Last week I resolved to push myself more forcefully towards greater brevity in my writing. As much fun as the passive voice has been, my growing awareness of its shortcomings no longer permits such frequent indulgence. My development from high school to now has been paralleled by a dynamic conceptualization of language and the idea of communication. Without fully realizing it, I have for years manipulated my writing into conveying not only a particular idea, but my eccentricities, concerns, and interests, at once - often unsuccessfully. Certainly writing should be a reflection of the author, but constructing these things in a vacuum is disingenuous. Having to think about this blog and with what ideas I should populate it has brought this notion into greater clarity. As the above suggests, I have not completely rebelled: I don't see terseness as a legitimate remedy. However, I will be attempting to pare things down. Hopefully blogging will accomodate this. Although I began to experiment with these ideas during my brief flirtation with journalism (I was The Daily Athenaeum's abortive Science & Technology Columnist for less than a month), I'd like to work out the difficulties here.
To that end, this weekend I picked up The New York Review of Books'collection of newspaper briefs by Félix Fénéon. Translated by Luc Sante, who I first encountered editing for Yeti Magazine when an article of his appeared in Issue 6, it was titled Novels in Three Lines. Sante writes in his introduction: "Fénéon's three-line news items, considered as a single work, represent a crucial if hitherto overlooked milestone in the history of modernism.... They are the poems and novels he never otherwise wrote, or at least did not publish or preserve." Each "novel in three lines" is a short summation of some newsworthy item that did not appear to merit or could not be made into a full piece.
Each of Fénéon's briefs is, despite their brevity, a true portrayal of reality and a meaningful reflection of Fénéon himself. Given their restraint, in analysis word choice can become the best indication of Fénéon's intent. Many are funny, some are hilarious, as is the case here:
"There was a gas explosion at the home of Larrieux, in Bordeaux. He was injured. His mother-in-law's hair caught on fire. The ceiling caved in."
The terse series of declaratives accurately conveys particulars, but Fénéon's dry humor shines easily through. Whereas another author might have written "There was a gas explosion in Bordeaux, injuring two and causing extensive property damage," Fénéon creates a black comedy in four short sentences. Others are more unambiguously dark and stand out for their poeticism:
"The schoolchildren of Niort were being crowned. The chandelier fell, and the laurels of three among them were spotted with a little blood."
Fénéon harnesses the power of language to convey profound, extended meanings without relying on more than a handful of non-foundational words. As I attempt a revision of my own style, authors like Fénéon provide both inspiration and assurance. I want very much for my writing to convey something and to be ordered in a meaningful way. Fénéon shows the viability of doing so without becoming incomprehensible or dull.
For me the question remains: what to blog about without becoming incomprehensible or dull? This semester I will try to "reveal all," as the Press website advertises. At least the good bits, as I see them. If you have any conception of what the good bits might be, please ask after them here or on the Press facebook page. I'll try to respond to any reasonable ideas in subsequent blog posts.
