I heard an interview with Gervaise Finn the other day. Finn is the former teacher and schools inspector who writes cosily humorous anecdotes about his work in the Yorkshire Dales. It’s like All Creatures Great and Small, with kids instead of cows.
In the interview, where Finn was discussing some of his favourite books, he made the point that he tended to read as a writer. He would be aware of the technical devices, the style adopted, the choice of words, the pacing, etc.
I’m no writer, but I find myself doing the same thing. It reminds me of how, many years ago, when reading for a literary degree, I would write ‘literary appreciations’ as an academic exercise, usually on a piece of verse – Subject, Theme, Content, Style was the usual framework. It was all a bit dry. I sometimes think that a poem demands an emotional response and, if you are able to do a good job of conveying that response in writing, there is little point in the poem in the first place.
That’s not entirely true, obviously. After all, a good artist needs a sound knowledge of anatomy. But it irritates me when all a critic can do is point out allusions, interesting rhyme schemes and the like. It’s rather like watching O, Brother, Where Art Thou? with someone who insists on telling you all the parallels with The Odyssey. (That someone, by the way, could easily be me, I have to confess).
I was moved to muse on these matters because I’ve just completed several very different books.
Augustus, by John Williams, a novel which I’ve mentioned before, is the story of the first Emperor of Rome told by means of letters, diary entries, military reports, official proclamations, etc. Thus it provides a multiplicity of points of view, similar to the letter-novels of the novel’s infancy. It does not attempt therefore to pronounce an overall objective judgment on the central character. Such a judgment would merely be that of the author in any case and the multi-viewpoint approach offers greater truth if less certainty.
The Killer Within Me by Jim Thompson is also written in the first person, that person being criminally insane. While Williams' style is impressionistic, Thompson’s, typically of that American genre of ‘roman noir’, is expressionistic. It’s direct, crude and slangy. Sentences are short and punctuation is peppered with dashes, ellipses, capitalisation. Lot’s of dialogue.
Raymond Chandler always praised Jim Thompson as the master. So did Stanley Kubrick, for whom he wrote the screenplays of The Killing and Paths of Glory. Sam Peckinpah’s The Getaway was based on a Thompson novel.
It is the custom to say that a movie is not as good as the novel upon which it is based. Not always true, by any means. The Guns of Navarone, for example, which I have just re-read. I know the film well, having seen it at an impressionable age – I still write my ‘e’s’ in the pseudo-Greek way (rather like this: <- ) used in the credits. Alastair MacLean obviously strives to write well, trying hard to describe and depict the storms, the scenery and even a little psychology. But he’s constrained by his formula. Every member of the team is an expert, able to demonstrate superhuman skills and perform uncommon feats of endurance. MacLean’s attempts at ‘literature’, if anything slow the book down, unlike the film, which never lets up the pace in all its two-plus hours. The film also redrew the characters, partly to flesh them out and tailor them to the all-star cast. It also created extra dimensions to provide more internal tension. And a couple of women to add a little sexual interest. A book of MacLean’s that I plan to read is what I think was his first, HMS Ulysses, which some consider to be one of the best books on the naval theatre of World War II, along with The Cruel Sea and The Caine Mutiny.
In the meantime I’m reading The Good Shepherd by C S Forester, whose books I’ve loved since I discovered Hornblower in my teens. Forester also wrote The African Queen, The Gun (which became The Pride and the Passion – now that was one where the film didn’t do justice to the book - and Brown on Resolution, which became Single-handed or Sailor of the King or Born for Glory or Forever England, take your pick. Take your pick of endings too.
The Good Shepherd is the story of a day in the life of the commander of a convoy escort at the height of the War in the Atlantic. In minute, methodical detail we follow the cat-and-mouse struggle between a destroyer and a wolf-pack of U-boats.
A brave book in many ways, for many would find it boring, despite the tension, for it is repetitive and action is minimal. I’m finding it fascinating.
A range of authors, a range of styles. Good or bad I admire them all, because writing is difficult. I know, I try to do it everyday, and am conscious of my inability to measure up to my own expectations, let alone the quality I see in others.
I’ve tried to compose poems and songs; I’ve attempted humour, irony and polemic in essays and letters; I keep a diary, I write my blog and snatches of autobiography; I’ve turned my hand to fiction, short stories worthy of women’s magazines and some fit only for the top shelf. But.
But I miss out on the elegance and insight of John Williams, the unself-consciousness of Thompson, the plotting and personal experience of MacLean, the knowledge of Forester, the warmth of Finn – not to mention other favourite authors. Wilde’s wit, Alastair Cooke’s conversational and discursive style – the list is endless. And intimidating.
But, as Churchill would say – he’s another one – KBO.
In the interview, where Finn was discussing some of his favourite books, he made the point that he tended to read as a writer. He would be aware of the technical devices, the style adopted, the choice of words, the pacing, etc.
I’m no writer, but I find myself doing the same thing. It reminds me of how, many years ago, when reading for a literary degree, I would write ‘literary appreciations’ as an academic exercise, usually on a piece of verse – Subject, Theme, Content, Style was the usual framework. It was all a bit dry. I sometimes think that a poem demands an emotional response and, if you are able to do a good job of conveying that response in writing, there is little point in the poem in the first place.
That’s not entirely true, obviously. After all, a good artist needs a sound knowledge of anatomy. But it irritates me when all a critic can do is point out allusions, interesting rhyme schemes and the like. It’s rather like watching O, Brother, Where Art Thou? with someone who insists on telling you all the parallels with The Odyssey. (That someone, by the way, could easily be me, I have to confess).
I was moved to muse on these matters because I’ve just completed several very different books.
Augustus, by John Williams, a novel which I’ve mentioned before, is the story of the first Emperor of Rome told by means of letters, diary entries, military reports, official proclamations, etc. Thus it provides a multiplicity of points of view, similar to the letter-novels of the novel’s infancy. It does not attempt therefore to pronounce an overall objective judgment on the central character. Such a judgment would merely be that of the author in any case and the multi-viewpoint approach offers greater truth if less certainty.
The Killer Within Me by Jim Thompson is also written in the first person, that person being criminally insane. While Williams' style is impressionistic, Thompson’s, typically of that American genre of ‘roman noir’, is expressionistic. It’s direct, crude and slangy. Sentences are short and punctuation is peppered with dashes, ellipses, capitalisation. Lot’s of dialogue.
Raymond Chandler always praised Jim Thompson as the master. So did Stanley Kubrick, for whom he wrote the screenplays of The Killing and Paths of Glory. Sam Peckinpah’s The Getaway was based on a Thompson novel.
It is the custom to say that a movie is not as good as the novel upon which it is based. Not always true, by any means. The Guns of Navarone, for example, which I have just re-read. I know the film well, having seen it at an impressionable age – I still write my ‘e’s’ in the pseudo-Greek way (rather like this: <- ) used in the credits. Alastair MacLean obviously strives to write well, trying hard to describe and depict the storms, the scenery and even a little psychology. But he’s constrained by his formula. Every member of the team is an expert, able to demonstrate superhuman skills and perform uncommon feats of endurance. MacLean’s attempts at ‘literature’, if anything slow the book down, unlike the film, which never lets up the pace in all its two-plus hours. The film also redrew the characters, partly to flesh them out and tailor them to the all-star cast. It also created extra dimensions to provide more internal tension. And a couple of women to add a little sexual interest. A book of MacLean’s that I plan to read is what I think was his first, HMS Ulysses, which some consider to be one of the best books on the naval theatre of World War II, along with The Cruel Sea and The Caine Mutiny.
In the meantime I’m reading The Good Shepherd by C S Forester, whose books I’ve loved since I discovered Hornblower in my teens. Forester also wrote The African Queen, The Gun (which became The Pride and the Passion – now that was one where the film didn’t do justice to the book - and Brown on Resolution, which became Single-handed or Sailor of the King or Born for Glory or Forever England, take your pick. Take your pick of endings too.
The Good Shepherd is the story of a day in the life of the commander of a convoy escort at the height of the War in the Atlantic. In minute, methodical detail we follow the cat-and-mouse struggle between a destroyer and a wolf-pack of U-boats.
A brave book in many ways, for many would find it boring, despite the tension, for it is repetitive and action is minimal. I’m finding it fascinating.
A range of authors, a range of styles. Good or bad I admire them all, because writing is difficult. I know, I try to do it everyday, and am conscious of my inability to measure up to my own expectations, let alone the quality I see in others.
I’ve tried to compose poems and songs; I’ve attempted humour, irony and polemic in essays and letters; I keep a diary, I write my blog and snatches of autobiography; I’ve turned my hand to fiction, short stories worthy of women’s magazines and some fit only for the top shelf. But.
But I miss out on the elegance and insight of John Williams, the unself-consciousness of Thompson, the plotting and personal experience of MacLean, the knowledge of Forester, the warmth of Finn – not to mention other favourite authors. Wilde’s wit, Alastair Cooke’s conversational and discursive style – the list is endless. And intimidating.
But, as Churchill would say – he’s another one – KBO.
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