Why does Charlotte Brontë wait so long to illustrate this critical figure? (And what have we been picturing in the interim?)
Mrs. Reed has not been described until page 43 because she hasn’t been fully looked at by the protagonist until that dramatic moment. Brontë is instead attempting to describe Jane Eyre’s experience of Mrs. Reed. While Jane is Mrs. Reed’s captive and tormented ward, little Jane only takes in desperate glimpses of a furious Mrs. Reed. Jane sees Mrs. Reed through clenched eyes—while Jane is in full flinch—so, for Jane, and thus for us, Mrs. Reed is revealed one scary bit at a time: her “formidable gray eye,” her stout frame on the stair speeding two steps at a time.
When, finally, Jane confronts her oppressor and is able to, as it were, look her square in the eye, she is afforded a vista—a view of the whole—and can appraise it. In this case, the description is (almost) irrelevant; what matters is its timing.
As I mentioned, characters are mostly seen in action. We see them as we might see someone we are pursuing, a head above a crowd, a torso rounding corners, a foot there, a blurry leg here … in fiction, this amassing of discrete detail mirrors the way we assimilate people and settings in our daily lives.
Occasionally I’ll meet someone I’ve heard a lot about, and I might think to myself, You look nothing like what I imagined!
I have the same feeling with characters in novels—when they are active before they are described.
(I had this same feeling with Jane Eyre’s Mrs. Reed.)
***
VIVIDNESS
In his Lectures on Literature, Vladimir Nabokov notes: “The first thing that we notice about the style of Dickens [in Bleak House] is his intensely sensuous imagery …”
When the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in the dark sea…
Nabokov writes:
Let us pause: can we visualize that? Of course we can, and we do so with a greater thrill of recognition because in comparison to the conventional blue sea of literary tradition these silvery pools in the dark sea offer something that Dickens noted for the very first time with the innocent and sensuous eye of the true artist, saw and immediately put into words.
***
Another passage from Dickens:
The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook … comes up slowly with his green-eyed cat following at his heels.
Nabokov, again:
All cats have green eyes—but notice how green these eyes are owing to the lighted candle…
Nabokov seems to be making the point that the greater the specificity and context for an image, the more evocative it is.
(I’m not so sure.)
Specificity and context add to the meaning and perhaps to the expressiveness of an image, but do not seem to add to the vividness of my experience of an image—that is, all this authorial care, the author’s observation and transcription of the world, does not help me to see. They help me to understand—but not to see. (At least, when I examine my responses to these types of descriptions, I do not perform any better in my attempts to envision the author’s world.)
As a reader I am delighted by the candlelit eyes of the cat; their specificity. But my delight is not due to some more vivid seeing. My delight is my tribute to the author’s having paid close attention to the world.
It is easy to confuse these two sensations.
***
Dickens:
The person … receives his twopence … tosses the money in the air, catches it over-handed, and retires.
Nabokov:
This gesture, this one gesture, with its epithet “over-handed”—a trifle—but the man is alive forever in a good reader’s mind.
But is the character alive? Or is only his hand alive?
Dickens has conveyed something apparently true about the world, and the feeling of “truth” in this description derives from the description’s specificity.
Writers closely observe the world and record their observations. When we remark that a novel is “finely observed,” we are praising the writer’s ability to bear witness. This bearing witness is composed of two acts: the author’s initial observation in the real world, and then the translation of that observation into prose. The more “finely observed” the text, the better we readers recognize the thing or event in question. (Again—seeing and acknowledging are different activities.)
The author’s specificity allows me, the reader, to acknowledge a dual achievement of my own: 1) I’ve scrutinized the world closely enough to notice such details (silvery pools) myself (I remember them), and 2) I am astute enough to recognize the author’s art in calling out such a finely turned detail. I feel the thrill of recognition, but also the pleasure of self-satisfaction. (It’s buried, but it’s there.) Notice how Nabokov refers to a “good reader” in the previous passage?
***
A thing that is “captured” by an author is taken from its context in the real world, where this event or thing may exist in a state of flux. An author might notice a wave in the ocean (or a “silvery pool”), and merely by remarking upon this wave, the author stabilizes it. It is now removed from the indiscriminate mass of water that surrounds it. By taking this wave and holding it fast in language, it ceases to be fluid. It is now an immobile wave.
We examine Dickens’s “silvery pools” through his microscope. Dickens has taken this event and placed it, contained, as if a solution on a slide, and enlarged it for us. What we are seeing is, at best, a distortion through that microscope’s lens, and at worst, we are seeing only the microscope’s lens itself. (To borrow a line of reasoning from the philosophy of science: What we are observing is not the thing itself, but the tools we have constructed to observe that thing.)
So when we praise “finely observed” prose, are we praising the evocative efficacy of the ideas, or the beauty of the equipment?
We imagine that it is both.
***
Descriptions that are more elaborate and read with greater attention and deliberation are not necessarily more vivid. They may be more explanatory, but they don’t add up to a gestalt—a complete and simultaneous vision.
Read this long passage of Mark Twain’s:
The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line—that was the woods on t’other side—you couldn’t make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn’t black any more, but gray;…sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there’s a snag there in the swift current which breaks on it and makes the streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t’other side of the river…
Did you see it all? I read this passage and I saw the dull line, and then the spreading paleness, and then I heard a screaking, and then voices, and then I saw the current…
How much detail an author supplies when describing the appearance of a character or a place will not improve a reader’s mental pictures (it will not bring these pictures into focus); however, the level of detail provided by a writer does determine what kind of reading experience a reader might have. In other words, lists of attributes, in literature, may have rhetorical power, but lack combinatorial power.
We have the idea that a long descriptive passage adds up to something. For example, the city of Zenobia, from Calvino’s Invisible Cities, is described in detail, therefore:
“For me, the main thing in a narrative is … the order of things … the pattern; the symmetry; the network of images deposited around it …”
—Italo Calvino, Le Monde, August 15, 1970
But description is not additive. Twain’s mist on the water does not carry over while I am seeing the log cabin. By the time I reach the words log cabin, I
have forgotten about the mist entirely.*
* Jorge Luis Borges refers to the disparate elements listed in literary description as disjecta membra, which translates from the Latin as either “scattered (or dismembered) remains,” or “broken pottery shards.”
Vision, however, is additive, and simultaneous.
(We don’t see a chair, and then hang around in order to find out what color it is…)
(Perhaps if I’m told the chair is red, and then the chair is mentioned again, I’ll think: Oh, the red chair…)
Calvino’s city of Zenobia is detailed. His city of Chloe lacks detail. Here, the author allows—even invites—fantasy.
In this case we experience the power of the unsaid.
Invisible Cities again:
We may not see every image (or every word) in a long description…
…but each word (or each image) may be a load-bearing word (or image).
Maybe elaborate descriptions, like colorful descriptions, are misdirection. They seem to tell us something specific and meaningful (about a character, a setting, the world itself), but perhaps such description delights in inverse proportion to what it reveals.
More Colorful
Equals
Less Authentic
The writer Gilbert Sorrentino takes John Updike’s A Month of Sundays to task:
When the aim is “vivid” writing, it seems that anything goes as long as the surface dances … The work buckles and falls apart time after time under the weight of this concatenation of images, often linked together by comparisons that work to conceal the reality they are supposedly revealing: “… newsletters and quarterlies that pour through a minister’s letter slot like urine from a cow’s vulva.”
Such writing is, Sorrentino tells us, “Shiny and meaningless.”
The relationship between a mail slot and a cow’s vulva is confusing. Two objects are compared in order to help focus our mind’s eye, while in fact just the opposite happens—we focus only on the bolder (or in this case more grotesque) of the two images.
By contrast, Jean Giono writes: “Look up there, Orion–Queen Anne’s lace, a little bunch of stars.”
I see the flower, then I see the flowering of stars in the night sky. The flower itself doesn’t appear in the night sky of my mind, but the flower determines how the stars are arrayed.*
*Giono’s stars are clearer to me than Updike’s mail slot. Maybe that is because Giono would like me to see his stars, whereas Updike would like me to see—what? His prose? Giono’s flower and his stars are held in balance. One image assists the other.
(Giono could have written: “a little cluster of white stars.” But this description doesn’t bloom in quite the same way.)
***
PERFORMANCE
Once a reading of a book is under way, and we sink into the experience, a performance of a sort begins…
We perform a book—we perform a reading of a book. We perform a book, and we attend the performance.
(As readers, we are both the conductor and the orchestra, as well as the audience.)
When we read, it is important that we believe we are seeing everything…
When I play the piano—as opposed to when I am listening to piano music—I don’t hear my mistakes. My mind is too busy imagining an idealized performance to hear what is actually emanating from the instrument. In this sense, the performative aspects of playing the piano inhibit my ability to hear.
Similarly, when we read, we imagine that we see.
There are radical disjunctures in our readings…
We seem to know—if we are good readers—where in a text to find the information we need.
Though managing and executing these disjunctures is an integral part of the performative art of reading, when we remember reading a book, we gloss over this aspect of the experience.
***
***
***
To say fiction is linear is not to say we read in a straight line. Our eyes perform leaps, as do our minds. “The frantic career of the eyes” is how Proust described reading. The eye jumps around. If you are a fast reader, and therefore comfortable recognizing where, in a block of text, the information you are looking for lives, you hop backward and forward through books. If you are scanning, you can scan for characters and their physical attributes. You could read a book for only these things. But if we read this way, if we excised all but the corporeal details, wouldn’t we miss everything?
***
Dr. Zhivago
SKETCHING
Of course, as Oliver Sacks reminds us in his Hallucinations: “One does not see with the eyes; one sees with the mind.”
And our minds are unaware of the trip and flutter of our visual organs.
We fix what is a fragmentary draft—we take the sketch that is reading and fill it in, crosshatch, color in the spaces…
Our minds synthesize the disparate pieces, and create a painting out of a mere outline. (Though I am using a visual metaphor to describe a process that is semantic.)*
*“It is no more essential to the understanding of a proposition that one should imagine anything in connection to it, than that one should make a sketch from it.” —Ludwig Wittgenstein, The Philosophical Investigations
Some people actually sketch as they read in an attempt to clarify, stabilize, and make fast what they know about the appearances of people or places in a book. Nabokov did this. (On the left is his version of Kafka’s Gregor Samsa.)
***
Evelyn Waugh was an illustrator. Poe was a deft portraitist. Hermann Hesse was a skilled painter, as was Strindberg. Emily and Charlotte Brontë drew, as did Goethe, Dostoevsky, George Sand, Victor Hugo, Ruskin, Dos Passos, Blake, Pushkin…
Dostoevsky’s sketches for Crime and Punishment
An author might draw for pleasure. But sometimes for an author, drawing is a heuristic tool. An author will sometimes draw a figure or scene in order to better paint its verbal portrait (sketching might help the author describe a character, as the author can describe his sketch, rather than the nebulous contents of his mind).
Joyce’s Leopold Bloom
These drawings are a private matter; they are intended for the author only (as earlier drafts of a novel might be).
Authors can also be idle doodlers. I know Joyce squiggled out a picture of Leopold Bloom but he didn’t intend for readers to see this image.*
*Though he did consent to having Henri Matisse illustrate Ulysses. (Matisse clearly never read Joyce’s book, and seemed content to render Homer’s text instead.)
(This doodle of Joyce’s shouldn’t inform our reading of his verbal portrait of Leo Bloom, and it certainly bears no resemblance to my own Leo Bloom. Joyce’s sketch of Bloom is a caricature.)
And on the whole, the enormous disparity between a great author’s verbal talent and his or her artistic efforts renders any effort to find cross-medium meaning futile. For instance, Faulkner’s prose style and his drawing style are utterly distinct.
(Above, a drawing by W. Faulkner. There is nothing to be learned here.)
Kafka drew what seems to be Josef K, or a similar figure (perhaps Kafka himself?):
The Czech poet Gustav Janouch relates this particular incident, involving Kafka drawing:
As I approached him, he laid the pencil down on the paper which was covered with hastily executed sketches of strange figures.
“You’ve been drawing?”
Kafka gave an apologetic smile: “No. These are only doodles.”
“May I look? As you know, I’m interested in drawing.”
“But these aren’t drawings to be shown to anyone. They are purely personal, and therefore illegible hieroglyphs.”
He took the piece of paper and with both hands pressed it into a ball which he tossed into a waste-paper basket beside the desk.
“My figures have no proper spatial proportions. They have no horizon of their own. The perspective of the shapes I try to capture lies outside of the paper, and the other u
nsharpened end of the pencil—in myself!”
Much of what Kafka says about his sketches could be applied to his fiction as well. I wonder if Kafka gave a similar rationale when he demanded that Max Brod destroy his writings, the horizons of which also stretch beyond the boundaries of “the paper.” This is not to say that Kafka’s sketches are as significant as his writing, but I wonder if these drawings don’t point toward a manner of interpreting Kafka’s prose.
***
Some authors make sketches of subject matter from the worlds they’ve created. Sometimes these sketches are illustrations, meant to accompany texts. (These authors are author-illustrators.) William Thackeray, for instance. Here is one of Thackeray’s own illustrations for his Vanity Fair:
We readers are relieved of the onus of creating mental pictures for novels and stories that already include actual pictures (illustrated novels). Henry James, in his preface to The Golden Bowl, has this to say:
Anything that relieves responsible prose of the duty of being, while placed before us, good enough, interesting enough and, if the question be of picture, pictorial enough, above all in itself, does the worst of services…
What We See When We Read (9780804171649) Page 3
