Author smother
Every book tarries at some point between its covers. Not every page can sparkle, nor can every description lay claim to reader’s imagination. Some passages beg half-to-no attention.
Readers who identify with the author's feelings may consider his writing perfectly intelligible; while, to others he may be an epitome of vagueness. Here, evaluations are subjective.
One author speaks to his readers, translating his thoughts into words that readers can easily pick into their mental fork. If the author were to explain the passage to the reader in person, it would not better the written word. This author believes that without a reader, a book is dead weight. He is not anxious to achieve anything beyond making the book enjoyable for the reader. Read George Orwell’s Animal Farm and you would understand what I mean. It’s a rare feat that Leo Tolstoy also accomplishes in War and Peace. From the description of chasing wolves to philosophical reflections on individuals and events, Tolstoy writes responsibly throughout 1500+ pages.
Another author shares an experience that is shared by many others, but to the author the experience is pregnant with insight. He seeks an attacking angle that causes maximum damage to the inexpressibility of sentiment. He battles with untranslatable thoughts. And, if the choice of words is not apt, if sentences are not gradually amplified, and if analogy does not bear a fair likeness with the objects analogized, the reader chooses to be a bystander. That's when you feel the author is speaking to himself. The survival instinct advises you to wait till the time the author organizes his thoughts and starts speaking to you again.
There is another kind that is unkind to its readers. They do not even talk to themselves; some talking happens inside them. When that mumbo jumbo is put into words, it receives token refinement. These authors simply transfer their headache into their reader’s head. Read them but what-you-read-is-not-what-you-get. Their books are reckoned for the mystique that develops around them. But, their literary condition is simply unhygienic. I include James Joyce in this list.
Next. This type is anxious to make itself understood. The author assumes that every idea popping in his head is a revelation and therefore verbosity is justified. He tends to exhaust the repertoire of expression every time he rolls out a new idea. He does not appeal to reader’s imagination or mental vigour. I believe, an author’s input is akin to a cool breeze and reader’s imagination, warm sunshine. Together they make the experience enjoyable. But, this type of author leaves nothing to imagination. He tells and re-tells the same thing, hardly making any progress in each retelling. I am reminded of Ayn Rand.
These are not cut-and-dry distinctions that categorize all authors. Nor, does this cover all of them. These are some broad types that I encountered in the course of my reading.
Comment mailed by Rahul Dhembare, my colleague and literary friend:
Annoyance with an author’s writing style is understandable if the reader is a novice. As one matures in their reading one accumulates a whole lot of literary paraphernalia that aids in understanding.
As with the case of Joyce’s Portrait and more so with Eliot’s Waste Land, one has to carry the load of this literary paraphernalia and there won’t be any unhygienic literary condition. After all, a writer does not write in a vacuum. He carries the contemporary social milieu with him.
It is simply too bold to say about Joyce that his literary condition is unhygienic!! Then what with the philosophical writings of Hegel, Derrida, Foucault, Sartre clan?
Are we to dismiss them outright with unhygienic literary condition?
Readers who identify with the author's feelings may consider his writing perfectly intelligible; while, to others he may be an epitome of vagueness. Here, evaluations are subjective.
One author speaks to his readers, translating his thoughts into words that readers can easily pick into their mental fork. If the author were to explain the passage to the reader in person, it would not better the written word. This author believes that without a reader, a book is dead weight. He is not anxious to achieve anything beyond making the book enjoyable for the reader. Read George Orwell’s Animal Farm and you would understand what I mean. It’s a rare feat that Leo Tolstoy also accomplishes in War and Peace. From the description of chasing wolves to philosophical reflections on individuals and events, Tolstoy writes responsibly throughout 1500+ pages.
Another author shares an experience that is shared by many others, but to the author the experience is pregnant with insight. He seeks an attacking angle that causes maximum damage to the inexpressibility of sentiment. He battles with untranslatable thoughts. And, if the choice of words is not apt, if sentences are not gradually amplified, and if analogy does not bear a fair likeness with the objects analogized, the reader chooses to be a bystander. That's when you feel the author is speaking to himself. The survival instinct advises you to wait till the time the author organizes his thoughts and starts speaking to you again.
There is another kind that is unkind to its readers. They do not even talk to themselves; some talking happens inside them. When that mumbo jumbo is put into words, it receives token refinement. These authors simply transfer their headache into their reader’s head. Read them but what-you-read-is-not-what-you-get. Their books are reckoned for the mystique that develops around them. But, their literary condition is simply unhygienic. I include James Joyce in this list.
Next. This type is anxious to make itself understood. The author assumes that every idea popping in his head is a revelation and therefore verbosity is justified. He tends to exhaust the repertoire of expression every time he rolls out a new idea. He does not appeal to reader’s imagination or mental vigour. I believe, an author’s input is akin to a cool breeze and reader’s imagination, warm sunshine. Together they make the experience enjoyable. But, this type of author leaves nothing to imagination. He tells and re-tells the same thing, hardly making any progress in each retelling. I am reminded of Ayn Rand.
These are not cut-and-dry distinctions that categorize all authors. Nor, does this cover all of them. These are some broad types that I encountered in the course of my reading.
Comment mailed by Rahul Dhembare, my colleague and literary friend:
Annoyance with an author’s writing style is understandable if the reader is a novice. As one matures in their reading one accumulates a whole lot of literary paraphernalia that aids in understanding.
As with the case of Joyce’s Portrait and more so with Eliot’s Waste Land, one has to carry the load of this literary paraphernalia and there won’t be any unhygienic literary condition. After all, a writer does not write in a vacuum. He carries the contemporary social milieu with him.
It is simply too bold to say about Joyce that his literary condition is unhygienic!! Then what with the philosophical writings of Hegel, Derrida, Foucault, Sartre clan?
Are we to dismiss them outright with unhygienic literary condition?
Comments
Charles Dickens is missed though.. I know will be covered nex along with Turgnev
Thanks for sharing