This past November ninth Judy and I did what we've been
doing for decades now: celebrating my birthday by visiting my son Marc and his
wife Stella who live just outside Seattle, and getting together with some of
our writers for a meal who also live in the area. This led into a spirited discussion
about writing with William (Bill) McCauley, a very gifted writer and world
traveler whose fiction we'd published
three times to excellent reviews—Need (the Seattle Times review said "his
evocation of place is masterful and provides a level of engagement reminiscent
of Hawthorne or Melville"), The Turning Over, his second novel,
set in Sierra Leone, involved Western aid workers and native workers and won high
praise in Library Journal,and his short
story collection Adulteries, Hot Tubs, and Such Like Matters—set
in Suburban America—was hailed in
Booklist as "biting and insightful stories about well-to-do middle-agers,
bored with their lives, who engage in
empty shenanigans." Obviously my admiration for Bill is immense. And to pass
those twelve hours of travel I brought along the world-famed Swedish novelist
Henning Mankell's Sidetracked. So much for my introduction to Bill's Blog. Needless to say it was a novel
I abhorred. —Marty
Shepard
* * *
When Marty and I were talking about books a few days ago he told
me he'd recently read a Henning Mankell novel and was disappointed. He asked me
if I'd read any of Mankell's books. I said I'd read only one and I came away
from it feeling betrayed by the reviewer blurbs. Reading the book was akin to
what I feel when I have unwisely devoured some fast-food treat like a Big Mac,
fries, and a Coke. It may fill my belly, but it will not satisfy me. This is
because there is nothing new in it. Everyone knows what to expect from a Big
Mac and fries. In an analogous way the Mankell book filled my time and gave me
no satisfaction at all. Having read the blurbs, I anticipated an enjoyable read
and ended up annoyed with myself for not cutting my losses at page 25 and tossing
the book into the Goodwill bin.
I make no judgement about the worth of the Mankell book. A book is worth what the reader thinks
it's worth. Obviously, my opinion on Mankell's writing is out of sync with many
thousands of his loyal readers. I didn't like it because it did not meet my
standard for a good readable book.
We all have standards, though we don't often express them,
and when we do we don't express them well. What are yours? Can you generalize
your standards in a sentence? I can. I keep it simple; it is the same standard
I use to evaluate art. For me the quality of a book starts and ends with the
question of whether it offers me the discovery of something new (Merriam-Webster: "to obtain
sight or knowledge of for the first time"). Perhaps this is another way
of saying it must be interesting.
From my perspective, the topic of a book or its genre are not
of first importance. The next book that captures my admiration might be a
novel, or a collection of short stories, or book of poems, or an anthropological
book on human origins, or a book on cosmology, or a military history, or a book
on any number of other topics, in any number of genres. What I don't want is to
give my time to any book that says something in a way that I've seen many times,
that is didactic, that is careless or ugly in its use of language, or is populated
by two-dimensional cliché expressions and characters. I want originality in
material and in manner of presentation. I believe that when the writer strives
for originality she necessarily discovers and offers discoveries to readers;
and in not being original, the writer forecloses the possibility of discovering
and offering discoveries to readers.
"Discovery" is a very general term. In that sense I mean discovery
has many aspects. Often, I find one aspect of discovery in a book but not other
aspects that I value. When that happens, I am nonetheless likely to finish it because
the value of the one ongoing experience of discovery is enough for me to enjoy
the book. For example, I recently read This
Kind of War, by T. R. Fehrenbach. I heartily recommend it, though the
writer's underlying politics are too conservative for me, the intellectual
setting is outdated (it was written in the early 60s), it is loaded with mid-20th
Century racial clichés, and the writing is often in mediocre military-history
style. Nonetheless, I liked it very much and think it a worthwhile read, because
it brilliantly characterizes the difficulties of fighting a war of movement (a
modern war) in mountainous North Korea. This is new information for a lot of
people and should be thoroughly understood by those advocating a war against
North Korea. The insights (discoveries) provided by the author were original
and clearly developed. The book is a tidy history of the Korean War.
Another example of a book in which readers are likely to find
rich veins of discovery is Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire, which I read this year. Whereas the Fehrenbach book offered me one aspect of significant
discovery (why fighting a land war in North Korea is a bad idea), Pale Fire offers many aspects of
discovery. In this it exemplifies the genius of Nabokov. I've read several of
his books and in none have I found any single weakness. In his books, discoveries
abound, on every page from first to last. Plot? No one is more original. Humor?
I experienced numerous laugh-out-loud moments. Poetic language? So subtle and
lush I stopped and reread sentences and paragraphs to re-experience the thrill
of the first reading. Originality? He seems never to repeat himself in any book
or from book to book, and never to use any character as a template for others. His
characters are as original and as alive as Shakespeare's. Dialogue? Always in
character, never unfitting or unlikely, and always leading the reader into yet
another discovery.
Poems and short stories are typically built around a single
discovery. O. Henry made a living on this. John Updike is known for the one-line "zingers," each a revelation (discovery) for the reader, with which he ends his
short stories. Ditto John Cheever. A poem without discovery for the reader is reduced
to an exercise in word play.
In the most felicitous case, as the writer composes he is
discovering. While I cannot say how other writers work I can say that I never
end up with the words and thoughts I put down first. Never. I throw away far
more pages of stuff than end up in a manuscript. It is in the act of writing that
I discover what I want to say; it is in the act of developing characters that I
discover who the characters are. When I follow that motif of composition – exploring
by writing and making changes until I cannot find another change that makes an
improvement –
I continuously feel an aesthetic lift that accompanies discovery, because I am
writing stuff that says more than the words alone express. The writer hopes the
reader makes his or her own discoveries. The most enduring literature
consistently involves the reader in this way. To the extent this happens, the
writer is successful.
For many years I've believed this. It is what sustains me
when I am defeated by my cliché characters or a plot line that embarrasses me
and defeats every attempted change.
This brings me full circle to Mankell's book. I discovered
nothing in it that wasn't on the surface of the words, which is simple word
play.
* * *
I am curious to hear from you about which popular
writers you believe are incredibly overrated, and the reasons you would put
forward for your dismissals of them. The media is always concerned with
Best-Seller lists, and contrarian that I sometimes am, I'd like to see a
listing of other unworthy Best-Sellers for another blog. My email address is shepard@thepermanentpress.com
—Marty