Scare quotes and Poe

Last night I finished a major new biography of Edgar Allan Poe. It’s by an important Poe scholar—a name I recognized as the editor of my Penguin Classics edition of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym—and published by a university press. It’s excellent—comprehensive, insightful (I had never noticed Poe’s use of chiasmus before), well-researched, and fair. I’m not going to name the book or the author because I don’t want what follows to be construed as an attack on either.

What I want to criticize and wonder about is also not characteristic of the rest of the book, which is what made me notice it in the first place. Think of it as an editorial or rhetorical tic.

Poe might have been born in Boston but he grew up in Virginia, considered himself a Virginian, and nursed recognizably Southern resentments toward northerners, especially New Englanders. He also died sixteen years before the passage of the 13th Amendment, just as the sectional debate was reopened by victory in the Mexican War, leading to failed compromises, mudslinging, vigilantism, and war. Slavery was a fact of life.

The author approaches these topics within the context of Poe’s life with laudable charity and nuance. He takes pains to defend Poe from glib accusations of racism, especially in misinterpretations and misrepresentations of his work—while acknowledging that Poe was still a man of his time.

And yet the book’s own context as the product of a 21st century university press shows through. There is the predictable gesture of capitalizing “black” and the clumsy circumlocution of “enslaved people,” which I complained about back in the spring. Odder, though, are the two passages following, both of which concern Poe’s lifelong best friend John Mackenzie:

Clearly the hard work of the farm was done by enslaved labor. According to tax records, John H. Mackenzie “owned” eleven slaves at this time.

and

John and Louisa’s abundance—in the house, on the 193 acres, even in John’s tobacco warehouses and stables in the city—was made possible by the African Americans whom John “owned”: in 1849, six of them over twelve years old, and another six over sixteen years old.

There’s not really a factual problem here—though I will note that small-scale slaveowners like this very often did do a lot of hard labor and pointing out the role of slaves in the economy is a truism. My real question: why the scare quotes?

Putting scare quotes around owned suggests some kind of falsehood in the word, that slaveowning was some kind of socially constructed fiction, but John H Mackenzie’s ownership of these slaves as property was an actual and legal fact. That’s the whole problem. Those uncomfortable with slavery—which included far more people for far longer than the abolitionist movement that Poe hated—were uncomfortable with it precisely between of the tension created by treating people as property. Handwaving this tension, “They weren’t really ‘owned’ by someone else,” is insulting. As with the dubious “enslaved people,” treating harsh reality this way undermines one’s own disapproval.

This is a tiny thing in a 700-page book, but a noticeable part of an repeated posture of disapproval that the author does not display elsewhere. Three times the reader is treated to a mention of the Mackenzie’s mantlepiece picture of the Egyptians drowning in the Red Sea with a heavily ironic gloss that someday it would be the slaveowners who would be drowning. The author seems desperate in these passages to let you know he thinks slavery is bad and that it is good that it was abolished. A stunning opinion.

The final odd note comes in the conclusion. Concerning John Mackenzie’s brother Tom, a doctor who championed Poe’s reputation, we read:

Although Tom Mackenzie would have been on the right side of Poe, he was on the wrong side of history.

He served as a surgeon in the Confederate army, you see. “The wrong side of history” is a cringeworthy cliche, and stupid because history doesn’t have sides. This is also an odd thing to throw in at the end of a book about Poe, who famously and vocally denounced the myth of progress.

My own stance on historical writing is that it should be descriptive most of the time—as this book generally is. Opinion and moralizing may have a place occasionally, sure, but not for opinions that are universally approved. In twelve years of teaching college students—who are typically less guarded and studiedly correct in their opinions than professors emeriti—I’ve never had a student even suggest that slavery was okay. Condemning slavery and celebrating slaveowners’ downfall feels performative. Forcefully declaiming obvious, widely shared opinion is not argument, but liturgy. Here the author wants us to know he can recite the creeds of the liberal consensus, too.

Well, perhaps it’s the author. My suspicion, based on the inelegant way these passages fit with the rest of this careful, balanced book, is that these originated as editorial demands. Poe, himself a sometime editor in a time of political polarization, probably would have understood, but not approved.

From the Themes Files: political novels

In his inaugural Substack post last month, Tim Powers recounted this story:

I was on a panel about vampire stories one time, and one of the panelists said, “Well you know, Dracula is actually about the plight of 19th century women.” And I said, “No, it’s actually about a guy who lives forever by drinking other people’s blood. Don’t take my word for it, check it out.”

“Dracula wasn’t a metaphor,” Powers continues. “He was a vampire.”

That’s been on my mind because, earlier this week, a Substack note by novelist Aaron Gwyn—whose novella The Cannibal Owl I read last week and loved—turned into yet another Substack tempest in a teapot. Gwyn’s claim:

The political novelist is a fiction writer in diminished form. The great novelist’s intentions, motivations, and biases are forever obscured behind a rhetorical mask. The great novelist doesn’t aspire to be a political actor, but a ventriloquist.

I would tend to agree. See this post from last year about “the novel of ideas,” in which the novelist as artist becomes subservient to his message.

Well, Gwyn’s note got a lot of Substack litterateurs huffing and puffing. When Gwyn supplied a list of novelists who didn’t “engage politically,” one scandalized response read “You can tell someone hasn’t read Proust when he’s included on a list of writers who didn’t ‘engage politically.’” This observation is only slightly marred by the fact that no one should read Proust.*

More to my point, consider these comments by others:

Blood Meridian is about the military conquest of the west, whats more political than that?

Gilead is about religion and war and race and how all the above affect a family and has characters openly discussing whether or not they support Eisenhower.

The core conceit of Moby-Dick is treating the disrespected working class with the same dignity as the nobility. . . . it’s explicitly an interrogation of American society and values.

Is it, though? Is that actually what any of these—novels in which ill-fated filibusters and scalphunters kill and are killed in the desert, in which an old man faces his mortality and yearns to leave something behind for his son, in which an obsessed sea captain dooms his entire crew—is “about”?

This topic sits squarely at the intersection of several of my driving interests and concerns, including two I’ve written about several times this year already: themes and particularity. Back in the spring I wrote about the overemphasis on “themes” in the study of literature, and this is what I mean. These specific examples, provoked by what I suspect is a bit of trolling on Gwyn’s part, are politically inflected and therefore even less tolerable than the usual.

Take Moby-Dick. Is that really “about” the working class and is it really “interrogating” anything? Or is it about one man’s obsession? To ask a question I asked back in the spring again with Moby-Dick in mind, would you rather read a novel about “treating the disrespected working class with the same dignity as the nobility” or a novel about a maimed captain so bent on revenge against one whale that he drives his entire crew to their deaths in a round-the-world hunt? Which one of those sounds more interesting as a novel?

Let me put it this way: Visit Barnes & Noble and look at the many different editions of Moby-Dick that they will have in stock. What’s on the cover? Socioeconomic interrogation? Or a white whale large enough to endanger a ship?

Perhaps Melville, to stick with this example, really is doing what Gwyn’s politically-minded commenters say he is—though his thematic interests strike me as much more theological than economic or political. I don’t know. But whether Moby-Dick is actually “about” anything political, it would fail if it were not first about the captain and the whale. Particularity.

This is what I think Gwyn meant in his original note. A respectable theme must emerge organically from what is purposefully, deliberately a novel, a work of art. Approaching the work with a programmatic message in mind simplifies or sells out the art. It is “diminished” and “obscured” behind the rhetorical pose required of the message. Politics is the Procrustean bed of any form of art. It imposes on stories a shape that requires distortion.

Perhaps the paradigmatic example is Ayn Rand. Read The Fountainhead or Atlas Shrugged with an open mind and you can’t help but be struck by 1) the talent she had in imagining and constructing vast stories and 2) the way she contorted and butchered her own art in the service of her risible messaging.

Gwyn, puckishly pressing one critic for his definition of a “political novel,” was answered with: “Presenting a view of how society and culture is organized through power structures, war, socioeconomics.” Gwyn rightly replied that “If you define ‘politics’ in that way, you’ve constructed a definition that’s sufficiently broad enough to encompass everything. In other words, you’ve emptied the term of all meaning.”

That’s what theme talk, especially of a political variety, does. Its vagueness as much an enemy of good interpretation as the political is of honest art.

* What I have written, I have written.

Three items on learning by doing

Item: This morning Alan Jacobs shared a short post on Allan Dwan, who happened into the director’s chair by accident in 1911 and directed his last film in 1961. Along the way he gave Lon Chaney his break, discovered Carole Lombard, and—like many such early filmmakers—innovated both artistically and technically, those two aspects being deeply intertwined in filmmaking. Jacobs:

It’s fascinating to see how this industry—this art form—developed when nobody knew how to make movies. Dwan himself was the first to figure out that you could dolly a camera backwards, putting it on rails or a truck and backing up. (This actually disoriented viewers at the time, made them feel woozy). He helped D.W. Griffith figure out how to do a crane shot for Intolerance. All such techniques had to be improvised—and when an improvisation worked it became an invention. You basically had to think like an engineer, and Dwan was an engineer.

Item: Also this morning, Ted Gioia shared an essay on children and music lessons with a special focus on why so many kids quit not only the lessons but the instrument. In his own experiences with lessons, despite hating and quitting his piano them he kept playing on his own. Then:

I made up my own songs. I learned other songs I liked by ear. I actually played the instrument more after those awful lessons had been terminated. . . .

So I developed without jazz teachers, both as a musician and as a music historian. There’s some irony in that. I had access to amazing professors at illustrious universities, but jazz wasn’t part of the curriculum. In the field in which I made my reputation, I had to teach myself.

I’m not especially proud of that. Too much of what I’ve done in life has happened outside official channels. I’ve missed things by not accessing the right teachers at the right time. Things I did learn, I might have learned faster with proper guidance.

On the other hand, you learn very deeply when forced to invent your own pedagogy. And I take some comfort in knowing that there were almost no jazz teachers for the generations that came before me. Many of the jazz pioneers learned by doing—and they turned out okay.

The improvisatory, trial-and-error quality of both stories is fascinating, and both Jacobs and Gioia more or less directly point out that learning this way takes a long time—but one learns “very deeply.” Think of one of the greats in any field—filmmaking, music, writing, painting, science, even law, politics, and war—and they will almost certainly have started at the bottom, learning the nuts and bolts. Here’s a short list of directors who started off as gofers on the crew of low-budget director Roger Corman, for example.

But when you learn by doing, once you’ve mastered your art—insofar as that is possible in any art—a funny thing happens: your expertise translates into style. Which leads me to this third and final piece:

Item: Last week I saw this interesting Substack note from novelist Aaron Gwyn (whose excellent novella The Cannibal Owl I’ve just read and loved):

We all love a stylish writer, whether mannered and showy like Faulkner and Cormac McCarthy or “invisible” like Elmore Leonard. But how will a writer or artist of any kind know what his strengths and weaknesses are without doing the work?

I remember learning once, when our kids were small, that playtime dangers are not to be avoided but embraced. Climbing trees, going up slides the wrong way, jumping off of swings, doing pretty much anything on a trampoline—these are how children learn what their bodies are capable of. It both teaches them limits and gives them confidence in what they can do. But they have to do it.

This is what I hate most about AI “writing”: by offering finished products without the process, it robs writers of all kinds—whether novelists, students, or office drones drafting e-mails—of the work. It tricks people into thinking they’re able-bodied adults while bypassing the whole childhood playground experience. It’s not only instrumental and pragmatic, it weakens the person who uses it without their even realizing it. But perhaps worst of all, the work, the nuts and bolts, is not only how you master the craft and art of writing, it’s one of the most fun parts of it.

Perhaps more thoughts on that later. But for now, read all the items above and note especially the importance of play and enjoyment in Gioia’s post on music lessons, and consider how AI advocates consistently portray writing—or whatever the process in question—as time-wasting drudgery. Someone is lying.

Like, totally

Writing in The American Scholar, novelist Max Byrd considers the simile: its varieties, uses, and abuses. He is correct to begin with the unusual pleasure a striking simile can provide:

“His smile was as stiff as a frozen fish,” writes Raymond Chandler. “He vanished abruptly, like an eel going into the mud,” writes P. G. Wodehouse, the undoubted master of the form. Or Kingsley Amis’s probably first-hand description of a hangover: “He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning.”

Here are two similes packed inside one another in one Chesterton’s most dramatic settings, from The Man Who Was Thursday:

They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb.

These examples showcase the more familiar form of simile, the “comparison using ‘like’ or ‘as’” that we all learn about in school. How about the epic or Homeric simile? These extended comparisons can stretch line upon line through the middle of the action of a poem. Byrd:

It takes a dramatic mind to carry a comparison through so logically and so far. The Homeric simile evokes a world far larger than a single flash of thought, however clever. Its length creates a scene in our minds, even a drama where contraries come alive: an army driving into battle, an ocean tamed into a harmless old gent, a bloody clash in the streets between aristocrats and rebels.

The epic simile is one of the keys to Homer’s markedly cinematic effects. In addition to its evocative and scenic qualities, as described by Byrd, it also works as slow-motion. Consider this in the middle of one-on-one combat in Book XIII of the Iliad:

[Aeneas] went against Idomeneus, strongly eager for battle,
yet no fear gripped Idomeneus as if he were a stripling,
but he stood his ground like a mountain wild boar who in the confidence
of his strength stands up to a great rabble of men advancing
upon him in some deserted place, and bristles his back up,
and both his eyes are shining with fire; he grinds his teeth
in his fury to fight off the dogs and the men. So
spear-famed Idomeneus held his ground and would not give way[.]

That’s Richmond Lattimore’s translation. In his more colloquial, dynamic translation, Stanley Lombardo breaks these similes out typographically to give them yet further emphasis. The pausing effect, which concentrates the imagination, is magnificent. Homer employs it a lot, to great effect.

To return to Byrd, what all good similes have in common—and what bad, forced, or embarrassing similes fail at—is vision:

“Perceptive of resemblances,” writes Aristotle, is what the maker of similes must be. There is one more step. The maker of similes, long or short, must perceive resemblances and then, above all, obey the first, and maybe only, commandment for a writer: to make you see. Consider Wodehouse’s “He found Lord Emsworth, as usual, draped like a wet sock over the rail of the Empress’s G.H.Q.,” or Patricia Cornwell’s “My thoughts scattered like marbles.”

“To make you see.” Good similes will not only catch superficial “resemblances,” as Aristotle puts it, but will draw attention to parallels on multiple levels. The best will not only evoke vivid, concrete images but convey moral import. In that passage from The Man Who Was Thursday, Chesterton doesn’t have to tell us how dangerous and unnatural this place is, we see it. In the Amis one at the beginning of this post (from Lucky Jim) we see Jim Dixon’s agonized posture in bed. And in that passage from Homer we see, in detail, Idomeneus’s tenacity, ferocity, and defiance.

We all know to show, not tell, but sometimes showing something else is the best way to tell us about the thing in question.

My favorite of my own similes comes from my master’s thesis. In describing the defensive situation of King Harold Godwinson with regard to his exiled brother Tostig in 1066—knowing all the while that two greater threats, King Harald Hardrada of Norway and Duke William the Bastard of Normandy, were also out there, plotting—I wrote:

Harold probably expected Tostig to join up with one of the two pretenders to the throne and return to his earldom remora-like, attached to the belly of a more powerful predator.

I remember this with satisfaction because my advisor actually wrote “Nice” in the margin, a compliment that did a great deal of good to me when I needed it. I was going to say it’s a shame I spent this one on my thesis, but as that’s still likely my most widely read work I guess that’s fine. A part of me is still hanging onto it for later, though.

Byrd goes on to consider the similarities and differences between similes and metaphors, the simile’s “childlike” qualities, and the work of imaginative preparation the “like” or “as” in a simile does to us as we read. It’s a delightful essay. Read the whole thing here.

Powers and Jacobs on history and fiction

Over the weekend on his new Substack, Tim Powers explained how he comes up with the plots of his historical fantasy novels by scrutinizing works of history and biography for the odd and inexplicable, moments the historians can’t account for with the evidence they have to work with:

A number of people who knew Lord Byron saw him on a street in London in 1811, while at that precise time Byron was delirious with a fever in Turkey. Biographers simply note the fact, leaving any possible explanation up in the air.

Why was Byron in two places at once?

Other examples abound: Edison’s dying breath in a bottle, Arthur Conan Doyle’s endorsement of obviously fake photos of fairies, a cockamamie experiment by Galileo to determine the speed of light. Powers takes these moments and, saving the appearances, makes the inexplicable explicable with magic.

This week at his blog, Alan Jacobs wrote about Irish novelist Thomas Flanagan’s loose trilogy about Ireland’s wars for independence (as well as Flanagan’s friendship with the great Seamus Heaney). In describing a moment in which a man’s memory of a friend is altered by previously unknown history—part of the cycle of “ever-ramifying and ever-elusive historical truth”—Jacobs notes that

For some, of course, the appeal of history is to unearth secrets, however carefully hidden—perhaps not to know everything, but to know more and more, even at the cost of digging up old bones (metaphorically and sometimes literally). And for still others, the appeal of fiction is to imagine all that the historian will never discover. This is perhaps why Flanagan wrote novels.

Both Powers and Jacobs are getting at the way fiction can press beyond the limits of responsible historiography into mystery—literal mysteries in the case of Powers, the everyday mysteries of life in Flanagan. These are things fiction can get at truthfully where history can only speculate. The result—speaking as someone with a foot in both camps, historian and novelist—if done well and responsibly, can reconcile irreconcilable facts and capture the what-it-was-likeness of the past. It can feel more real than reality.

Per Chesterton in The Everlasting Man, writing of the experience of ordinary people in past ages:

So long as we neglect this subjective side of history, which may more simply be called the inside of history, there will always be a certain limitation on that science which can be better transcended by art. So long as the historian cannot do that, fiction will be truer than fact. There will be more reality in a novel; yes, even in a historical novel.

Yes, I’ve quoted that passage here before (here and here and alluded to here), but it’s been a few years and, as much as I struggle not to repeat myself, I ought to be able to include an occasional invocation of one of my intellectual lodestars as a treat.

Both posts above are good. Check them out.

The Poseidon Gary Stu

Rev Scott heroically tells everyone how it’s going to be in The Poseidon Adventure

Film criticism YouTuber Like Stories of Old posted a video yesterday examining “the cornered villain.” He offers several examples, the best of which are Die Hard’s Hans Gruber and Casino Royale’s Le Chiffre, antagonists whose well-laid plans face genuine threats of failure and who are therefore driven not only by greed, hatred, or ego, but by desperation. Their suavity, intelligence, cruelty, and ruthlessness may make them interesting, but what makes them compelling is their vulnerability.

This is a striking insight, and a good thing to remember when creating any character, not only villains. As it happens, this has been on my mind lately thanks to a recent reacquaintance with the hero of The Poseidon Adventure, which I watched a few weekends ago with my wife and kids.

The late great Gene Hackman plays Rev Scott, some kind of defrocked liberal priest or minister who preaches a weird existential gospel of helping oneself. What I remembered from the many times I enjoyed The Poseidon Adventure as a kid was the risks he ran in leading an escape from the capsized ship, his self-sacrifice at the end, and the heavy-handed religious allegory—crudely obvious to even twelve-year old Jordan. What I did not remember is how obnoxious Rev Scott was.

Loud, abrasive, self-regarding, confrontational, hectoring, and a condescending know-it-all to boot (watch his introductory scene and tell me whether any real human being talks about themselves like that), the film positions Rev Scott as a powerful hero but I found myself wishing something bad would happen to him. He has all the qualities the filmmakers want us to admire and no weaknesses. He is, in internet parlance, a Gary Stu. For most of the movie, he struggles only against the elements and the complaints of the doofuses relying on him to lead them out. He always knows the right path to take and succeeds at everything he attempts.

Almost everything, that is. In a famous sequence late in the film, elderly, overweight Mrs Rosen (Shelley Winters), a former champion swimmer, volunteers to swim a long flooded corridor. Rev Scott insists she stay behind and let him do it—of course he does—in the process of which he is trapped by debris. Mrs Rosen then swims the passage, frees him, and leads him the rest of the way through only to die of a heart attack. Scott is, temporarily, wrecked by her sacrificial death.

It’s a justifiably famous scene, one of the most memorable in the movie. And why? The obvious answer is that Mrs Rosen, who has been dead weight up to this point, gets a moment not only to shine but to save the day.

But this sequence is also the first time we see this cocksure hero vulnerable, and the first time he has a relationship with another character beyond lecturing, bossing, and—in the weird case of the teenage girl—feebly comforting. For the first time in the film Rev Scott actually becomes interesting, because it is the first time he fails at anything and needs anyone else.

A few points of comparison from my recent reading:

• Every character in The Friends of Eddie Coyle, by George V Higgins—and most notably the titular Eddie—is working to stay ahead of situations that threaten constantly to spin out of their control. Their desperation increases throughout the novel.

• In The Anubis Gates, by Tim Powers, protagonist Brendan Doyle and the host of villains he faces have palpable, intense vulnerabilities. (Powers really puts poor Doyle through the wringer—which helps make Doyle one of his best characters.) Guarding against weaknesses, like a dog favoring a wounded leg, is almost as important to them as what they want to get.

• In Freaky Deaky, Elmore Leonard creates a truly loathsome archvillain in Robin Abbott, a society girl turned hippie terrorist—manipulative, carnal, and frighteningly greedy. But as threatening as she is, she only becomes interesting once her plans start unraveling about two-thirds of the way through. By contrast, lesser villains like gangsta Donnell Lewis and wealthy burnout Woody Ricks have to navigate numerous vulnerabilities and are more interesting than the lofty Robin.

I love Gene Hackman—if I could use a time machine to cast a Griswoldville movie using actors from any time and place, he would play the grandfather—but he is shockingly bad in The Poseidon Adventure. Part of the problem was his phoning it in for a paycheck. But a more significant was the character of Rev Scott himself.

It seems a piece of obvious advice, but characters, whether heroes or villains, need vulnerabilities and limitations not only to be believable, but to be interesting and compelling. If you want an example of how not to do it, The Poseidon Adventure might prove instructive.

It was all a dream

I’m currently working on a review of an old book that successfully pulls off the “it was all a dream” twist. The revelation that all or a significant part of a story was actually a dream is one of the oldest and most venerable conventions in fiction. Or, if you’re not a fan, it’s a hoary cliche. There’s a reason both that it eventually became a sitcom staple and that writers keep coming back to it.

That the book I’m reviewing did it well got me thinking about the difference. What separates stories that do “it was all a dream” well from those that only exasperate the reader? I can think of a few things:

One approach is to avoid making the reader feel like they’ve been tricked by a cheap twist by not making it a twist at all. This can be done in two ways by:

• Stating explicitly that it’s a dream from the beginning. Pilgrim’s Progress does this.

• Suggesting that it’s a dream from the beginning. Subtler than Pilgrim’s Progress. The narrator of The Great Divorce hints in the first line (“I seemed to be standing in a busy queue…”) that his story is, if true, then still not quite real.

It helps that both of these stories are obviously dreamlike, so the revelation that they are dreams is not a shock. The point of these stories lies elsewhere. Ditto A Christmas Carol, which plays skillfully with this convention.

But if you still want that sense of surprise, I think the detective novel concept of “fair play” is important. The book I’m reviewing, in which a soldier wounded in battle “lives” several days in a limbo state between life and death before awakening in the spot where he was shot, does several things that keep the surprise from feeling like a cheat:

• It is heavily foreshadowed.

• Dreamlike elements are present from the moment the dream begins, but presented in such a way that the narrator is both surprised by them and can think of perfectly reasonable explanations for them.

• The dreamlike qualities intensify toward the end, when the narrator wakes up. This is a common enough feature of bad “it was all a dream” twists, but seldom done skillfully.

• Double entendre—throughout the story, both the narrator’s own foreshadowing as well as the things other characters tell him have different meanings depending on whether you know he is dreaming or not.

• Related: other characters, who have also been wounded but will not survive, know what has happened and tell the narrator, but he misunderstands them.

• Despite all of the above, until the narrator awakens from the dream, the dream feels real—just like real dreams.

On a second reading, I was stunned to see that the narrator tells the reader almost from the beginning what happened but still manages to make the revelation a surprise. But beyond the specific techniques above, the most important aspect of the successful use of “it was all a dream” is that:

• The dream is thematically relevant.

The dream, in this story, is the whole point. It is not a twist, a final surprise for the reader, but the undiscovered center of the story. A second reading is the best proof. This one not only held up, unlike some of the schlockier Shyamalan movies, but improved upon a second reading. Every moment was loaded with a dramatic irony that made it profoundly poignant. A really remarkable achievement.

I haven’t named this story but hope to have a review written for it and posted on Substack soon. Once I do, I’ll be sure to update this post with a link. In the meantime, I’ll be trying to think of other stories that successfully end with “it was all a dream” for comparison.

Badly written, Emma

The early chapters of Emma concern Emma Woodhouse’s efforts to manipulate people into relationships, most prominently Mr Elton, the vicar, who is not as obliging as he seems, and her friend Harriet Smith, who is a pleasant dope with nothing going for her. When Harriet receives a surprise proposal from Robert Martin, a man held in high regard for his character, intelligence, and work ethic by everyone but who is—gasp!—a farmer, Emma casts about for reasons to tell Harriet to refuse.

When she reads Martin’s letter of proposal she discovers

not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling.

In otherwords, it is the kind of writing anyone who cares about writing strives for.

Emma tries to spin this quality as a bad thing. At first she tries to suggest that, because Mr Martin doesn’t speak as well as he writes (heaven help all of us of whom this is true) that his sister must have helped him or written it for him, but by the end of the chapter she is dismissing the letter as merely “tolerable” and has convinced Harriet that it is of no importance because it is “short.”

A few chapters later, she has so warped the pliable Harriet’s perceptions that Harriet explicitly compares Mr Martin’s earnest letter to Mr Elton’s dumb riddle and finds the letter wanting:

“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this.”

Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s prose.

The comedy of these chapters lies in Emma’s blinding self-deception (Mr Elton wants her, not Harriet), snobbery (highlighted most clearly by Mr Knightley’s account of talking to Mr Martin in the next chapter), and her monumental hypocrisy (she counsels Harriet to reject Mr Martin in… a brief and direct letter, which she also ends up writing herself). But it’s striking that Austen chose the art of writing to express so much about Emma’s moral character. Mr Martin’s letter reflects his personal virtue and Emma’s reaction to it—most especially her continued doubling down, trying to will her opinion into reality—reflect her immaturity and selfishness.

Writing style is not an infallible guide to moral character, but deliberately rejecting good writing is always revealing. A certain kind of writer likes to pretend that form, style, and the basic rules of grammar and storytelling don’t matter, that they are free to write in whatever way they want. They scoff at the seasoned writers of yesteryear who have tried to lay out some of what works. George Orwell and Elmore Leonard are common targets, but you can best gauge their commitment by how violently they attack Strunk and White. And, like Emma, they work hard to sway others to embrace their error.

The rules usually find them out. Good writing is good writing wherever you find it, but one writes well by seeking it outside of oneself and conforming to it, not by trying obstinately to will one’s writing into excellence—just as Emma has to learn with regard to character, friendship, and love.

The Butt-Covering Chronicles

Simon & Schuster has just published a new 75th anniversary paperback of The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury. This edition includes a short essay by Bradbury detailing his process of drafting and revising the stories that make up the Chronicles and expounding some of the philosophical assumptions behind them. It’s an interesting short introduction to the book—especially for anyone interested in a writer’s process and craft—but even more interesting is the “Editor’s Note” that precedes it.

The note begins with some information about the provenance of the essay, which was written shortly after Bradbury submitted the manuscript for The Martian Chronicles in the fall of 1950 and was rediscovered in his papers in the 2000s, but concludes with this, where the real purpose of the note becomes clear:

“How I Wrote My Book” refers to cultural touchstones (e.g., authors, books, music, politics) that may not resonate with today’s reader. Perhaps more disturbing will be some of the words and phrases Bradbury uses. Simply put, the language of the 1950s was not politically correct. Yet “How I Wrote My Book” offers fascinating insight into Bradbury’s creative process and is, at the same time, a powerful, at times urgent, commentary on Bradbury’s beliefs, thoughts, and fears about humanity and our world. And while expressions used by Bradbury in this essay may be anachronistic, his message is timeless and rings as true today as it did seventy-five years ago.

After reading it with mounting contempt I told my wife about it. Had I misunderstood? she wondered. Maybe the note was referring to the stories, not Bradbury’s essay. So I checked again today and, no, the note is very specifically getting defensive about Bradbury’s introductory essay.

And what shocking material in Bradbury’s essay prompted this note? Having gone through the essay twice, I’m still not actually sure. One reads a note like this expecting to run into racial slurs, but there is nothing obviously offensive in anything Bradbury writes. He even goes out of his way to condemn fascism, Stalinism, and Joe McCarthy and to praise imaginative freedom in the kind of stirring, well-intentioned liberal peroration formerly beloved of English teachers.

My best guess is that Bradbury’s frequent use of “man” and “mankind” in discussing human exploration of space, the use of “his” as a generic pronoun (as opposed to now, when every imaginary writer or student is always pointedly “she”), a hypothetical “Mr and Mrs Joe Smith from Ashtabula,” and one sympathetic comparison of his Martians to Indians are the “disturbing” language the editor wants to prepare us for.

(Also, how can expressions you use in your own time be “anachronistic”? Bradbury didn’t slip into Old English or some future Anglo-Martian creole. This is just silly.)

At least the publisher didn’t censor or rewrite Bradbury’s essay. The irony of past attempts to censor Fahrenheit 451 probably ruled that out. But I was left wondering what kind of mealy-mouthed weenie wrote this, or even thought using up a whole page for it was a good idea in the first place. Notably, while an “editor’s note,” there is no editor named anywhere in the book. No one wanted to put his name on this—or, more likely, hers.

Last year I looked at some publisher’s notes and copyright page notices in recent reprints of Agatha Christie as a way to chart the hopeful trend away from “updates” and the “removal of offensive terms” toward their unexpurgated publication. Such notes are an improvement over stealth edits and censorship, but as long as this butt-covering instinct remains the work of authors who are no longer here to defend themselves will be in danger.

I ran across this new copy of The Martian Chronicles in Walmart. Just around the corner on an endcap were boxes of those cheap, faux-leather reprints of public domain classics. (Curiously, these are also published under the Simon & Schuster umbrella.) After reading this note I picked up a few of those that were likely suspects for censorship—Treasure Island, a fat volume of Lovecraft—and saw this in 8-point type at the bottom of the copyright page:

These works have been published in their original form to preserve the author’s intent and style.

Exactly right. Simple, to the point, and all the explanation necessary. More of this, and less of the editor’s note above.

Hollywood as volcano god

I’m about halfway through CM Kushins’s new biography of Elmore Leonard Cooler than Cool, and just read the hilarious, frustrating story of Leonard’s attempt to get his Edgar-winning crime novel LaBrava adapted for the screen.

LaBrava’s film rights were picked up by Dustin Hoffman, who, to put it generously, turned out to be a bit of a needy flake. He shopped the project around multiple studios before bringing in Cannon—of mid-80s Chuck Norris and Charles Bronson fame—skipped out on meetings with Leonard and potential directors like Martin Scorsese and Hal Ashby, demanded repeated rewrites from Leonard, fought to get co-director credit (nixed by the DGA), objected to his love interest being a much older woman (a key plot point of the novel), and finally dumped the project when Cannon published an ad in Variety using a publicity photo he didn’t like. Thanks to Hoffman, for almost a year and a half Leonard was unable to work on his novels.

I love books and movies. As I read, I imagine the movie I’d make of the book, especially if it’s good, and when I write I’m always imagining how I’d turn it into a movie. But I know that the relationship between the two art forms is fraught at best, and that the movie business is a business first. Though I’d love see movie versions of my books, I have no illusions about what might happen to them along the way. So I was especially interested in the commiseration offered Leonard by two other crime novelists once the story of LaBrava’s travails got around.

Here’s John D MacDonald (whose A Deadly Shade of Gold I’m reading right now), reinforcing my non-joiner instincts: “I don’t see how you endure those people, and endure group effort, and endure conferences and stupid revision requests and kindred bullshit. . . . Please write the Hollywood book and kill them off in ugly ways.”

That “Hollywood book” would eventually be Get Shorty.

And here, more vividly, is Donald Westlake: “Dutch, why do you keep hoping to make a good movie? The books are ours; everything else is virgins thrown into the volcano. Be happy if the check is good.”

Kushins ends this part of Leonard’s story with a great stinger:

[A]s he began his next novel—the New Orleans crime epic he’d been planning since the previous year—he, along with [LaBrava producer Walter] Mirisch, took solace in the film Dustin Hoffman had opted to make instead of LaBrava.

Behind closed doors, they were among the only ones who found Ishtar very funny, indeed.

I read LaBrava last summer, and it’s one of Leonard’s best. Perhaps it’s a mercy that there’s no Dustin Hoffman-starring mid-80s movie version floating around out there. It still belongs to Leonard—a virgin pulled back from the brink of the volcano, just in time.

Diagnosis of diagnosis

Earlier this week, Alan Jacobs offered up a new taxonomy of (non-fiction) writers: diagnostic, prescriptive, and therapeutic. (This is a riff on a post from a few years ago similarly categorizing thinkers.) Regarding the first category, he writes that

Diagnostic writers are usually also Explainers, and what they’re trying to explain is What Is Wrong. What’s our affliction? Where did it come from? . . . Our moment, it seems to me, is greatly overpopulated by diagnostic writing. As I’ve commented before, most of our diagnostic writers seem unaware that hundreds or thousands of writers before them have made precisely the arguments that they make. (That doesn’t stop readers from treating them as savants, though.)

After describing the other two, he concludes by returning to this observation:

We have so much diagnostic writing because it often tells us something we very much want to know: which of our enemies are to blame. That, I think, is why we can read it endlessly, even when it repeats what we’ve already read.

This makes a lot of sense, especially if you’ve looked through the non-fiction current events books on the tables and endcaps at Barnes & Noble, all of which seem to have been written within echo chambers for the purpose of affirming what is already held as unquestionable fact within those echo chambers. But I also wonder whether the present glut of this kind of “diagnostic” writing, especially when it repeats accepted pieties or tries to turn them into political cudgels, doesn’t have perverse effects.

If you actually read what the people who lionize Darryl Cooper, or who mock Douglas Murray for his rant on Joe Rogan about the necessity of expertise, or who get into flatly wicked things like Holocaust denial say online, you’ll find that they view themselves as fighting back against a false consensus. They reject what they perceive to be a politically imposed misdiagnosis that confers in-group status and prevails through ad nauseum repetition by bad-faith insiders and wish to assert their own diagnosis—one that provides the right enemies to blame. This is, as Jacobs points out, “something we very much want to know.”

That impression of monolithic consensus is reinforced by the kind of thousandfold repetition of old diagnoses that Jacobs mentions, but is almost always false. Any specialist in, say, the history of the Third Reich could immediately point you toward faultlines within the field and legitimate points of debate. Here’s one. That false impression is usually born of ignorance, which is regrettable. But is also preventable. You only have to trust someone to teach you, not strike out on your own with nothing but suspicion to guide you.

To conclude, I feel like I should apologize for adding to the heap of diagnostic writing in the internet landfill, but I’m terrified to be prescriptive and you don’t want to read my therapeutic advice.

On Richard Adams’s Traveller

Wednesday was the 160th anniversary of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. Yesterday was the anniversary of Lee’s General Order No. 9, his farewell to his army. To commemorate these events, one of the Civil War history Instagram accounts that I follow shared Soldier’s Tribute, a painting of Lee’s farewell to his troops by the incomparable Don Troiani. 

The painting shows Lee, mounted, surrounded by his exhausted men who reach out to him, as they so often did, for succor. Lee turns to his right to shake the hands of his soldiers; in his left he loosely holds Traveller’s reins. If Lee is still, already statuesque, Traveller, his head pulled slightly back, shows subtle movement, either slowly edging through the gathering crowd or coming finally to rest in the face of it. If Lee is calm and resigned, Traveller’s eyes show, if not anxiety, puzzlement.

Seeing Traveller in that painting, especially with the subtle motion and emotion with which Troiani always packs his work, brought Richard Adams’s novel Traveller to mind again. It’s an unusual book, even for the author of Watership Down, and in it Adams does something remarkable.

The novel is narrated by Traveller, in the first person, in thick phonetically-rendered dialect. It can be hard to understand at first, and the danger of such narration is that it will come across as silly. But you get used to it, and the “accent” of Traveller’s speech is never used to mock him. Traveller has a distinctive voice, and Adams, an Englishman, captures the tone and style of Southern yarn-spinning with remarkable accuracy.

That’s one area in which such a book could have misstopped but didn’t. There’s also a running gag of sorts in that Traveller, a simple animal unquestioningly loyal to his master, always interprets every event in the most optimistic way possible. At first it’s ha-ha funny and we chuckle in amused sympathy, but gradually, as the novel nears its end, this use of irony creates a profound sense of pathos. Traveller ends the novel thinking he and Lee won, that Lee is leaving Appomattox not downcast and defeated but relieved at having forced “the blue men” into submission, and instead of a punchline it’s powerfully moving.

I don't know of any other novel quite like it. Dramatic irony is so often used for reasons other than pity.

It also achieves its most powerful effects if you know the Civil War and the Eastern Theatre and its colorful cast of characters—well-known generals like Jackson, Longstreet, Hill (AP and DH), and Stuart as well as more obscure figures like Prussian cavalryman Heros von Borcke—and even their horses well. Jackson’s horse Little Sorrel, in particular, a pensive horse full of dark forebodings, is an especially powerful presence. I have to wonder what someone ignorant of all that would make of it. The animal characters are so well-drawn and memorable and their skewed understandings of the human world so well conveyed that I imagine even someone with only passing knowledge of the Civil War would get it, but I can’t be sure.

Regardless, Traveller is criminally underappreciated. Its concept sounds like a cute gimmick and I’m sure a lot of people have written it off as kitsch or a mere curiosity as a result. But as I’ve written here before, it’s artfully done, a marvelous, inventive angle on a familiar story. And the goal of retelling a familiar story, as I often tell me students when approaching a subject they might actually already know about, should be to make it strange again. Check it out.

You can view Soldier’s Tribute with some extensive explanatory notes at Don Troiani’s Facebook page here. The dust jacket art of my first-edition hardback of Traveller is Summer, one of four memorial murals by Charles Hoffbauer at the Virginia Museum of History and Culture in Richmond. And if you’re ever in Lexington, VA, visit Traveller’s grave right outside the crypt of Lee Chapel, where his master is entombed.