Book Neurosis
I've been eading lots of books for fun. I read a great one recently, Tony and Susan by Austin Wright, which has become one of my Top Three. I've been reading for hours at a time which is a good thing because my concentration has not been so good during the last few years. Reading pretty much drags during the first ten minutes, but then I become absorbed, lost in the language (if the novel has good prose), intrigued by plot situations, or quietly surprised by a description of an emotional reaction I've had but had never consciously articulated to myself but which has, miraculously, been made tangible by the author.
Good prose, what is it? "Good prose" means different things to different people. For me, it is economy of language combined with elegance and a kind of tempo that is pleasing to the ear. Sometimes, one of these elements--economy, elegance, or cadence--predominates over the others. For instance, Jane Austen perfectly synthesizes all three elements, while someone like George Eliot has an economy of language combined with rigorous psychological detail. Though different than Austen, she [Mary Evans, the real writer behind the nom de plume, George Eliot] also has a kind of cold elegance and certainly a rythm that is expressed in longer, more rigorous syntax---reading one- or two-page paragraphs detailing the pyschology of one of her characters takes discipline. But I like that, I like books that force me to slow down, making my mind's eye sharp and focused as I pore over the sentences almost clinically. It's rewarding to reach the end of a nineteenth-century novel, no, it's rewarding to reach the end of a nineteenth-century novel written by the likes of an Austen, Eliot, Mary Shelley, and Henry James. (There are a lot of nineteenth-century novels that are long and that use ornate language but which are essentially the equivalent of a big hollywood adventure film: formulaic, not philosophical, and easy to digest mentally).
When reading good prose, I have to concentrate to such an extent that my social mask dissolves and my studious face, which looks remote and intense, takes over. Whenever I encounter someone right after one of these intense reading bouts, they invariably ask, "Why are you mad?" My voice--auditory mirror of my face--sounds gruff and labored when I say, "It's my thinking face." The social mask re-animates after a few moments of chatter, though.
I think I'm going to (re)read most of Jane Austen and George Eliot. I need that elegance and economy of language to shape the contours of my speech. It also relaxes me to read that kind of high-precision language, in spite of the intense effort I have to exert.
When I read contemporary fiction, even high-quality stuff, the bagginness and looseness of the sentence structure makes me anxious. I have to work to understand in a different way; and though I might get a lot out of it, the sense that the world is unraveling and that my mind is becoming loose and that the ship is becoming unmoored (rocking slowly), begins to overwhelm me. Now if I'm reading genre fiction, such as a John Grisham novel, that's depressing in a different way: the syntax is clear and sharp but the content goes down too easy, the stylish words are basically used to sustain a sense of suspense, the world of judicial power and corruption on dazzling display. But there's not much else.
I need to think deeply, even while being entertained, and in order for me to have an optimal experience, it has to take the shape of elegant and precise writing with a healthy infusion of wit.
Good prose, what is it? "Good prose" means different things to different people. For me, it is economy of language combined with elegance and a kind of tempo that is pleasing to the ear. Sometimes, one of these elements--economy, elegance, or cadence--predominates over the others. For instance, Jane Austen perfectly synthesizes all three elements, while someone like George Eliot has an economy of language combined with rigorous psychological detail. Though different than Austen, she [Mary Evans, the real writer behind the nom de plume, George Eliot] also has a kind of cold elegance and certainly a rythm that is expressed in longer, more rigorous syntax---reading one- or two-page paragraphs detailing the pyschology of one of her characters takes discipline. But I like that, I like books that force me to slow down, making my mind's eye sharp and focused as I pore over the sentences almost clinically. It's rewarding to reach the end of a nineteenth-century novel, no, it's rewarding to reach the end of a nineteenth-century novel written by the likes of an Austen, Eliot, Mary Shelley, and Henry James. (There are a lot of nineteenth-century novels that are long and that use ornate language but which are essentially the equivalent of a big hollywood adventure film: formulaic, not philosophical, and easy to digest mentally).
When reading good prose, I have to concentrate to such an extent that my social mask dissolves and my studious face, which looks remote and intense, takes over. Whenever I encounter someone right after one of these intense reading bouts, they invariably ask, "Why are you mad?" My voice--auditory mirror of my face--sounds gruff and labored when I say, "It's my thinking face." The social mask re-animates after a few moments of chatter, though.
I think I'm going to (re)read most of Jane Austen and George Eliot. I need that elegance and economy of language to shape the contours of my speech. It also relaxes me to read that kind of high-precision language, in spite of the intense effort I have to exert.
When I read contemporary fiction, even high-quality stuff, the bagginness and looseness of the sentence structure makes me anxious. I have to work to understand in a different way; and though I might get a lot out of it, the sense that the world is unraveling and that my mind is becoming loose and that the ship is becoming unmoored (rocking slowly), begins to overwhelm me. Now if I'm reading genre fiction, such as a John Grisham novel, that's depressing in a different way: the syntax is clear and sharp but the content goes down too easy, the stylish words are basically used to sustain a sense of suspense, the world of judicial power and corruption on dazzling display. But there's not much else.
I need to think deeply, even while being entertained, and in order for me to have an optimal experience, it has to take the shape of elegant and precise writing with a healthy infusion of wit.