Short Thoughts

Some short essays from youth and long ago

Art and Misery

If people’s lives are sad, why should they turn to art to find more grief? And if they are happy, why should they turn to art at all?

Art is the solace for misery. It has a long future, since it creates the misery it gives solace to.

‘Pornography tends to increase the very anxiety it solves.’ But so does all art.

‘Write What You Know’

One of the clichés that must be exploded: write about what you know. Never do that. Write about what you’d like to know. Without the mystery there is no excitement. Boredom is the antithesis of art.

Writing Burns the Filament

The imagination is the filament. Writing burns the filament. It was no accident that the light bulb was chosen as the symbol of invention.

Edison’s achievement was not the invention of the light bulb. Light bulbs had existed before. What Edison did was devise a filament that didn’t burn out in less than ten seconds.

A long-lasting filament is also the goal of all writers.

Writing and Concentration

Writing occupies all your concentration. It holds you; it burns you. It is not a pleasurable experience. No one undertakes it out of desire. Not for long. They burn out fastest of all.

You do it because you have to. It is a need more compelling than the pain of the fire. When you are fat and smug, snug and smiling, is not the time to write.

The need to go elsewhere, what is it but the need to escape?

No one runs to; he just runs from.

Hence the best conditioning of the artist prior to working, is to do something disgusting. Then you can escape yourself. You can endure the crucible, because to rise up out of it, back into yourself, would be worse.

Do something dirty, then escape it in art.

This is also known as psychological self-destruction.

But the man with no soul makes the greatest of artists. ### No Art Says Anything

(July 15, 1977)

No Art says anything.

But don’t we admire and esteem artists whose work does say something more than those whose work does not?

Reconciliation: yes we do, but that doesn’t alter the point – art is not a medium of anything but the Dream.

We eat food for nourishment. Food’s purpose is to provide the chemicals and energy we need to maintain existence. If the food tastes delicious and is well prepared, we enjoy it more; but if it fulfills the basic nourishment no better, then our added appreciation is directed to other things than that thing we eat for.

This is still a retreat from my earlier thoughts. Then I would have stated it: Art is entertainment and all else is superfluous. Now I would say: There are many things that we enjoy in art, but the basic raison d’être of art is entertainment. This is not so radical and for all I might talk, the basic reaction would be: so what?

I have redefined the reaction to art but not redirected it.

The great artist, then, would be one who did his art well. Therefore we have three categories:

1. The great artist. One who communicates the Dream well.
2. The great craftsman. One who controls words and their relationships (or the corresponding details in another art) so that they serve his will.
3. The great thinker. One who’s inside his superb in such matters as psychology, ethics, philosophy, etc.

It is clear that of these three, the first has hardly been acknowledged; the second is in disrepute (without being the third); the third is lauded above all else today.

But a thinker is not an artist.

All Art Is Fantasy

(July 15, 1977)

All art is fantasy. Art is the detailing of things that didn’t happen, people who didn’t exist, for a purpose. The aim in mind is important. Anyone can lie. If all art is a lie, then the criterion of quality is the effect. Artists with us are judged on how well they achieve an effect.

There is well-done writing; that is when the artist achieves a powerful effect. There is good writing; that is when we happen to enjoy the effect this artist is creating. Great writing is both good and well-done.

Never forget therefore, that when a critic says something is great, half of that judgment is simply: I like it.

No one enjoys what he doesn’t understand. If you don’t understand it, it isn’t great – for you.

‘Great’ is different from ‘important.’ Important is an objective judgment on the place of a work in the historical evolution of art or society.

Fantasy cannot be all art. Fantasy has a more limited meeting: Art about that which could not be. The phrase is in the impossible but it really means just the very improbable. Therefore for fantasy in the statement at the beginning, substitute: ‘the dream.’

Art revolves around the dream. The dream is central to all art.

Fantasy also has another meaning: to fantasize is to dream.

It would seem, then, that fantasy is the purest form of art.

Fantasy has an age-old formula: from the mundane to the exotic (and generally back). ‘There and Back Again’ is timid fantasy. Desperate fantasy is held within the words, ‘Him, Her, There.’

The other self. The other sex. The other world.

The captain. The Princess. The lost Empire.

But we can reverse this process. Take all genres that employ the formula. They are fantasy genres. Pornography for example is fantasy art. What else?

The Higher Form of Fantasy

What is the purer/higher form of fantasy – that in which the hero from here/now goes there; or that which takes place totally there?

There is also the fantasy in which we think the fantasist is suffering from a delusion, but then the world turns out to vindicate his dream.

Suspense

(July 11, 1977)

There are two kinds of suspense: that of form and that of substance. Formalistic suspense occurs when the author withholds a piece of important information; you read on to find out what that piece of data is; or it is an interruption – a chapter break or plot interpolation – at a high point of action; or it springs from skillful foreshadowing, although this last is a part of the first.

Substantive suspense occurs when there is an unresolved conflict. The tension of the conflict builds; the point of crisis seems falsely to be reached several times. This tension must be purged violently. There must be some physical action in the climax to dissipate it.

Medieval Ballads

(From 30 years ago: November 28, 1978, with added comment from now)

An unrelated note. I just finished Keats’ ‘Eve of St. Agnes’ and was struck that its plot has all the form of a medieval ballad, except for that happy ending. More than 99% of those ballads were tragedies; and it got me wondering just why this might be so. It seems to me that the primary impulse to write in this case springs from that appreciation of the tragedy (since many of these old folktales had true ones as their basis). Other features point the way: these tales are not of mean old misers dying of some illness after a long life of making existence miserable for all about them; but of the young, the beautiful, the rich, the talented, noble, the powerful.

Furthermore it seems that the fears thus evoked are much the same as those which inspire philosophical systems: fear of change, of death, of the absurdity of being born mortal into a world of innumerable externals ruled by chance, only to age, second, wither and die, leaving nothing but a decomposing effluent behind. And it seems that the primary impulse behind the very creation of these works of art is vocalization of the shared fears, made the greater, yet at the same time exorcised in such infamous examples.

We make the fear organized, beautiful, by artifice making it artificial; and though we die in these stories yet we also live on after hearing/reading them. Why is not triumph also enshrined, then? Because triumph is sheltered from vocalization through the learned mechanisms to defend against envy; because we take little delight in speaking of someone else’s victories; and because we do not share in such triumphs when we hear them recited, but in fact feel jealous of and resent them. (This is not always the case: as for the case of a shared triumph, especially one whose issue was in great doubt. A great victory over a hated foe in war, e.g., in which the General’s and soldiers’ victories become ours because we share the same national or tribal cause. Yet note here that it is the very note of doubt or dread which is the key ingredient making the thing work: there is no eucatastrophe without a very real belief/fear that doom had been waiting at the end.)

This primary psychological impulse behind the very creation of art is what I seek – knowing it, we learn why certain forms are hallowed and more powerful; and perhaps learn other roads to the same end hitherto unseen. Why do animals have voices? Why do they use them? – to vocalize certain feelings and thus somehow lessen them. I notice taking out groceries, but many of the people will remark, ‘Oh, it is cold in that store!’ Or, ‘Raining again, wouldn’t you know on the weekend!’ Or, ‘Winter’s here,’ or ‘You don’t mind coming out on a lovely day like this, do you?’ And I wondered why they say these things. They cannot think that we will heat the store; rationally they should have come to expect a cold store after visiting it several times. Yet they will say it! It is a mere animal vocalization, not intended as real communication (yet the existence of a listener is important) but merely to invent somehow their feelings of being cold (etc.). It is the same in saying, ‘Ouch!’ to pain, or cursing when things go wrong. The growls, grunts, bleats and shrieks of dumb animals are at the root of all literature.

[Note 2008:
I can now see other functions of these utterances. Within a community or tribe, such as humanity and its ancestors lived in for so many millions of years, every member of the tribe sought to influence communal decision-making and bend it a little bit in the favor of the individual making the utterance. A vocal complaint such as, ‘It’s cold!’ is at least in part an effort to find agreement with others so that some action is taken to warm up the environment. Saying something like, ‘you don’t mind coming out on a nice day like this, do you?’ serves to find some common ground of humanity between the speaker and the one spoken to, and this could have one of several aims: it might be that agreement to the statement that it is a nice day will reinforce those feelings within the speaker’s own mind, allowing him to enjoy the day even more. Or it might be that such a statement is only an opening salvo to establish some sort of rapport between the two parties, in order to get something from the person addressed later on. But I suspect mostly that these sayings came out of some feeling of embarrassment, from someone in the middle class to someone else and the middle class who was fulfilling a subservient role; it seems somehow shameful to have a servant or slave, and so addressing the person in the subservient role as a fellow human being takes some of the sting out of it, and is an effort to deny that there is a master-servant relationship between them.]

Emotions; a Function of Writing

(Another thought-piece, this from those halcyon days of November 28, 1978)

Writing is thinking; yet the writing of fiction entails a great deal of feeling. More precisely, one of the reasons we enjoy the reading is to vicariously experience a wide range of thoughts, viewpoints, situations, emotions, physical feelings, etc. (Does this spring from a desire to be freed of the narrow cage of our own individual skulls?) Thus pornography fails: because it is the emotions with which writing deals much better. The emotional peak of the seduction does not come with orgasm or even with the act of sex – it comes with, on the part of the reluctant partner, the decision to surrender; and on the part of the aggressive partner, the knowledge that the other has surrendered and that now the seduction is a foregone conclusion. Thus we can say that from the writer’s point of view the only thing that is of interest is what occurs through the point of the decision to have sex, and in the emotional repercussions pursuant to the sexual activities (those moments, e.g., when the pair like together without defenses, without inhibitions, without self-consciousness, without passion without desire without jealousy without ambition – all of these blasted aside with the selves’ outer shells in the explosive violence of orgasm – leaving the two like crossing currents lapping at the same corner of the beach, intermingling essences, emotionally beating with one heart for the too-brief moment, until a word, gesture or sound, causes them suddenly to recoil once again into strangerhood). The specifics of sex are thus (generally) not emotional but only of physiological significance. And thus pornography (like any aspect of the Dream) will tend to gravitate towards those forms of presentation whose strengths are best suited to evoke the desired results – that is, here, from poetry to fiction to film to play to live-sex acts, and finally completing a sort of circle drawing the reader/viewer back into the role of participant (unless of course the direct stimulation of the mental synapses appropriate could be devised).

Time and Composition

(Another essay from his youth, composed on March 1, 1979)

Lin Carter, like HP Lovecraft and Rosemary Rogers, sleeps by day and rises at sunset to write. I wonder if there might not be a connection between the two?

It seems to me that I have difficulty writing during the months of March through May, so enraptured at by by the reawakening of the earth. It becomes a distraction: the sweet fragrances, the songs of mating birds, the warm benevolence of the sun, the branches greening and the eyes of flowers everywhere about. The best time to write during the day is for me in winter. December and January and February, when the earth is asleep. Then it seems to me that I can fall fully into myself; or is it that my self can blossom outwards? Howsoever it may be, it is at these times that my writing goes best.

I wonder if perhaps the type of writing has something to do with the best time to write. Then I would say that during the daylight hours we are reminded of the Reality of life, beside which the Artificiality of writing becomes most evident: so that I might say those who write of mundane things were best to do their writing in daylit hours. Yet those others of us who write from within of great passions or fantastical visions, should do our writing in the dark, when the land is hushed and lit only by Moon- and star- and fog-lights, and everything is perceived as Suggestions of what Might Have Been. Really, these things seem preposterous in the daytime – yet a passionate belief is needed, the more so to draw our readers into the web of our beliefs.

(Composed by pen, dictated on Wednesday, October 8, 2008)

Echoes From a Distant Age

Some notes written thirty years ago

Bardelys continued to slog through his ancient juvenile essays on art and writing. Along the way he found some that intrigued him; they were based less on abstract theory and more on personal observations he had made both as a reader and in writing his own works.

They were also practical and specific. Therefore he took them more seriously.

Here are a few from some thirty and a half years ago.

Rule of Three

(January 19, 1978)

It’s really amazing how the number three dominates art, especially writing. I cannot explain it. However, it should be used for rhythm – two items will seem too short, and four items will seem just a little bit too long. Five items seem all right, and six items are two triples – that is my idea. So depending on what results you want, you should organize your lists etc. in these numbers.

What Is Most Emphatic – since three-speaking will predominate, it is good to know which element is most emphasized of the three. The rule is: the first-mentioned is more emphasized than the second, and the third more than the first. This works the other way as well: if you want to conceal a detail you must tell, make it the second of three. (In movies, each item on the list of three will tend to override and mask the previous one; thus in film the first is least, and the third is most.)

Pace

(January 19, 1978)

Formula: pace equals activities divided by characteristics, or in other words, narration divided by description, or again verbs divided by nouns, or nouns divided by adjectives.

Also, there will be in most stories incidents, descriptions, or episodes which are necessary but not plugged into any specific time sequence. These should be deployed in order to help pacing – to slow sections or speed up (by their absence) others.

How Words and Phrases Work

(January 19, 1978)

Be aware of words and phrases and how they work. Words are the tools of the trade, and writing is distinguished from most other forms of art in that it is a relationship between writer and the words and only that, in order to create the desired relationship between the reader and words. Each word is loaded; what you have to do is pick those words which will trigger the right reactions in the reader’s psyche. And all the various ways, you have to get him off well. The process of awareness will be automatic as you write and read more; but it can be accelerated by deliberate or awareness. Learn the precise impact of every word and phrase.

One Problem

(January 19, 1978)

One problem of many beginners dealing with a complex plot, is that the overall direction is lost in concentrating upon specific scenes. This confusion can be a good thing at times; but the point is that you should control whether there shall be confusion or not. This is done (somehow) by subordinating scenes. If the tendency is wrongly away from the overall, mention it specifically. [Note 2008: I really don’t have any idea what I meant!]

Variety

(January 19, 1978)

Properly speaking, variety is the ideal. But a tedious sameness can have great artistic effect. However, as with all breaking of rules, it should be employed only sparingly for deliberate effects. One tremendous use of tedium is the glorious release of escaping it afterwards. Set up a rigid pattern which you pursue to the breaking point – then break away to something completely different. This is in line with a general theory of pleasure: there are pleasures and then there is the pleasure of being released from chronic pain.

Poetry

(January 19, 1978)

Poetry is the purest form of writing. All dross has been distilled away in the process of saying worlds in a dozen lines. Poetry is also the most efficient form of writing. It should be studied and attempted by every writer. In addition, poetry teaches the power of that single, capturing phrase; and the rhythm of words and lines.

Art and Revelation

(July 21, 1978)

It took me three steps to reach this point: first was ‘Art as the realization of the Dream,’ second was that ‘Art proceeds by revealing or showing,’ ferret was that ‘Art is beyond the mere function of Dreams because it can reveal what is not known or imagined by the reader.’

The Dream consists of the Other – the other self, the other sex, and the other world. It is not the other person, because we can only approach literary characters in the light of analyzing our own internal processes. (This is considering art as a process worked upon the reader; it is his dream which is being realized by a curious chemistry. I, the writer, am capable of achieving literary power only by making real my own dreams; but the response of the reader depends upon how well that realization corresponds, harmonizes, or exalts his own dreams; thus the reader remakes the work of art by perusing it. By this standard, the greatest work of art is that which becomes all things powerful to all people.) So that, even in the realization of the other sex, we do not see another person: just an aspect of our own selves dressed in another sexual identity. [Note 2008: today I would say that the other sex is still just part of ourselves, but in a different way – I would say rather that the Other Sex in the Dream is a manifestation of our own desires, and therefore refers more to ourselves, into any other person outside ourselves.] (Yet does this not deny all rational analysis based upon observed behavior? That is, do I not make the mistake here of regarding the process as purely an empathetic one, whereas in reality, just as we can deductively analyze another person, so we can use such observations to appreciate literary figures. It is also to undermine the alien quality of the Other, if we bind it by our own dreams, morals, and goals. If I intuitively construct a 13th century peasant, I must do so either on the basis of what I am, or what I have seen in some other person. How else can I gore about it? [Note 2008: there is also the matter of historical research, and analysis done upon that research.] Yet neither of those will have that fundamental quality which makes the 13th century peasant what he is, or was. To grow by dreams is to bind myself to what I know; drug-induced fancies should be able to conceive mockups of greater alienness, but still fashioned out of pieces already to be found within myself. True ‘otherness’ is the elusive for the artist, but not so for the reader, who passively consumes what the writer has created for him.)

So that the way Art ‘instructs his quote is by the revelation of the Other. The artist himself can become the author, by structuring his art around his philosophy, and succumbing to propaganda. Yet is that a legitimate process of art? Or should the artist be no more than the revealer? Let him speak through the fashioning of what he reveals; this is also to prohibit him from having characters mouth his own words.

Why am I saying this? Perhaps it is because I am such a rebel, that I do not like even to be bound by the artist’s Godhead over his own word. Yet that Godhead is inescapable: what I do not like, therefore, is its explicitness. I am not reacting against the act itself, merely insisting that the act be disguised.

What had begun as a very simple summation, has become so complicated that I am left with more questions than before I began.

Nonsense Words

(July 29, 1978)

Repeat a word to yourself fifty times.

The word will lose connection with the concept it has been chosen to represent. It looms large, mysterious, sinister – then it ends by becoming nonsensical. How could the word ever mean anything? What an odd word!

This is particularly true with the words so common that they are used every day. The word itself, the actual phonetic and physical quality of it, comes to have any meaning of its own, a personality if you will.

This process can be employed for the names of characters. If you refer to our character by a certain name for long enough (important: the name should be long enough or formal enough so that its repetition would be unusual: you want the reader to see and hear the words every time they are used. Not just ‘Jim,’ but ‘James L. Shaughnessy’) the name itself will come to have an effect on the reader. It will no longer simply name the character. It will come to have its own meaning – of the joy, of terror, of repulsion, etc. – love and by itself.

This is a particularly nice trick to have when you want to set up a punch for a character who is going to reappear suddenly in the story. Just before you leave him, repeat his name every chance you get. Refer to him with pronouns such as ‘him,’ ‘he,’ as seldom as possible always use the name and always use the full name.

I used to this technique twice so far in Ara Karn: in his own telling of his past life, I referred to his mentor not only with the full name but also with an epithet, and in the funeral of the Queen’s lover, I referred to the Imperial regent by his full name.