Dylan Taylor | 25 July 2017.
The dawning supremacy of M.F.A. writing is well observed and disparaged by many. Arguably, this ‘homogenized, over-workshopped writing’ has become increasingly content to follow prevailing literary models, making much contemporary English literature unambitious and conservative. Rather than push boundaries, many modern writers seem content to contribute their own version of a story that has been told a thousand times before: a story typically of love, of coming-of-age, of examining identity, in middle-class London or New York. Overwhelmingly, the stylistic cornerstone of such a story is prose that is polished and clear: all unjustified adjectives must go.
What has happened to the inventiveness of the run-on sentence of Henry James, the disjointed, punctuation-free rambling of Joyce, or the all-encompassing expansiveness of Woolf and Proust? Where is the philosophical richness of Conrad, of Borges, of Beckett? In poetry, where the self-discipline of T. S. Eliot, of Dickinson and Yeats?
Unfortunately, I would argue, they have been eliminated by a culture of conciseness – the modern literary establishment’s worship of form over content. It is a culture in which writers and critics look to guides such as the famous Elements of Style for advice on how to craft the perfect sentence, a culture in which Hemingway tends to be more often quoted than Mann. In such an environment, it seems that many of the great literary innovations of the last century, metafiction, fragmentation, experiments with stream-of-consciousness, a deeply informed reshaping of western myth, a favouring of theme over plot, have been largely overlooked or ignored. People look, instead, to the writers of omission, writers of the lucid, well-crafted sentence. But have the more applauded writers of the current generation – George Saunders, Zadie Smith, Michael Chabon, etc.—really expanded upon the work of their predecessors: Pynchon, Morrison, and Saramago?
Controversial and questionable as many of his views may be, the academic Harold Bloom does a good job of summing up the modern problem: “Contemporary writers do not like to be told that they must compete with Shakespeare and Dante”. And so the writer, instead, looks to the clean competence of an Alice Munro or a Joyce Carol Oates for inspiration. While the more experimental writers work on the margins, a concise “lyrical realism” reigns.
Great prose, however, often demands something more. Conciseness, in the aesthetic, Oscar Wilde sense of the term, has almost always been more concerned with packaging rough observations into general, neatly-gifted aphorisms than about searching for more complex truths. This has always been its flaw.
When we look to the great Modernists and beyond we tend to see, rather than a focus on conciseness, an at-times chaotic verbosity that threatens to break the very structure of the sentence itself. These writers sometimes include sentences that go on for a paragraph at a time, incorporate ideas seemingly unrelated to the topic at hand, devote chapters and sections to asides, and often use, not one word in place of two, but two in place of one, to paint their picture as wholly as possible.
One might not think that such quantities of specific information are necessary. Why, for example, have people felt the need to defend the necessity of Melville’s chapters in Moby Dick devoted to whaling? Writing that at first glance may seem superfluous—an in-depth description of whale heads, for instance—often later acts as a springboard from which deeper insights can be flung.
When one’s entire style is built upon the principle of “less is more”, it embodies a problematic philosophy that often fails to measure up to its own hypothesis. Any omission of even a slight shade of meaning can risk changing the precise tone that an author wishes to convey. Let us look at an example sentence: “a violent gust of wind swept the streets”. The use of “swept”, some would argue, makes the inclusion of “violent” unnecessary. But there is a subtlety to the differences between similar words that is often overlooked in such critiques. With the use of “violent”, the picture painted suggests, more sharply, an atmosphere of aggression, of something sinister; “swept” used alone makes for a less jarring sentence.
If a writer is to be careful with the words chosen, then it is equally important to be careful of the gaps and omissions one allows. Good writing, I would argue, rather than depriving the reader of “long-winded” explanations, should add a good deal of flesh to the skeleton of the original idea. Adding adjectives, or using more clauses, is not a sign that one does not know how to edit. Such constellations of words are circles which, as in a Venn diagram, can be layered slightly on top of each other to bring out a more nuanced meaning.
It must be noted here that this disapproval of conciseness only applies to the rules contained within creative writing; it is a reaction against conciseness not in and of itself, but as a doctrine or dogma. Conciseness is a tool like any other in a writer’s arsenal and should be used only when it is at the beck and call of the idea being described. We have enough Dickensian novels of plot to last several lifetimes. There is no need—no space, truly—for any more commonplace, stripped-down catalogues of events and emotions. In an era after modernism and postmodernism, traditional forms of storytelling are no longer enough. Modernists like Woolf discussed this very problem one-hundred years ago. They did so in order to validate their reaction against the form of the Victorian novel, which had become, as the Modernists saw it, irrelevant and archaic in the age of technology, mechanisation, and secularism. If the form was irrelevant then, what could be its use in our ever more globalised, digital age? It is now, more than ever, that an expansive, cacophonous voice of insight is needed. The prose of careful precision had its day; I say it is time, now, for a more mainstream return to the freewheeling depth of the long sentence.
Dylan Taylor is currently working towards his MSc in Literature and Society at the University of Edinburgh, and received his BA in English from the University of California, Santa Barbara. His research interests include the relationship between literature and philosophy and the history of ideas.
Article edited by Scheherazade Khan.