Craft Notes
Demon Brother: 6 Thoughts on Heart in Fiction
I’ve heard / been asked a lot about the concept of ‘heart’ lately, and last night I couldn’t sleep. So here:
1. Writing your heart out to me does not express heart. What expresses heart is the well wrought idea, sentence, conception. I, a reader, care because you care, and how the saying is said shows. If you could not take the time to say something to me in a way I might remember, I will not remember. Misconstruing a subject matter as ‘human’ only goes so far, which is, often, not far at all. I can always go outside.
2. The reader can always go outside. The question is not ‘Why are you telling me this?’ but ‘In what way are you saying this that would make me extricate this now from anything anyone before or after you has ever said?’
3. Let’s not all assume that a heart is what a heart is, but that we are challenging creatures, and that we could always imagine more. That the keys to the boxes aren’t cut in hardware stores or in copy/pasting. That the thing expected is the thing we have already, and so in giving us that again, we are given nothing. Just as I can always go outside, I can always go in too, and you will never outgeneralize the way the brain smothers the memory of life. Instead, then, help remember, or help accept what was not quite there.
4. In the going inside or outside, in the shaking off of the attention, the idea there also is to realize that if you are not surprising yourself, how could you expect a reader to be surprised? Of course, surprising can come in many envelopes, with sometimes even the greatest disruption coming from the envelope that seems most plain. In the new issue of Fence (which, as a sidenote, is one of the best issues of theirs I’ve seen in a while, with really strong new work from Sean Kilpatrick, Janaka Stucky, Colin Bassett, as well as Rachel Sherman, Dean Young, and very much more), there is a roundtable discussion on the theme of Nonrealist Fiction, in which Brian Evenson explicitly nails the value of work on the cusp, “It seems to me that the task of the writer is to use whatever tools he or she can to crack the reader open without the reader realizing, and then to initiate a process of transformation and destruction before the reader realizes it and can take steps to protect himself or herself.” Then, instead of worrying about the heart of the matter as delivered via yourself, perhaps think of the heart of the matter both as a vessel and as a key, a thing that must be located and.or extricated from you body, by whatever method, and sat into the light.
5. I’m scared maybe even of the books that would become a christing antichrist by asking you to believe them before you’ve even opened the page, only to find again we’ve got the bitch in the blanket, a key made not out of saying, but out of assimilation to the ways keys are traditionally made. Think of all the world’s codebreakers. Think of all the rats and locksmiths and the men with feet that kick down doors. Any door that could have been conceived already has been nattered to the point of loose meat. The only door you’re going to open and open whole is the one that has not yet been picked apart (and that is to say: others might have come to this door before you, and found a way in, and then locked it back there even worse.)
6. Imagine you were talking to yourself. Imagine you were trying to say the thing that made you never want to write again. Imagine you were listening to yourself as if you were not your own mother, but a bitch. Be a bitch. Be a motherfucker. For fuck’s sake, be my demon brother and invoke me. Invoke yourself. Have the heart to shit on my heart, or smudge the light out, or to do anything at all. Have the heart to say the thing you meant to say, and to say it so someone might listen, and actually listen. Are you telling a story, or are you telling? Are you saying something or is that a voice?
Tags: demon brother, Fence
I think it’s worth taking a look at the Evenson quote you selected here, in the context of other things you’re saying. Particularly the words “without the reader realizing.” I’m driven to ask what makes a reader realize they’re being “cracked open?” What makes me realize this, more often than not, is when a writer opts for an emphasis on language rather than story. Evenson is, of course, a lover of language. And yet much of his fiction draws the reader in beyond the language, intoxicates the reader beyond, or into, the page. I’d say this approach veers notably from the “make it new” ethos implied by your second point on the subject of heart. I’m not arguing for a radical revision of these points, but I think it’s worth looking at the ways in which “heart,” enacted by an author who wants nothing more than to be remembered, can also result in an ineffective text.
I think it’s worth taking a look at the Evenson quote you selected here, in the context of other things you’re saying. Particularly the words “without the reader realizing.” I’m driven to ask what makes a reader realize they’re being “cracked open?” What makes me realize this, more often than not, is when a writer opts for an emphasis on language rather than story. Evenson is, of course, a lover of language. And yet much of his fiction draws the reader in beyond the language, intoxicates the reader beyond, or into, the page. I’d say this approach veers notably from the “make it new” ethos implied by your second point on the subject of heart. I’m not arguing for a radical revision of these points, but I think it’s worth looking at the ways in which “heart,” enacted by an author who wants nothing more than to be remembered, can also result in an ineffective text.
I chose Evenson mainly because he is often criticized for his ‘lack of heart’ his ‘cold tone’ and how indeed, his language, to me, seems new without being so innovative in its face-effect that it cracks that shell (though certainly some of his older work is ornate in a mode of that sort as well).
Evenson evocation of ‘heart’ to me if much more effective in that it seems to ignore the heart entirely, on the page, as it knows more than it lets on.
Your point though, that the idea seems opposite, leads I guess to the idea that one can at once be doing something new with language, and doing it in a way that it does not feel over-orchestrated. A ‘perfect balance’ if you will, which I think Evenson is a great example of.
In the same column, he mentions a passage from Beckett’s ‘Molloy’ that does this from him. Beckett is another great example of it: the language is not ‘insanely new,’ but the way it is employed, is.
Asking for ‘new language’ does not mean, to me, that you are to invent a whole new language, but more that you are to employ the words everybody knows in a way we were not expecting to be surrounded by.
I chose Evenson mainly because he is often criticized for his ‘lack of heart’ his ‘cold tone’ and how indeed, his language, to me, seems new without being so innovative in its face-effect that it cracks that shell (though certainly some of his older work is ornate in a mode of that sort as well).
Evenson evocation of ‘heart’ to me if much more effective in that it seems to ignore the heart entirely, on the page, as it knows more than it lets on.
Your point though, that the idea seems opposite, leads I guess to the idea that one can at once be doing something new with language, and doing it in a way that it does not feel over-orchestrated. A ‘perfect balance’ if you will, which I think Evenson is a great example of.
In the same column, he mentions a passage from Beckett’s ‘Molloy’ that does this from him. Beckett is another great example of it: the language is not ‘insanely new,’ but the way it is employed, is.
Asking for ‘new language’ does not mean, to me, that you are to invent a whole new language, but more that you are to employ the words everybody knows in a way we were not expecting to be surrounded by.
in other words, when i say ‘saying it new’ i’m not talking about language for language’s sake here. i’m talking about the phrasings, the sounds, the rhythm, as well as thought as plot, over plot as plot.
in other words, when i say ‘saying it new’ i’m not talking about language for language’s sake here. i’m talking about the phrasings, the sounds, the rhythm, as well as thought as plot, over plot as plot.
Thought as plot.
Thought as plot.
i know, i make no sense, no one does
i know, i make no sense, no one does
who cares
who cares
It made sense to me. The idea has to be the center of the novel; what it means to convey (that events a, b, c, d e and f led to x, y and z is always less interesting than the reasons they led to those outcomes and the larger point about how the world is the world – maybe this can be accomplished through novel use of language, maybe it can come from immersion in fascinating characters, whatever, I’m starting to ramble. All I meant was: plot is nothing. Stories are not about what they are about, they are about the ways in which they are about it)
It made sense to me. The idea has to be the center of the novel; what it means to convey (that events a, b, c, d e and f led to x, y and z is always less interesting than the reasons they led to those outcomes and the larger point about how the world is the world – maybe this can be accomplished through novel use of language, maybe it can come from immersion in fascinating characters, whatever, I’m starting to ramble. All I meant was: plot is nothing. Stories are not about what they are about, they are about the ways in which they are about it)
Talk about not making sense
Talk about not making sense
Makes sense to me. If you were to take pretty much any story down to its basic “a happened and then b and then c, etc.” stripped of the story’s language, about 99% of them would sound like totally uninteresting stories that no one would want to read. I’ve always thought that writing isn’t really at all about developing the arc of a plot so much as it is about telling the story in a way people actually engage with.
At the same time, though, I guess for me there are times where things do fail to really move me because they seem too interested in language and not interested enough in the story behind it. So even though I appreciate the heart that goes into crafting that language, I can see where the criticism of not having heart can come from as far as how the reader feels (not speaking specifically of Evenson, I really haven’t read enough of him yet to know if I would agree with that or not). For me, personally, it has to be a balance of saying something in a new way but still caring in a basic way about the story. That probably doesn’t make sense either.
Makes sense to me. If you were to take pretty much any story down to its basic “a happened and then b and then c, etc.” stripped of the story’s language, about 99% of them would sound like totally uninteresting stories that no one would want to read. I’ve always thought that writing isn’t really at all about developing the arc of a plot so much as it is about telling the story in a way people actually engage with.
At the same time, though, I guess for me there are times where things do fail to really move me because they seem too interested in language and not interested enough in the story behind it. So even though I appreciate the heart that goes into crafting that language, I can see where the criticism of not having heart can come from as far as how the reader feels (not speaking specifically of Evenson, I really haven’t read enough of him yet to know if I would agree with that or not). For me, personally, it has to be a balance of saying something in a new way but still caring in a basic way about the story. That probably doesn’t make sense either.
Shya makes a really important point.
Brian Evenson is great at achieving things with story that make me think what is happening is happening with language. Matt Bell, too.
And, y’know, it IS all happening with language. Even the things that happen “behind the words” are happening with language.
Shya makes a really important point.
Brian Evenson is great at achieving things with story that make me think what is happening is happening with language. Matt Bell, too.
And, y’know, it IS all happening with language. Even the things that happen “behind the words” are happening with language.
right: new with story and language at once. the above was my semi-brain-gone-assfuck way of saying the same.
right: new with story and language at once. the above was my semi-brain-gone-assfuck way of saying the same.
and furthermore: to be true, the most effective readings i’ve ever imbibed in my life all were very clear about the point that they were about to break my face.
but that is in maybe 3 books ever. most could never do that, and especially when they try.
so, maybe the evenson quote is true in most cases. though not, i think, in the most ultimate cases of all.
so actually, i am sticking to my guns here. the contradiction is part of the point.
and furthermore: to be true, the most effective readings i’ve ever imbibed in my life all were very clear about the point that they were about to break my face.
but that is in maybe 3 books ever. most could never do that, and especially when they try.
so, maybe the evenson quote is true in most cases. though not, i think, in the most ultimate cases of all.
so actually, i am sticking to my guns here. the contradiction is part of the point.
[…] Blake Butler has some interesting things to say about “heart in writing” at HTML Giant. It’s worth a read and a […]
Exactly: Innovation in both design and function. Anything less than that is just sloth or lack of talent.
And I agree about works that are clear, e.g. Infinite Jest. I think IJ is so obviously full of compassion and direct, full-force storytelling and language that it’s not sneaky at all. Subtle, and brilliantly structured, but not sneaky; a sort of feeling that most probably imagine/feel when they discuss ‘heart’. ‘Traditional heart.’
I have subsumed very little work that travels the other way, the Evenson stealth mode… although I think that EVER does that perfectly. I think The Stranger is a perfect mix of traditional heart and subversive heart. And Light Boxes.
Exactly: Innovation in both design and function. Anything less than that is just sloth or lack of talent.
And I agree about works that are clear, e.g. Infinite Jest. I think IJ is so obviously full of compassion and direct, full-force storytelling and language that it’s not sneaky at all. Subtle, and brilliantly structured, but not sneaky; a sort of feeling that most probably imagine/feel when they discuss ‘heart’. ‘Traditional heart.’
I have subsumed very little work that travels the other way, the Evenson stealth mode… although I think that EVER does that perfectly. I think The Stranger is a perfect mix of traditional heart and subversive heart. And Light Boxes.
And EEEE EEE EEEEE. Not ass-kissing here, either.
And EEEE EEE EEEEE. Not ass-kissing here, either.
I think you could have published this in a bigger forum, but maybe that would have felt like jerking off before you’ve gone through puberty, or something. Either way, this was focused and clear. I take you more seriously as a writer now.
I think you could have published this in a bigger forum, but maybe that would have felt like jerking off before you’ve gone through puberty, or something. Either way, this was focused and clear. I take you more seriously as a writer now.
thanks PH
thanks PH
Are his prolific output of innovative work and his amazing work ethic not enough for you to ‘take him seriously as you can take him’? Honest question, no tone.
A good point Shya.
This is something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about too, Blake. I feel heart might be the single most essential thing necessary for me to really enjoy something. It might sound a little dogmatic or even cheesy, but I feel like if there’s no heart, there’s no reason for the story to be told, for it to exist, save shallow authorial narcissism (which is worse than complex authorial narcissism, which could still be capable of a certain amount of heart — there are examples I could name here, but they would probably detract from the focus of my argument).
In any case. Heart, for me, is tied to a sense of urgency. By which I mean a kind of desperation and need to communicate and make things understood that becomes evident through the writing. This urgency and need to communicate can be made either explicitly (something like “I needed her and I needed to tell you this story about needing her”) or implicitly (paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing how much someone hates and obsesses over a group of people at a dinner party). Though different in scope and subject matter, both of these examples, I think, evince a certain amount of heart, of urgency and need to communicate. Whether they are successful or not, I feel depends on how the writer uses language and frame to articulate that urgency and need.
For me, language and frame are the vehicles by which heart is made either evident or ineffectual, ecstatic or embarrassing.
For example, if a story’s written poorly, if the sentences are clumsily and haphazardly constructed, if the metaphors are trite and unoriginal, the story fails, regardless of how much heart the writer thinks may be in there. That original sense of urgency is not recreated in the reader. In other words, a certain weight must be supported by the writer’s language, else the bridge of the story as a whole will collapse. (In this totally tossed off metaphor, the story’s “heart” would be like maybe a flag or something perched at the top of bridge, or better yet, the river of cars and trucks and bikes attempting to traverse the bridge. To continue with this metaphor, one side of the bridge would be the author and the other side of the bridge would be the reader.)
A side-note: what I mean by “frame” is whether the story is interesting and unique and non-condescending in its organizational structure. George Saunders, in his essay about Donald Barthelme’s “The School”, talks about this in a way that is, I think, very illuminating. Basically, Saunders says that one of the reasons Barthelme is successful with the story is that “he never condescends to the reader” — he never treats him like a dumb beast, ceaselessly amused by the swinging of a weight on a string. Good framing doesn’t try to “pull one over” the reader by saying “you’ll like this, you’re an idiot.”
In any case, my main point is that heart is a kind of urgency and that urgency is only successfully recreated in the reader through the writing — the language and frame. Yet I think there’s an order to it, that the heart has to come before the writing, has to be the initial impetus. Seems like a possibly traditionalist and uncool way to think about it, but there it is.
A good point Shya.
This is something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about too, Blake. I feel heart might be the single most essential thing necessary for me to really enjoy something. It might sound a little dogmatic or even cheesy, but I feel like if there’s no heart, there’s no reason for the story to be told, for it to exist, save shallow authorial narcissism (which is worse than complex authorial narcissism, which could still be capable of a certain amount of heart — there are examples I could name here, but they would probably detract from the focus of my argument).
In any case. Heart, for me, is tied to a sense of urgency. By which I mean a kind of desperation and need to communicate and make things understood that becomes evident through the writing. This urgency and need to communicate can be made either explicitly (something like “I needed her and I needed to tell you this story about needing her”) or implicitly (paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing how much someone hates and obsesses over a group of people at a dinner party). Though different in scope and subject matter, both of these examples, I think, evince a certain amount of heart, of urgency and need to communicate. Whether they are successful or not, I feel depends on how the writer uses language and frame to articulate that urgency and need.
For me, language and frame are the vehicles by which heart is made either evident or ineffectual, ecstatic or embarrassing.
For example, if a story’s written poorly, if the sentences are clumsily and haphazardly constructed, if the metaphors are trite and unoriginal, the story fails, regardless of how much heart the writer thinks may be in there. That original sense of urgency is not recreated in the reader. In other words, a certain weight must be supported by the writer’s language, else the bridge of the story as a whole will collapse. (In this totally tossed off metaphor, the story’s “heart” would be like maybe a flag or something perched at the top of bridge, or better yet, the river of cars and trucks and bikes attempting to traverse the bridge. To continue with this metaphor, one side of the bridge would be the author and the other side of the bridge would be the reader.)
A side-note: what I mean by “frame” is whether the story is interesting and unique and non-condescending in its organizational structure. George Saunders, in his essay about Donald Barthelme’s “The School”, talks about this in a way that is, I think, very illuminating. Basically, Saunders says that one of the reasons Barthelme is successful with the story is that “he never condescends to the reader” — he never treats him like a dumb beast, ceaselessly amused by the swinging of a weight on a string. Good framing doesn’t try to “pull one over” the reader by saying “you’ll like this, you’re an idiot.”
In any case, my main point is that heart is a kind of urgency and that urgency is only successfully recreated in the reader through the writing — the language and frame. Yet I think there’s an order to it, that the heart has to come before the writing, has to be the initial impetus. Seems like a possibly traditionalist and uncool way to think about it, but there it is.
interesting thoughts. again, i’m not arguing against ‘heart’. my main point, and what i was trying to say above without saying it, is that heart is innate in the work itself, and not something that you can put into the work if it is not there, and not something that must be laid bare within the confines of the story, or the text, for it to be inherited by the reader.
interesting thoughts. again, i’m not arguing against ‘heart’. my main point, and what i was trying to say above without saying it, is that heart is innate in the work itself, and not something that you can put into the work if it is not there, and not something that must be laid bare within the confines of the story, or the text, for it to be inherited by the reader.
i.e. your explicit example (“explicitly (something like “I needed her and I needed to tell you this story about needing her”) “, this mode is far less commonly successful, almost never, as it seems like begging, and is almost asking the reader to feel empathy, whereas the texts that are truly ‘of heart’ have the heart inherent not because they need the reader to feel it, but because it is in there, in the craft, in the language.
i.e. your explicit example (“explicitly (something like “I needed her and I needed to tell you this story about needing her”) “, this mode is far less commonly successful, almost never, as it seems like begging, and is almost asking the reader to feel empathy, whereas the texts that are truly ‘of heart’ have the heart inherent not because they need the reader to feel it, but because it is in there, in the craft, in the language.
another point: if you write with the concern of expressing the heart directly, you are almost implicitly bound to fail.
another point: if you write with the concern of expressing the heart directly, you are almost implicitly bound to fail.
agree
agree
agree
i hope i didn’t sound like i was overly advocating explicit “heart-telling” or anything but i do feel like if one only writes with the concern of language, one is also almost implicitly bound to fail.
heart and aesthetic in concert.
i like the quote from evenson you brought in.
i was about to write some stuff talking about the “conscious use of language to express heart and mystery” or something but then i thought about it more and felt less sure about it, because there certainly are a lot of accidentally amazing, true things that get said, and those mysterious, accidental things are large part of what makes something meaningful
hmm
agree
agree
agree
i hope i didn’t sound like i was overly advocating explicit “heart-telling” or anything but i do feel like if one only writes with the concern of language, one is also almost implicitly bound to fail.
heart and aesthetic in concert.
i like the quote from evenson you brought in.
i was about to write some stuff talking about the “conscious use of language to express heart and mystery” or something but then i thought about it more and felt less sure about it, because there certainly are a lot of accidentally amazing, true things that get said, and those mysterious, accidental things are large part of what makes something meaningful
hmm