
presentment of such a conflict, problem, or plot is to be achieved only
by a cunning blending of the elements of personality, event, and
setting. That course in fiction technique is the best course which does
the most to open the eyes of the student to the essential nature of the
art and most definitely shows him the matters he must bear in mind in
putting together a story. If he leaves the hands of the instructor with
a knowledge of the fundamentals of construction, the instructor will
have done well.
[222]
APPENDIX C
TO WRITE A STORY
CONCEPTIVE TECHNIQUE
(1) Find your story, a fiction exhibiting personality in
conflict with its environment, with another personality, or with
itself.
(2) Realize precisely what constitutes the plot—what opposition
between what forces of personality or nature is the influence
which gives fictional significance to the sequence of incidents
or events that have first come to mind as the story.
(3) Realize the characters, major and minor; that is, discover
just what attributes of theirs must be developed by direct
statement or by inference from action in order to give the plot
an adequate, concrete, specific presentment.
(4) Having grasped the plot, the essence of the story, and all
its implications, and having realized the individual people who
alone can present it convincingly, scrutinize closely the events
of the story, as they first were conceived, to discover whether
their rearrangement or entire change may not result in a
combination presenting the plot more adequately and more
forcefully than the combination that first suggested the plot.
(5) Having blocked out the fiction thus, consider and determine
from whose viewpoint it may best be told.
CONSTRUCTIVE TECHNIQUE
(1) Arrange the significant events of the story in sequence with
a due but not forced regard to the necessities of climax, that
is, increasing tensity of the plot-struggle.
[223](2) Consider how best to link together the major happenings, and
endeavor to devise and manipulate the minor events so that they
may serve a double purpose, first, to lead from major event to
major event, second, to develop the characters; remember that a
story is a physical presentment of a spiritual thing, the
plot-struggle, and that personality should function in the small
as well as in the great events.
(3) Determine precisely the ending toward which to work, and let
it coincide with the termination of the plot-struggle.
(4) Apportion the length of the story among its several
happenings, those main events which give physical presentment to
the plot and so incidentally develop or exhibit character, and
those minor events which only develop character or merely aid
the physical progress of the story.
EXECUTIVE TECHNIQUE
(1) Determine the style or manner of writing for which the story
calls, and maintain it when once pitched upon.
(2) Write vividly only where emphasis is called for by the
event; do not be afraid to narrate in general terms where the
story does not call for detail; and think less of the word than
of the thing you visualize. Let the story flow before your eye
and sound in your ear as to an actual observer or listener;
transcribe only what he would see, hear, smell or think under
the influence of the particular circumstances.
(3) Avoid all artificialities, in description, in the speech of
characters, even in their names and in the undue repetition of
verbs of utterance—"he said," "she said."
(4) Re-write, or touch up in manuscript.
(5) After a week or more, when other matters have shaken the
mind from the ruts it has worn for itself in planning and
writing the story, re-read it critically to discover whether it
is worth-while and whether it cannot be improved.[224]
Action, 105, 139, 146, 148.
Action, in novel and short story, 190.
Adventure, 32.
Alice in Wonderland, 203.
Almayer's Folly, 161, 163.
Anna Karenina, 192, 195.
Artificiality, 85.
Artistry, 99, 187, 188, 206.
Atmosphere
Definition, 152.
Atmospheric value, 154.
Tone of story, 156.
Preparation for climax, 156.
Examples, 158, 159.
Story of atmosphere, 160.
Short story, 161.
Setting, 161.
Dramatic value, 164.
Atmosphere, short story of, 166, 168.
Atmosphere, story of, 45.
Atmosphere, style of story of, 93.
Anglo-Saxon, 130.
Austen, Jane, 94, 182, 189.
Balzac, Honore de, 54, 88, 98, 114.
Best Short Stories of 1915, The, 76.
Brevity, of short story, 178, 179.
Bronte, Emily, 94.
Brown, Alice, 154.
Burnett, Frances H., 152.
Call of the Wild, The, 198.
Carroll, Lewis, 203.
Cask of Amontillado, The, 168.
Cervantes, 208.
Character, 35, 36.
Characterization, 74, 128.
Three modes, 136.
Dialogue, 136.
Action, 136.
Description or direct statement, 136.
Aims of characterization, 138.
To show nature of person, 138.
To show appearance, 138.
Character and plot, 139.
Characterization by speech, 140.
Characterization by statement, 144.
Characterization by action, 147.
Characterization in novel, 190.
Characterization in short story, 172, 173.
Character sketch, 39.
[226]Character story, 40.
Character, style of story of, 93.
Classes, speech of, 143.
Clearness, in description, 119.
Climax, 50, 57, 157.
Cloister and the Hearth, The, 191.
Coherence, of novel, 190.
Coherence, of short story, 179.
Color, 119.
Commonplace, story of, 97.
Complication, as element of plot, 51.
Complication, story of, 42.
Compression, 44, 169, 181.
Condescension, 30.
Conrad, Joseph, 161, 162.
Conservatism, portrayal of, 26.
Construction, 16, 64.
Conte, 43.
Contrast, 123, 157.
Copperfield, David, 117, 191, 192.
Cousin Pons, 54, 55.
Creative process, order, 37.
Crime and Punishment, 32.
Critical faculty, 23.
Criticism, 34.
Culture, 35.
Current Questions, 25.
Dawn of a Tomorrow, The, 152.
Defoe, Daniel, 98, 208.
Descent into the Maelstrom, A, 84.
Description, 105.
Interest, 107.
Secondary function, 108.
Distribution, 108.
Story of atmosphere, 109.
Effectiveness, 109.
Description of persons, 110.
Example, 111.
Analysis, 112.
Accuracy, 114.
Mechanical limitations, 116.
Use of all senses, 117.
Description of setting, 118.
Two objects, 119.
Use of all senses, 120.
Order of details, 122.
Contrast, 123.
Design, importance of, 13.
Dialect, 127, 128.
Dialogue (see Speech), 105, 136.
Dialogue, in relation to characterization, 140.
Dickens, Charles, 28, 92, 117, 141, 142, 191, 192, 193.
Diction, 102, 130, 131.
Don Quixote, 208.
Dostoievsky, Fyodor, 32, 203, 208.
Douglas, George, 58, 94.
Doyle, Sir A. Conan, 83, 204.
Drama, conventions of, 170.
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 56, 182, 200.
Dumas, Alexandre, 31, 92.
Dunn, Finley Peter (Mr. Dooley), 134.
Ebb-Tide, The, 82, 89, 91, 145, 149, 188, 191, 192.
Elements, blending of, 105, 106.
Eliot, George, 31, 88.
Emotion, 25.
Emphasis, 39, 40, 77, 101, 110.
End of story, 72.
Events, order of, 65.
Events, secondary, 103.
Exposition, 85.
[227]Fall of the House of Usher, The, 44, 161, 162, 167, 207.
Fantasy, influence on style, 92, 93.
Fiction, theory of, 197.
Fielding, Henry, 28, 192.
Figures of speech, 100, 114, 115.
Flaubert, Gustave, 27.
Frankenstein, 189.
Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins, 154.
Galsworthy, John, 88.
Genius, cultivation of, 23.
Greek, 130.
Hardy, Thomas, 88, 161.
Harrison, Henry Sydnor, 133.
Harte, Bret, 53, 59.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 29, 32, 58, 92, 93, 182, 203, 204.
Henry, O., 82.
House of the Dead, The, 58, 203.
House with the Green Shutters, The, 58, 94.
Hurst, Fannie, 76.
Hugo, Victor, 28, 52, 109, 192, 204.
Idiot, The, 208.
Il Penseroso, 94.
Imagination, 29.
Imagination and dialogue, 129.
Imitation, 33.
Information, 24.
Interest, 34, 35, 107, 108, 176, 185, 203.
Introduction, 67, 81, 82.
James, Henry, 56.
Jean Christophe, 28, 192.
Journal of the Plague Year, A, 98.
Kidnapped, 53, 96.
Kipling, Rudyard, 44, 68, 82, 99, 120, 198.
L'Allegro, 94.
La Peau de Chagrin, 98.
Latin, 130.
Legeia, 167.
Length, 86.
Les Miserables, 28, 192, 204.
Literalness, in dialogue, 126, 127.
Lodging for the Night, A, 110, 137, 174, 175.
London, Jack, 71, 75, 198.
Lost World, The, 204.
Macbeth, 157.
Mannerisms in dialogue, 143, 144.
Markheim, 44, 55, 56, 159, 169, 179.
Master of Ballantrae, The, 91.
Material, accessibility of, 22.
Matter, choice of
Selection, 30.
Sincerity, 31.
Adventure, 32.
Common problems, 32.
Originality, 33.
Novelty and worth, 33.
Elements of literature, 34.
Interest, 34.
Elements of interest, 35.
Matter, significance of, 205.
Maupassant, Guy de, 44, 105, 168.
Meredith, George, 92.
Merry Men, The, 153, 155, 161, 162.
Milton, John, 94.
Monsieur Beaucaire, 71.
Narration, 105, 106, 107, 136, 147.
Narration, constructive technique of
Importance, 64.
[228]Plot and situation, 65.
Spiritual values, 66.
Order of events, 67.
Introduction, 67.
Primary and secondary events, 68.
Climax, 70.
Naturalness, 70.
Preparation, 70, 73.
End of story, 72.
Proportion, 76.
General Considerations, 78.
Narration, executive technique of
Mode of narration, 80.
First person narration, 81.
Variation, 81.
Advantages of mode, 81.
Disadvantages, 82.
Plausibility, 84.
Third person narration, 84.
Advantages, 84.
Avoidance of artificiality, 85.
Length, 86.
Viewpoint, 86.
Attitude of author, 88.
Style, 90.
Congruity of manner, 92.
Story of action, 92.
Story of character, 93.
Method of narration, 97.
Story of commonplace, 97.
Story of bizarre, 98.
Vividness, 98.
Suspense, 100.
Emphasis and suppression, 101.
Expansion and vividness, 101.
Primary and secondary events, 102.
Transition, 104.
Blending of elements, 105.
Naturalness, 143.
Naturalness of dialogue, 126.
Nature, conflict with as plot, 52.
Necklace, The, 105, 168.
New Arabian Nights, The, 91, 93.
New England, 154, 155.
Note on Realism, A, 13, 90, 91.
Notre Dame de Paris, 109.
Novel, 38, 54, 87.
Novel and romance, 182.
Romanticism and realism, 183.
Technique of forms, 185.
Incoherence of novel, 186.
Novel as medium for self-expression, 186.
Interpolation of comment, 187.
Simplicity, 188.
Inclusiveness of novel, 190.
Personality, 190.
Action, 191.
Length, 191.
Initial idea, 192.
Singleness of story, 193.
Social emphasis, 196.
Novelty, 33.
Observation, 24.
Our Mutual Friend, 192, 193.
Outcasts of Poker Flat, The, 53, 59.
Personality, 198.
Persons, description of, 110.
Philosophy of Composition, The, 167.
Philosophy of fiction, 202.
Pickwick Papers, The, 92, 193.
Plausibility, 68, 69, 103.
Plot, 139, 148, 189, 197, 207, 208.
Definition, 48, 50.
Character and plot, 49.
[229]
Dramatic value, 50.
Complication, 51.
Interest, 51.
Plot as problem, 52.
Three basic themes, 52.
Conflict between man and nature, 52.
Conflict between man and man, 54.
Conflict within the man, 55.
Arrangement, 56.
Climax, 57.
Major situations, 60.
Climax and plot, 61.
Situation, 61.
Plot for short story, 168, 169.
Poe, Edgar Allan, 44, 51, 84, 93, 161, 162, 167, 168, 169, 170, 180, 207.
Point of view, 86, 116.
Polti, Georges, 62.
Practice, 96.
Prejudice, 26.
Preparation, 73.
Preparation of reader for climax, 156.
Pride and Prejudice, 189.
Problem in fiction, 52.
Problem novel, 187.
Problem, story or plot as, 50.
Proportion, 76, 102.
Provincialism, 26.
Psychological story, 55.
Reade, Charles, 191.
Reading, 26.
Realism, 182, 189, 199.
Reporting and literature, 45.
Return of the Native, The, 161.
Rhetoric, 95, 109, 110.
Richardson, Samuel, 86.
Robinson Crusoe, 98, 208.
Rolland, Romain, 28, 192.
Romance, 182.
Romanticism, 182, 199.
Scarlet Letter, The, 29, 32, 92, 182, 203, 204.
Scott, Sir Walter, 52, 88.
Sea-Wolf, The, 71, 75, 76.
Selection, 22.
Self-culture, 24.
Sense and Sensibility, 182.
Senses, employment in description, 117, 120, 121.
Seriousness, 31.
Setting, 152.
Setting, description of, 118.
Sex, 33.
Shakespeare, William, 157.
Ship That Found Herself, The, 198.
Short story, 18, 38, 43, 87, 193.
Definition, 165.
Two types, 166.
Dramatic short story, 166.
Atmospheric short story, 166.
Origins, 167.
Unity and singleness of effect, 168.
General technique, 172.
Characterization, 172.
Interest and simplicity, 176.
Complexity, 177.
Coherence, 179.
Compression, 181.
Significance of matter, 205.
Simplicity, 188.
Simplicity of plot for short story, 176.
Sincerity, 31.
Situation (see Plot).
Situation and dialogue, 128.
Social question, 26.
Speech, 105.
Potency, 124.
Mechanical distribution, 125.
Naturalness, 126.
[230]Direction, 126.
Dialect, 127.
Situation, 128.
Resources to meet demands of situation, 130.
Style, 132.
Verbs of utterance, 133.
Speech for its own sake, 134.
Creative process, 135.
Spelling in dialogue, 143.
Stage, conventions of, 170.
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 13, 39, 44, 52, 53, 55, 56, 82, 89, 90, 93, 96, 99, 110, 137, 139, 144, 145, 149, 153, 155, 158, 161, 162, 169, 174, 179, 182, 188, 191, 192, 200.
Story types, 165, 166.
Conception and execution, 37.
Utility to know types, 38.
Novel and romance, 38.
Short story, 38.
The three types, 39.
Emphasis, 39.
Three elements of story, 39.
Character, 40.
Incident, 42.
Atmosphere, 45.
Other types, 46.
Short Story and compression, 44.
Story, distinguished from tale, 49.
Story, ways to create, 39.
Style, 82, 90, 97, 137.
Suppression, 101.
Suspense, 100, 101.
Sympathy, 88, 148, 149.
Tale, 39, 43, 49, 165, 207.
Tanglewood Tales, 93.
Tarkington, Booth, 71.
T. B., 76.
Technique, natural approach to, 16.
Technique, object of, 51.
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 28, 54, 58, 187, 191, 192.
Thematic story, 40.
Theory of fiction
Story and tale, 197.
Realism the method, 199.
Realism the artistic dogma, 199.
Short story, 200.
Interest, 201.
Power of real problems of life, 203.
Test of merit, 204.
Aim of executive artistry, 206.
Verisimilitude, 207.
Significance of plot, 208.
Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations, The, 62.
Thrawn Janet, 158.
Toilers of the Sea, The, 52.
Tolstoi, Leo, 192, 195.
Tom Jones, 28, 192.
Tone, 82, 132.
Tragedy, 157.
Transition, 103, 104, 105.
Trollope, Anthony, 182.
Turgenieff, Ivan, 146.
Ugliness, 89.
Unities, dramatic, 168.
Unity of short story, 201.
Vanity Fair, 54, 58, 187.
Verisimilitude, 84, 92, 106, 107, 115, 118, 119, 120, 123, 143, 207.
Verne, Jules, 204.
Victorian novelists, 191.
Viewpoint, 86, 116.
Virginians, The, 191, 192.
Vividness, 98, 101, 110, 114, 119.
[231]V. V.'s Eyes, 134.
War and Peace, 192.
Warden, The, 182.
Weir of Hermiston, 91.
Wells, H. G., 204.
Wit, in dialogue, 127.
Without Benefit of Clergy, 44, 68, 120.
Worth of matter, 33.
Writer of fiction.
Critical faculty, 22.
Cultivation of genius, 23.
Observation and information, 24.
Open-mindedness, 25.
Attitude toward life, 25.
Prejudice and provincialism, 26.
Social question, 26.
Reading, 26.
Imagination, 29.
Wuthering Heights, 94.
FOOTNOTES:
Transcriber's Note: |
| Spelling and punctuation have been preserved as in the original
publication except for the following changes: |
| Page 24 |
less obvious, but, curiously enough, is is changed to
less obvious, but, curiously enough, is |
| Page 25 |
familiartiy with life, which cannot be brushed up changed to
familiarity with life, which cannot be brushed up |
| Page 28 |
Christrophe," "War and Peace," much of Thackeray's changed to
Christophe," "War and Peace," much of Thackeray's |
| Page 33 |
and deficiences before writing is necessary to make changed to
and deficiencies before writing is necessary to make |
| Page 37 |
Incident—Archtypal Character—Short Story and changed to
Incident—Archetypal Character—Short Story and |
| Page 43 |
archtype of all stories. An historical analysis changed to
archetype of all stories. An historical analysis
which stresses the bare incident, is archtypal of changed to
which stresses the bare incident, is archetypal of |
| Page 54 |
distincly social in nature. The possibilities for the changed to
distinctly social in nature. The possibilities for the
Balzac and and Thackeray are supreme masters in changed to
Balzac and Thackeray are supreme masters in |
| Page 62 |
Polti, in "The Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations, changed to
Polti, in "The Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations,"
is a word so abused that it even might be advisible changed to
is a word so abused that it even might be advisable |
| Page 65 |
hapenings; a plot is some human struggle changed to
happenings; a plot is some human struggle |
| Page 67 |
writers—one may indulge in a little philisophical changed to
writers—one may indulge in a little philosophical |
| Page 72 |
selection and ordering of its secendary events, changed to
selection and ordering of its secondary events, |
| Page 82 |
lost derelicts of people move. Their speach is changed to
lost derelicts of people move. Their speech is |
| Page 84 |
analytical of more than one charactcer the writer changed to
analytical of more than one character the writer
lays bare the souls of all charactcers instead of changed to
lays bare the souls of all characters instead of |
| Page 85 |
virture of each type may be utilized changed to
virtue of each type may be utilized |
| Page 86 |
omniscent viewpoint may carry the story changed to
omniscient viewpoint may carry the story
idiosyncracies, and to make changed to
idiosyncrasies, and to make |
| Page 89 |
will be a be a glorified and persecuted changed to
will be a glorified and persecuted |
| Page 102 |
alloting the space of a story before writing, as has been changed to
allotting the space of a story before writing, as has been |
| Page 111 |
half fallen back, and made a strange excresence on either changed to
half fallen back, and made a strange excrescence on either |
| Page 117 |
strict if unconcious regard for the laws of technique. changed to
strict if unconscious regard for the laws of technique. |
| Page 127 |
a story involves a charactcer from such a district changed to
a story involves a character from such a district |
| Page 132 |
feeling and appreciation that any reader. changed to
feeling and appreciation than any reader. |
| Page 133 |
"'A lady stepped on her Junebug,'" changed to
"'A lady stepped on her Junebug.'" |
| Page 138 |
influencial in numerous directions in a story. changed to
influential in numerous directions in a story. |
| Page 140 |
it may be difficult to do so unobstrusively changed to
it may be difficult to do so unobtrusively |
| Page 143 |
"Yuh" for "you" is in instance. We all "yuh" changed to
"Yuh" for "you" is an instance. We all "yuh" |
| Page 153 |
will have some totality of emontional changed to
will have some totality of emotional |
| Page 167 |
Poe produced such stories as "Legeia" changed to
Poe produced such stories as "Ligeia" |
| Page 170 |
connotations of the state changed to
connotations of the stage |
| Page 175 |
the writter's resources—again of course changed to
the writer's resources—again of course |
| Page 180 |
thou and words, though it begin in a changed to
thousand words, though it begin in a |
| Page 182 |
and the metomorphosis of Dr. Jekyll changed to
and the metamorphosis of Dr. Jekyll |
| Page 191 |
laying a false emphasis on its pormissible scope changed to
laying a false emphasis on its permissible scope |
| Page 211 |
Your, first, second, tenth, or changed to
Your first, second, tenth, or |
| Page 214 |
obvious reasons your laboratory anaylsis of changed to
obvious reasons your laboratory analysis of |
| Page 218 |
connoiseur rather than the humble practitioner changed to
connoisseur rather than the humble practitioner |
| Page 219 |
but writing with an definite aim changed to
but writing with a definite aim
state its chief values as succintly as changed to
state its chief values as succinctly as |
Technique of Fiction Writing
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.jpg "Fiction Writing Techniques")