Ars Prosa 101 - Illustrations

Just as Ars Poetica deals with the nature of poetry, Ars Prosa aims to explore the nature of prose. In “Ars Prosa 101” I will present my ideas regarding certain literary devices employed in fiction, and perhaps offer some basic rules. These posts will be constantly reconsidered and revised, as I refine my judgments and come up with better examples, or new thoughts on the topic. I would also like readers to participate through the comments by voicing opinions or objections, which I may later incorporate into the post itself.

The use of illustrations in fiction isn't a recent invention, going back in its current form at least to the 18th century, with Laurence Sterne's The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, (if you can think of an earlier example please let me know) where among countless asterisks, dashes, and blank or black pages, Sterne sketches some examples of the non-linear path necessary for a well-told story:

In this case I am only concerned with illustrations that constitute part of a narrative, usually in the form of sporadically used line drawings by the author, and not:

• Typographical oddities, dingbats, Index fingers/fists, or artistically shaped paragraphs (i.e. Concrete Poetry like "The Mouse's Tale" in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland).
• The glossy paper insets found in old hardcover novels that depict a colorful scene from the story, sometimes including a line of the narrative quoted at the bottom (these are generally an editorial, not an authorial, concern and often limited to books by writers who died long ago).
• Illustrations found in graphic novels (no matter how crudely drawn).

Kurt Vonnegut employed illustrations in several of his novels, including Slaughterhouse Five, Hocus Pocus, and most extensively in Breakfast of Champions:

I think Vonnegut's illustrations are successful for three main reasons, which we can also use as the basic rules for the employment of illustrations in fiction:

1. The Illustrations fit the content and tone of the narrative.
2. The Illustrations do not require prolonged consideration and analysis, and therefore do not constitute a distraction from the story.
3. Finally, and perhaps most meaningfully, the illustrations add something to the story which cannot be stated as clearly or as efficiently in words.

A good example of this last rule can be found in Jonathan Ames's collection of autobiographical essays, What's Not to Love?, where in an essay on his odd balding pattern he includes this helpful image:

In this case, explaining exactly what his hair looks like, or even attaching a photograph, would not be as informative (or illustrative) as the image above. I believe that all three rules should apply to justify the inclusion of an illustration in a work of fiction, particularly when this device is being misused and overused by so many contemporary writers, possibly following the example of Donald Barthelme who used a lot of old-timey drawings in his less interesting "illustrated stories," (collected in The Teachings of Don B.) and sometimes, for good measure, threw a few sketches or doodles into his better stories, as in the case of "Eugénie Grandet":

As with many literary devices, less is more, and so the best use of illustration is often the most sparing, e.g. Thomas Pynchon's single illustration of the muted trumpet symbol in The Crying of Lot 49:

Once again, you get a lot more from the image than from its description as, "a loop, triangle, and trapezoid."

Other novels which have used illustrations successfully include:

• City of Glass, Paul Auster

• The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolano

Gershom Scholem defends Detective Fiction

Another "rescued"  and slightly revised post from my previous blog; originally published January 09.

I've been looking over a collection of essays by Gershom Scholem, the German-Jewish philosopher and historian known for his extensive study of Jewish Mysticism and his close friendship with Walter Benjamin, and came across an atypical piece he wrote about detective novels. It was a response to an article by Dahlia Ravikovitch, a noted Israeli poet, who attacked the genre for being dismissive of human life and pornographic. Though it's unclear whether Scholem's response was ever published in his lifetime, I still found it amusing that he was so enraged by the poet's critique that he felt he had to defend the honor of detective literature; It's also interesting to find that literary feuds often arise from the most unlikely situations and disagreements. I'm sure Ravikovitch herself, winner of the Bialik Prize (1987), the Israel Prize (1998) and the Prime Minister`s Prize (2005), did not anticipate to be criticized by the great scholar Gershom Scholem for, of all things, her mistaken inclusion of James Bond in the detective genre.

Below is my translation of Scholem's article, which is probably unavailable in any language other than Hebrew (I'd like to point out that Gershom Scholem referrs to "the young Agatha Christie", who was in fact 75 at the time.)



"In Favor of Detective Novels" / Gershom Scholem

From my early days at the university to my late years in Jerusalem I have been reading detective novels. I read them for their powerful stimulation of my natural mental capacities, the keen logic needed to unravel the tangles of plot, and their graceful descriptions of a certain social milieu and forceful dialogues. I’ve enjoyed detective novels when they’ve managed to weave a gripping plot and maintain a steady line of suspense to their final pages. I’ve particularly enjoyed the urbane ones, which mention in a little note in the middle of the story, “from here on you, the reader, have been given all the data needed to solve the problem, and there’s nothing else you need to consider.” These writers did not cheat by not completing their task, nor demand anything out of the ordinary, or ask for completeness in anything outside the literary genre they have engendered. Pornography has no foothold in this literature as long as it remains true to itself.

True, there have been writers who reached a high level of completeness in this writing, without any other pretensions (like the French Gaboriau, Ms. Green who writes in English, and the Swedish A. Heller, who wrote two to four generations ago, and like the young Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers of yesteryear). There were also those who added literary aspirations to their task and made the detective the subject of psychological depth or an existential melancholic, creating works of true value which remain fresh to this day. But these are not the works I’ll discuss here, for it’s not due to their being detective stories that they became successful, but for their virtues outside that field. The satisfaction I attained from these books was not founded upon their oblique glance towards “high” literature.

And here we’ve merited a frontal assault by Dahlia Ravikovitch (in an article published in Haaretz, 02.25.1966), which aims to expose all of this genre’s faults. While reading her words I could hardly believe my eyes. Her claims are only marginally related to the literary genre I have discussed. Conversely, the article’s claims are based on a confusion of fields and concepts as she dedicates much space to Ian Fleming’s James Bond books. What do these works have in common with detective novels? There’s no problem and resolution here. No logic whatsoever. These books are adventure stories spiced with a modicum of pornography – two elements that are entirely alien to the literary genre she assaults. It’s very easy, of course, to attack a soft target and declare that it is in fact the fortress, and anyone who hears it will laugh. It might be said that the tastes of people who consider this type of book are flawed or improper, or that they’re seeking release for darker urges. Maybe. I’m not sure. But don’t tell us that these are “detective” novels.

Back to the issue at hand. Ms. Ravikovitch complains that the victims, who are murdered in these books in their thousands, have no personal meaning; nothing draws us to inquire as to the reason for their murders and hence there is a basic vapidity which marks the genre. The critic’s lament is touching. Why do we remain silent upon hearing this existential complaint? Because it is irrelevant; naturally, the writer does not mean to stir our mercy and understanding for the complexities of the victim’s (or the killer’s) soul, that’s the difference between a detective story writer and Dostoevsky. The question is, do you need a deep existential empathy to read, enjoy, and praise a detective story? Certainly not. The critic relieved herself of the main argument, which she dismissed offhandedly, which is that a good detective story (and only the good ones merit discussion) is on the same level as a chess problem within the world of literature. Do we, the readers and lovers of detective literature, really live in two worlds? A detective story that does not obey the demands of logic is worthless and nothing more than a cheerful adventure story, be it appealing or stupefying. And if the critic has only read the worst of all detective novels, who’s to blame for that?

 - Gershom Scholem, Explications and Implications Vol. II,

 Tel Aviv: Am Oved Publishers, 1989. Pg 505-506.

Better Living Through Minor Vandalism - an Illustrated Guide

Let’s say you’re a guy, and you just want to go down to your local coffee shop, or sit on a park bench and read, or even just take a walk. The problem is, you have all this stuff to carry – wallet, keys, cell-phone, loose change, iPod, maybe a little notebook and a pen for stray thoughts, a pack of gum, a packet of tissues for your perpetually runny nose, a book to read, some cigarettes and a lighter (this blog does not promote smoking), and in certain states maybe even a concealed weapon (this blog does not condone violence) – in other words, too much stuff to put in your pockets. Besides who wants all those heavy, uncomfortable and pointy objects crowding his pants? Not to mention that if you ever want to have kids, you really shouldn’t put any radiation-producing electronics anywhere near your kid-making apparatus.

So what do you do? You don’t want to take your backpack / messenger bag / briefcase for these small things, but you don’t want to get a small bag either because, let’s face it, a small bag is a purse, and only women should walk around with a purse.

Well, if you’re the kind of guy that doesn’t mind being seen with a book, and if you’re reading this blog you probably aren’t, I have a solution for you – Get a book.

But not just any book, get a largish, hardcover book, preferably one that's kind of old, looks nice on the outside, and is really boring on the inside. A book like, say, this one:

Kiva, Cross, Crown: the Pecos Indians and New Mexico 1540 – 1840

You can probably pick up a nice looking book for a couple of bucks at a used book store (If you’re in NYC you can go to the Strand where they have tons of books outside the store for $1). The following step is not for those who have a thing against vandalizing books, but it’s perfect for people who are into recycling – take said book and do this to it:

If you want to learn exactly how to hollow out a book you can look here or here (both sites refer to this as a hollow book, which I find to be derivative; I prefer the term smuggler’s bible) I borrowed ideas from both sites and added my own touch in the form of the page marker (more on its function later).

So now you have a hollowed out book where you can place all your belongings:

Or even, if you’re feeling ironic, use it to carry around a better book:

(This is where the page marker comes in – if the book/notebook placed into the smuggler’s bible is a tight fit the marker serves as a handy tab (make sure it’s well-fastened to the back or bottom of the frame) Now you may ask: "What if I like to read Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and my book is larger than the one that’s hollowed out?" Well, please hold all questions to the end.

So let’s say you’ve made your smuggler’s bible and you’re pleased as punch with it, but you’ve grown tired of holding it in your hand all the time. Well, it sound like what you need is a nice old-timey book leash. No, you don’t need to go out and buy one, you don’t even need to steal from your dog, because making one is remarkably easy. All you need is a little plastic buckle (or “slide” for you professional beltmakers) commonly found on various straps, backpacks, and other forms of luggage, and an old, unused tie:

Extra credit if the tie has ducks on it:

Now all you have to do is to pull the tie through both slots of the buckle, about two thirds of the way down from the narrow part, then wrap the tie around the book (wide part first), place the tie through one of the slots, pull it back a bit to tighten and voilà!

Now you can nonchalantly swing your fake book over your shoulder and sashay down the street while everyone eyes you with envy and yearning.

(Extra credit if there’s a Van Gogh painting in the background)

Plus, if you suddenly find yourself in a situation where a tie is needed, it can quickly be restored to its natural state since no structural damage was done to it.

And if you have to carry a book (or two) that’s bigger than your smuggler’s bible (I’m looking at you, Mr. Wisenheimer Tolstoyevsky), it’s not a problem. In fact, I think it looks even better that way:

Now, any questions?

Lost Between the Sofa Cushions of Time

How's this for a summer blockbuster:

A sexually frustrated London circus dwarf has a one-night stand with the depressed, childless wife of a circus magician. The dwarf quits the circus and retires to a small northern town, waiting vainly for the magician’s wife to join him. Eight years later, she turns up on his doorstep, announces that he has a son, and rushes away. The dwarf pursues her, but dies of a heart attack at her feet. To the gathering onlookers, the magician’s wife announces that her son died a few days ago.

That's the basic plot of Vladimir Nabokov's unproduced screenplay The Love of a Dwarf, listed by Salon.com alongside six other unproduced gems by famous intellectuals (including Jean-Paul Sartre, Aldous Huxley, and Georges Bataille). The article focuses on unusual and surprising ideas or collaborations, but I am certain there are countless other screenplays out there (or lost between the sofa cushions of time), written by celebreated authors, which remain unproduced. Just think of all the worthy novelists - Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Dalton Trumbo, et al. - who at some point turned to Hollywood for steady income. The studio system at the time was very much like a production line attempting to churn out fairly homogeneous products, so that a lot of screenplays were completely reworked by directors and executives, or never came to fruition (I guess the situation today is similar; at least back then writers had a regular paycheck).

Barton Fink, yet another writer of unproduced screenplays

I don't know enough about the topic to make any far-reaching claims regarding the quantity of unproduced screenplays, but I assume it's quite a pile. Anecdotally, I can present the case of Nathanael West, who worked in Hollywood for about seven years and contributed to 28 treatments and screenplays, of which 10 were never produced (some never made it past the treatment stage). Though I can't vouch for the quality of these texts (which is probably the case for the vast majority of unproduced screenplays), there's at least one that's worth mentioning:

In 1939, Nathanael West and Boris Ingster were asked by RKO to write a screenplay based on Francis Iles' 1932 novel Before the Fact, but when the film was assigned to Alfred Hitchcock, he already had his own substantially different screenplay, which he filmed under the title Suspicion. West and Ingster's screenplay was abandoned and never produced, though it's included in the Library of America's edition of West's collected works.

It's up to Hollywood historians, Faulkner faithfuls, Fitzgerald fanatics, and others of their ilk to dig up these lost artifacts and bring them, if not to the big screen, than at least to our computer screens. Certain famously unproduced screenplays, Like Nabokov's Lolita and Harold Pinter's Proust Screenplay have already been issued as books, so there's obviously some interest in these.  Even if they're not the greatest works of literature, I believe these screenplays still have value; at the very least they could reveal that even Nobel-prize-winning authors like Faulkner could produce clunkers, a small bit of comfort for us  - the petty and the unpublished, The Unsound and the Furious.

Ars Prosa 101 - Epigraphs

Just as Ars Poetica deals with the nature of poetry, Ars Prosa aims to explore the nature of prose. In “Ars Prosa 101” I will present my ideas regarding certain literary devices employed in fiction, and perhaps offer some basic rules. These posts will be constantly reconsidered and revised, as I refine my judgments and come up with better examples, or new thoughts on the topic. I would also like readers to participate through the comments by voicing opinions or objections, which I may later incorporate into the post itself.

An epigraph, according to most definitions, is a quotation – ostensibly from a source other than the writer of the work before us – set at the beginning of a text (in our case novel or short story). An epigraph may set the tone for the subsequent narrative, provide a hint to its major themes and concerns, serve as preface or summary, or place the work within a certain genre or in relation to other works. It may also be a throwaway joke, a clever aside, or a playful flirtation with the reader’s expectations. It may also be none of those things.

There’s always something suspiciously serendipitous about an epigraph – how is it possible that the writer found the exact lines to complement the work, through the barriers of space, time, and sometimes language? For the conspiracy-minded this may also raise a sort of Post-Modern chicken and egg debate – which came first, the novel or the epigraph? Did the writer have the epigraph in mind before writing, or is it the work itself which imbued the epigraph with a significance it didn’t have before?

I think those concerns can safely be left to the critics, and for now I’ll simply focus on some basic Dos and Don’ts of epigraphs.

1. Don’t try to lend grandeur to a work by using a pretentious epigraph

A recent article in The Guardian offers the following warning:

With its privileged position at the gateway to the text, the epigraph is, of course, open to abuse. Authors may add random passages from the Bible in the quest for portent; Shakespearean couplets to add a little erudition; sections from Lewis Carroll to conjure that missing air of mystery. There's nothing inherently wrong with using such favourites - just don't expect to make up for what's lacking further in.

In other words, an epigraph won't change the nature of your work, and an unsuitably lofty choice could annoy or confuse readers. This rule, like many of the others that follow, does not apply if the epigraph is used ironically, as in Joseph Heller's God Knows, a satirical rendering of King David's deathbed confessions, where the epigraph taken from Ecclesiastes is:

"How can one be warm alone?""

2. Don’t use too many epigraphs

This naturally depends on the nature and length of the work, but I think it's safe to say you couldn't get away with 9 pages of epigraphs as there are in my edition of Herman Melville's Moby Dick. One is usually the norm; two can be used if they're placed in opposition to each other, as in Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises, where Gertrude Stein's claim that Hemingway and his friends are all a 'lost generation' is contradicted by a quote from Ecclesiastes (what can I say, it's very quotable) about the continuity of generations. Three epigraphs or more should have very good justification, and not merely restate each other.

Epigraphs for short stories are pretty rare nowadays, though many of Poe's short stories had them (often in foreign languages - more on that later). Contemporary novels vary widely - Robert Coover's hefty The Public Burning has five, Don Delillo's massive Underworld has none.

3. Don’t use a quote taken from a very recent work

This rule came from a recent visit to a bookstore. I picked up some novel whose name I can’t recall and found that its epigraph was taken from Cormac McCarthy’s celebrated 2006 novel The Road. Considering the time it takes books to be written, edited, published, and reach bookstores, I think it’s safe to assume this epigraph was chosen sometime around 2007-2008 at the latest, or in other words, at the point when The Road reached the height of its fame. This seems a transparent attempt to ride that book’s coattails, and immediately turned me off the book. It also makes the writer seem lazy and unimaginative, or at least like someone who doesn’t read much, which is the first sign of a bad author. Are there really no works worth reading that are older than two years?

I would say that a decade should be about the absolute minimum, anything more recent than that would seem the choice of a dilettante rather than a serious reader (which all good authors are). For example, Evelyn Waugh’s A Handful of Dust, which takes its title and epigraph from The Waste Land, was published 12 years after T.S. Eliot’s poem. This rule does not apply if the quotation is taken from a newspaper or some similar non-fictional source, particularly if both epigraph and novel deal with the same historical characters, as in Coover’s The Public Burning, whose epigraphs deal with Ethel Rosenberg and Richard Nixon. Incidentally, Nixon is also quoted in the epigraph to Our Gang by Philip Roth, and in Part 4 of Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, where the epigraph is simply:

What?

– Richard M. Nixon

4. If using a fictional epigraph, make sure it’s not merely a private, unfunny joke

There are a lot of ways to get this wrong, especially if the author is too easily amused with himself. The safest way is probably to present a quote from a character that appears or is mentioned in the novel. A good example is Flann O’Brien’s The Third Policeman which presents a quote from DeSelby (alongside one from Shakespeare), a philosopher/scientist constantly referenced throughout the novel. The epigraph to The Great Gatsby is, in my view, a failure – it adds nothing, flattens the overarching themes of the novel, and almost contributed a disastrous name to the book (Fitzgerald considered calling it Gold-Hatted Gatsby, or The High-Bouncing Lover, based on lines from the epigraph)

5. Don’t present an epigraph in a foreign language

I think this is pretty self-explanatory – you don’t want to annoy or alienate your readers; exceptions can be made if the epigraph is:

• Short and in Latin or Greek – De mortuis nil nisi bonum
• Famous – Veni, vidi, vici
• Fairly easy to figure out - Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la Mort!
• Or presented with translation.

Notable Examples

Some successful epigraphs I've recently encountered:

The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolano

"Do you want Mexico to be saved? Do you want Christ to be our king?"
"No."

- Malcolm Lowry

***

 The Gift, Vladimir Nabokov

An oak is a tree. A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. a sparrow is a bird. Russia is our fatherland. Death is inevitable.

- P. Smirnovski, A Textbook of Russian Grammar