How Fiction Works: James Wood

How is the pleasure of a particularly spectacular ballet movement affected by knowing that the movement was a combination of a plier, an etendre and a sauter?

How is a great jazz tune enhanced by noticing a cross-rhythm and an augmented 7th?

How is the appreciation of The Remains of the Day heightened by knowing the concepts of unreliable narrator and the free indirect style of narration?

If you are like most, you probably think that deconstruction destroys the magic. You might say that by analyzing the technical details of how an author achieves a particular effect, you are killing the effect. A joke, you might say, isn't funny in explanation. And you would be right too, in large part.

How Fiction Works is the latest in a series of books published in the last couple of years that delve into the technical aspects of how to appreciate a novel. The latest and, I am given to understand, the most accomplished. John Sutherland wrote The Novel: A User's Guide, and John Mullen wrote How Novels Work later that same year. As you can probably tell from the highly imaginative titles of these books and the James Wood book I am reviewing here, all these books are written by academics, professors of literature (in Wood's case Professor of the Practice of Literary Criticism, quite a mouthful there) - in other words, professional critics.

James Wood is widely considered to be the best in the literary criticism business. Heavyweights like Saul Bellow and Martin Amis have recognized him as the best literary critic of his generation. And that is high praise. Writers aren't known to be charitable about professional critics.

How Fiction Works is a guide to reading. A sort of book about books, a meta-book if you will. In a couple of hundred short pages, it explains Wood's view of narrative technique, characterization, dialogue, consciousness, metaphor and the like. Wood picks fictional works from the masters, picks out a short paragraph or a single sentence, or even a simple turn of phrase and breaks it down into why it really works. Some of these deconstruction passages are the very soul of the book. Talking about the free indirect style of narration, Wood quotes a paragraph from Henry James' What Maisie Knew. In those few sentences he shows where the author is speaking in his own voice, where he is speaking in Maisie's voice, and where he is actually speaking in the voice of the adults that occupy Maisie's life. He demonstrates how the reader is taken on a journey of intimate understanding by these shifting voices. And he shows how Henry James achieves all of this seamlessly, without having to specifically 'flag' it to the reader. I read the paragraph the first time and I thought it was a well-written but by no means extraordinary piece of writing. Then, after reading Wood's breakdown, I read it again. Ahhhhh!

What makes Wood truly marvelous is his finely tuned ear, trained over years of reading the literary heavies. Very early in How Fiction Works, you realize how effortlessly he can spot off-key notes in writing, how fluid his own expressions are, how elegant and graceful. (All of which make his last name a delicious little irony!)

The other source of strength for the book comes from the sheer pleasure that Wood draws from his reading. The enthusiasm and energy that he brings is truly infectious. As one reviewer said "He transmits his enthusiasms so stirringly, it's practically a form of intellectual erotica". You read Wood referring to a book with great passion and admiration, and feel the itch to go read the book yourself. Any work that can do that is already a winner in my mind.

I take two issues with How Fiction Works -

First, that his sample is drawn exclusively from a different century. He lists a bibliography at the end that has about a hundred books that are referenced in How Fiction Works. The oldest of these was published in 1605 (Cervantes) and most of the books are by authors long dead. Wood's own language and sensitivities also seem frozen in an era long gone. In a way, it is as if Wood wrote the book in the 19th century, only to be released to an unsuspecting public two centuries later with minor updates. The only recent authors Wood refers to are Ishiguro, Ian McEwan, John Updike (in an unflattering note), Philip Roth, Saul Bellow and David Foster Wallace. And all references to these guys could fit into one page of the book. I really wish there was a more contemporary feel to the book, so I could relate more to the examples that Wood refers to.

Second, while most of the chapters in the book work really well, when Wood starts discussing realism in fiction, I fear that he loses his non-professional reader. Maybe the critic world is all a-tizzy about the question of 'Is realism real?' but frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

A few years ago, a friend invited me to visit the National Gallery of Art with him. Not knowing the first thing about art, I was sceptical. I went anyway and it was a revelation. In every room in the gallery, my friend would spend a few minutes telling me a little bit about the way to look at a pieces from that era, the 'grammar' used in the art of that time. And it was like I was looking at the paintings for the first time.

Every art form has its own grammar. Learning that grammar might not be necessary for you to enjoy the art at some level. But once you do understand it, it adds a whole other dimension to your appreciation. It is like walking around with x-ray vision. How Fiction Works is x-ray vision for serious fiction readers.

"Why do I write this stuff?" - The literary vs genre fiction debate

On Sep 26, I spent the day at the National Book Festival in Washington DC.

(Yes, I know, that was about a month back. Which is one of the more liberating things about writing a book blog, as opposed to say a news or politics or sports blog. What I have to say isn't exactly time critical.)

The festival had great reader attendance, and a good many writers out in force working the audiences, signing books, and generally selling their stuff. There were tents where writers were making speeches and readers were following up with questions, townhall style. I saw the tent called 'Mystery and Thrillers' and was trying to give it a wide berth, muttering snootily to myself - "Boy, why does anyone write this stuff?" I would have crossed the spot, never to look back, had I not heard the writer of the moment ask rhetorically over the microphone - "So, why do I write this stuff?" How could I walk away from a question like that?

The speaker was S.J.Rozan, who described herself as a writer of the 'crime genre, private-eye sub-genre'. What she was doing right as I was walking by, was attempt to defend genre writing and writers against the 'snobbery of literary authors, critics and readers'. Since I consider myself to be one of those snobs that she was speaking against, I felt compelled to stay on and listen.

Before I go any further, let me state some definitions. To the majority of you who are no doubt already familiar, my apologies if this sounds pedantic. My intent is only to make sure we are all talking the same language through the rest of the post. The conversation here is about the merits or otherwise of genre fiction vs literary fiction. 'Genre fiction', or popular fiction, is fiction written intentionally within the norms and conventions of a particular kind of genre. Think of mysteries, thrillers, horror, romance, sci-fi, crime, vampire, whatever. Each of these genres has a dedicated fan base that the authors write for, a set of standard components they work with, and a sort of 'formula' that the fiction follows. Contrast this with 'Literary fiction', which is considerably more difficult to define. The best I can say is probably that literary fiction is precisely the type of fiction that does not fit into any of the standard genres. It is fiction that is more defined by character development, language, narrative style, psychological insight, social commentary and other such. Importantly, literary fiction does not lend itself to any specific 'formula' - each book, in other words, stands on its own merit.

Now, armed with those definitions, let us get back to S.J.Rozan, a proud genre writer, and her provocative question - "So, why do I write this stuff?" Rozan wants to tackle head-on what she (and all of her audience, based on all the head nodding I saw), calls the 'snobbery' of critics and literary readers. For all my identification with the group that she derides, I must admit I agree with a lot of what she says, and it is worth relaying to Brick and Rope readers.

'Where does the snobbery come from?', asks Rozan. Primarily from two drivers -

(1) 'There is a lot of crap published in the genres.' (Her words, not mine). This crap is what 'they' - meaning the literary guys - point to, to justify their snobbery. But that isn't
the real problem. Most of almost everything is 'crap'. What's special about genre fiction? The real problem the literary types have, in Rozan's view, is this: genre fiction is popular. Which gets us to -

(2) If something is so popular, it cannot, by definition, be high art. Because high art is defined by the rarity of the people that can appreciate it.

Now, that sounds reasonable enough, though I must say it is an awfully defensive line of argument for Ms.Rozan to take. But again, I am with her. I agree entirely that so much of genre fiction is 'crap' that it is hardly worth one's time to read that stuff. I also agree with her pique that when indeed there is work of high literary value that comes out of the genres, literary types are quick to say how the book 'transcends the genre' and is actually literary. John Le Carre comes to mind. Or Charlotte Bronte (Jane Eyre). It seems fair to me that genre writers cry foul when the best among them are highjacked by literary fiction as its own.

Rozan goes from here to ask an even more interesting question. Why, she asks, continuing her earlier thought, is so much 'crap' written in the genres in the first place? She lays the blame not on the writers, but on the publishers, and ultimately, on the readers. Every genre novel, she says, works under an overarching story (an 'uber story') that is common to the genre. For example, the uber story structure of whodunnits might be - Setting > murder > detective > misleading clues > danger > 'he done it'. Every reader already knows that uber story, and knows exactly what to expect. In fact, readers like those uber stories so much that they would buy and read those books even if they have no other literary value. It is not that these readers don't know the difference between good writing and bad writing, they just don't care! All they want is the story they expect from the genre, and literary value be damned.

Importantly, publishers know this about the readers! They know that these books will sell even if they are 'crap'. So they apply no filter before deciding what gets published and what doesn't. Why would they?

Literary fiction, on the other hand, has no uber stories. When readers start reading a piece of literary fiction, they don't know exactly what they are going to get. And there is no place for bad writing to hide. Readers spot it, and publishers know they will spot it. So all the 'crap' in literary fiction dies its deservedly silent death in the unopened drawers of college sophomores and trash cans of publishers unlucky enough to attract such 'talent'. Or maybe, in the new world, it gets a public burial as a self-published, internet-only novel.

So there you have it. The Literary vs Genre fiction debate, through the lens of one S.J.Rozan. I empathize with many of Ms.Rozan's positions and sentiments, though not all. I am not, for instance, sure of her assertion that all readers know good writing from bad writing. I also get the feeling that there is an element of patience that literary fiction demands, and genre doesn't - and I believe this demand for patience has a role to play in the popularity of genre.

Anyway, a few hours later, I am walking by the same tent again and find on the microphone James Patterson, the multi-bestseller thriller writer of such masterpieces as '1st to die', '2nd chance', '3rd degree' and so on till his latest 'The 8th confession'. A reader has just asked him what he himself reads and quite seriously he says 'Dickens, Tolstoy ...'. I am struck for a moment, and wonder whether I have underestimated the guy. The audience clearly knows better, because they burst out laughing. Turns out he actually reads Grisham. Oh well, what was I thinking?

Nocturnes: Kazuo ishiguro

I feel like I have been writing about Kazuo Ishiguro a lot lately. Most of it positive and glowing. I might not have said it in as many words before, but I think it should be pretty obvious to readers of Brick and Rope - Ishiguro is one of my favorite authors of all time.

Which is why writing a review of Nocturnes, his latest book, isn't the easiest task. To retain a sense of balance, and a modicum of credibility in my readers' eyes, I feel compelled to pick some nits with the writing, come up with some broad criticisms ... something to make me sound less fawning, something to make the review more ... shall we say, spicy. But here is the deal - I loved the darn book! What can I say? The guy really is that good.

Nocturnes is Ishiguro's first collection of short stories. Over the last 27 years, Ishiguro has given us six glorious novels. Now, he tries his hand here at five loosely connected stories 'of music and nighttime'. Different form, same result. The man's touch continues to be exquisite.

A central component of all five stories here is music, and musicians. Not very varied kind of music either. It is a 'sort of croony, nostalgia music' that makes for a mellow tune that plays softly on, as the stories play out against the sepia tinted visual background of every Ishiguro.

Ishiguro stories are inevitably tales of the past, of memories, of history catching up in strange ways. Nocturnes is no different. In that sense, the sepia tone in which I tend to see his books, is still relevant. The centrality of music is somewhat new, though not entirely so - the protagonist (if you can call him that) in The Unconsoled was after all a classical pianist. And in some way, you almost expect someone of Ishiguro's sensibilities to be a connoisseur of music.

The other common thread through the stories is one of the constant key strengths of Ishiguro as an author - his grasp of emotional nuance. He has as fine and well-tuned an emotional sensitivity as any writer I have read. This sensitivity is on full display in Nocturnes. Each story is, at its heart, about an emotional state of the narrator (all of the five stories are narrated in the first person). Each story is about a relationship between people that is based on a slightly off-kilter emotional foundation. There is the relationship of an aging cellist with his wife, that has entered its night-time for a reason that is rational in an unhinged sort of way. There is the couple who seem to be trying to get past the night-time of their relationship by joint berating of an old friend. There is the teacher who is a 'virtuoso' that her cello student has never heard of. Each is in some ways a single indescribable emotional nuance, stretched to its extreme.

Finally of course, like in all Ishiguros, there is loss. Not for nothing are these called stories 'of music and nighttime'. The night-time of relationships, stages of life, beliefs - these are a constant companion here.

Nocturnes is bookended by two stories set in Venice. We start with a guitarist and a singer in the piazza and end with a Cello player and his teacher there again. The music and the setting reminded me in part of Vikram Seth's An Equal Music, though the similarities are largely superficial. The stories in general resonate with Ishiguros other works but aren't necessarily reminiscent of any single work of his. One of the stories (Come rain or come shine) reminded me of The Unconsoled. The unreliable narrator that Ishiguro has mastered over the years is best on display in Malvern Hills.

Some have called these stories 'interconnected'. Don't believe them. These stories are connected only in tone and subject, not in any of the more obvious specifics. There is one explicit connections between two of the stories, and even that is treated in a subtle and understated way.

In summary, Nocturnes is red meat for Ishiguro lovers and people familiar with his oeuvre. If you have never read him though, I continue to stick with my earlier suggestions on the topic. Start with Never Let Me Go, followed by Remains of the Day, and go from there.

New England beckons!

Later today, I start on a road trip through New England. New England - the land that gave us John Irving. John Irving - the man that gave us some of the most deeply etched characters in recent fiction.

The prostitutes of The Hotel New Hampshire, the first John Irving I read.

Owen Meany, the tiny New Hampshire boy with the wrecked voice.

Jenny Fields of Boston, who forced herself on an unconscious soldier, got pregnant and gave birth to one of the most memorable characters you will come across, T.S. Garp.

Maine - an orphanage, and The Cider House Rules.

A pity then, that John Irving's latest book, Last Night in Twisted River, hasn't been released yet and can't accompany me these next few days. Ishiguro's Nocturnes then, is going to be my read for the trip.

Brick and Rope will be back after ten days of flaming fall foliage. Till then, happy reading everyone!

The Kite Runner: Khalid Hosseini

Clearly, I am late to this party. About 4 years late.

The Kite Runner was first published in 2003, and was available to US audiences around 2005. It has been one of the more celebrated debuts of an author in recent times. It introduced us to a nation that had lived for so long in violently screaming newspaper headlines, that it had become difficult for us to imagine it as a real place. But there are real people in Afghanistan, real lives.

A few weeks back, I was getting back from work when I saw a neighbor whom I had not seen through most of the summer. I've been away on work he said. 'For three months?' I thought, wondering how many Marriott rewards points I could accumulate if I stayed away that long. Afghanistan, he said. My smile froze in place. 'The Taliban did a damn good job scaring people off the election'. He sounded bitter. Taliban. It was the first time I had heard the word being used by a real person. In terms of something that mattered to them personally. I realized I was scared of the word. Without actually knowing a whole lot about it. And my thoughts started drifting to the book about Afghanistan that seemingly everyone had read but me.

The Kite Runner is, first and foremost, a story. Hosseini is, first and foremost, a storyteller. I have in the past bemoaned the death of the plot in modern literary writing. No such problems for Hosseini. He wants to tell us a story, and it is a darn good one. The writing is spare and in parts, stark. There are no frills that distract from the storyline. The characters are few. Though the story spans about three decades, there is little risk of losing our emotional connection with these characters.

Hosseini opens his book in the last days of the monarchy in Afghanistan. He introduces us to Amir, the son of a successful businessman in Kabul, and his friendship with Hassan, the son of his father's servant. A friendship that spans social and religious boundaries. A friendship that seems built to last. 'For you, a thousand times over.' But you know it isn't going to last. The revolution is underway. The Russians are marching in. And then the Taliban. History has not been kind to Afghanistan. The passage of time seems to bring misery upon misery to a simple, rugged people. The Kite Runner is an introduction to Afghanistan at the personal level. Afghanistan as home, rather than as a headline. And it is a severe, brutal landscape.

The Kite Runner is rich in emotional poignancy, evocative imagery and, at times, startling violence. But most of all, it has Afghanistan. A country we desperately need to learn more about, but one that seemingly has no translators. Where empires go to die.

Which gets me to my two central criticisms of The Kite Runner. First, purely as a story, I think The Kite Runner suffers from trying too hard. The story is too pat. The ironies so perfect and so numerous that they lose resonance. The slingshot that the father promises and son delivers. The womb that obstinately remains barren, as if waiting for its ultimate fate. The kite that breaks a friendship and starts another. The cleft lip that reappears on another face decades later. Too many ironies. Too much fate. Too pat.

Second, as a politico-social commentary. Here, I believe The Kite Runner suffers from not trying hard enough. It does not offer any human understanding of the Taliban. In fact, its portrayal of the Taliban is caricature in the extreme. The members of the Taliban, The Kite Runner tells us, are childhood bullies, pedophiles and sadists. A disease with no cure. This is, in my view, the easy out for the writer. But it is unhelpful. It doesn't get us any closer to knowing how to deal with Talibanism.

The next time I hear my neighbor say the word Taliban when talking about his summer, I know I will cringe again. I will be scared again. I might imagine them even less as something real. Even more as something straight out of a horror film. And that's a pity.

A Little History of the World: E.H. Gombrich

Some literary endeavors are so darn ambitious, you worry about any writer's ability to pull them off. A Little History of the World is one such endeavor.

At first blush, it might not seem like much.

A history book, you say Mr.Gombrich? That's very nice. I am sure your mother would be real proud.

But then, this isn't just any history book.

What history were you thinking about Mr.Gombrich? Ancient? Middle ages? Modern? What is that, all of the above? Hmm, aren't you being a bit ambitious now, sir?

Whom are you targeting with this book of all history, Mr.Gombrich? What is that? Ten year olds? Now, now Mr.Gombrich, surely you don't think you could hold their attention for history?

And then you read the first chapter. The gentle, grandfatherly invitation to explore the past of human civilization. And you realize just what Mr.Gombrich is capable of.

A Little History of the World was first published in German in 1935 (not a typo). E.M.Gombrich was a well regarded historian of art who later went on to write a much better known bestselling book on the history of art. He was frustrated with how dry and boring schoolbooks on History were. He decided to take a shot at writing a short book that would be interesting to be read out to children, and would be both entertaining and enlightening. The book was published to great reviews and general success in 1935, and was translated over the years into multiple languages. For some reason, an English translation was not published till 2005, when Gombrich himself translated his book. The result is a true treasure.

As I have mentioned before, I am not the most ardent student of history you will meet. So my saying that I learnt a lot from the book might not be high praise. But let me say that anyway. I learnt more history from this book than I did from much of my school years. The Rosetta stone, the code of Hammurabi; the origin of the seven day week; the builder of the Great Wall as an enemy of history; the different emotional makeup of the Greek vs Roman empires; and what is the deal with Nero and the fiddling anyway? These and other mysteries - unraveled for me by The Little History of the World.

I only wish my daughter were a little older. I wish I could read this out to her. Then again, maybe that is the incentive I need to read this again!

Heaven is ...

... waking up to the sound of my daughter singing to herself.

... a lazy Sunday morning, Washington Post and hot tea.

... orange peeking out amid green, fall tiptoeing in.

... friends who treat me like family.

... Gandhi on Google.

... time to kill.

... aimless drifting into a Barnes and Noble.

... a new Kazuo Ishiguro on the stands.

My heart could burst!