Usually I live on a literary diet that ranges from the Gruffalo to the Gallagher Girls and the munchables in between. I rarely pick up books intended for adults. But this week has been different. I've had two experiences that have made me, not change my view of books exactly, but have made me think more carefully about what I do.
First, on the recommendation of
Rosy Thornton, I'm reading James Wood's
How Fiction Works. It's a short book of literary criticism. It's a manual on how books function. It's a thesis on modernism. It's pretty good, really. I have found that what I thought was writerly intuition, is in fact a cultural construct that I can't escape. The close-third-person points of view of my characters have come to me in a line of influence directly from Flaubert. Who'd have thought?
The second experience I had was hearing Hisham Matar speak about his work at the
Bath Festival of Literature. He discussed the process of writing
In the Country of Men. So much of what he said sounded so right that I was a bit dazzled by it all. In much the same way people with faith might feel when they hear an inspiration preacher. (As an aside, he read from his work and described being in the shade in Tripoli as being in 'grey patches of mercy' - yum.) What I took from the talk was that Matar is secretive about his work as he writes, then confused and surprised by it when it's done. He also said that to write was an act of praise; that by taking, naming and recording we were celebrating living.
I loved the idea that I am part of a tradition of writing that goes back centuries. Like a beacon fire passing information across great distances, our words record what it means to be alive now, our concerns and preoccupations, our joys and fears.
Reading what were contemporary novels when they were written, but are now 'classics' offer us a way to time travel. Austen is a favourite writer of mine; her wit is surprising to us, given the ponderous length of her sentences. But her sentence length is just
when she was. Her wit is
what she was. She was a product of her time as much as we are and we can visit that time by opening her books. She noticed, named and recorded the early nineteenth century
Next time I sit down to write a novel (which will be in April, I expect), I will have a deeper understanding of the tools I have at my disposal. I'll also bear in mind that every detail I choose to include can be seen as an act of praise. An act of celebrating life as I'm living it. Unless it's a book about squabbling siblings, or missing animals, or urban covens. In which case it will just be business as usual. But right now, I'm inspired.
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I've just re-read Terry Pratchett's book, Lords and Ladies - such fun! Part of the renowned Discworld series, it stars the three witches, Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick. It also features the wizards - in particular, Archchancellor Ridcully. At one point, a bandit chieftain foolishly holds up the coach which is carrying Ridcully, the Bursar, the Librarian and Ponder Stibbins. The chieftain sees the wizard's staff poking out of the window.
'Now then,' he said pleasantly. 'I know the rules. Wizards aren't allowed to use magic against civilians except in genuine lifethreatening situa-' There was a burst of octarine light. 'Actually, it's not a rule,' said Ridcully. 'It's more a guideline.'How familiar was
that? It's almost exactly what Captain Barbarossa declared in Pirates of the Caribbean, when Keira Knightley called on him to stick to the terms of the Pirates' Charter. I think that bit was used in a trailer; it was certainly quoted in reviews as one of the funniest lines in the film. But here it was:
Lords and Ladies was published in 1992. Terry Pratchett wrote it first.
I'd be willing to bet that whoever wrote the script didn't realise the line was second-hand. For some reason, it resonated, as it did with me: it lodged in the scriptwriter's mind, and out it popped when it was needed. He probably had no idea he'd first seen the line in the book.
It made me think about why it is that some combinations of words are persistent, echoing in the memory long after what surrounded them has been forgotten. I haven't come up with any answers so far, but I have come up with some examples. Here are my first ten. They're in no particular order, and they're not necessarily accurate - they're as I remember them. Incidentally, I don't have a good memory for quotes - or for jokes - so if I remember something, it must have very considerable staying power!
'Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams...'
(W B Yeats - the whole poem is gorgeous. It's lovely as a song, too.)'Christ if my love were in my arms'
And I in my bed again!
Anon (but very old!)'Today was bad, but tomorrow will be beyond all imagining...'
Susan Cooper: The Dark is Rising'Je crains notre victoire, autant que notre perte.'
This is from a French A-level text, Horace, by Corneille. It means 'I fear our victory as much as our defeat'. I think the speaker had a lover on one side of the battle and a brother on the other. Beyond that, I remember nothing about the play, and I've no idea why this phrase has stuck. Mind you, now I come to think about it, there are all sorts of situations to which it could apply.'The drunkenness of things being various.'
(From Snow, by Louis MacNeice)
'We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.'
(The Sunlight on the Garden, also MacNeice)
'I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams...'
(Shakespeare's Hamlet)
'Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...'
(Casablanca - like Shakespeare, the source of so many resonant quotes.)
'I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not like this. Not on the cess of war.'
(Wilfred Owen: Strange Meeting)
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