I was thinking last night (although only because I couldn't sleep) about something William Faulkner once said about fitting everything into one sentence, or one paragraph (and most of his sentences are of paragraph length anyway), such that nothing will have been left out, not the slightest shade or nuance of meaning lacking, no question unanswered, no information wanting--nothing partial or incomplete or obscure. Of course it can't be done, and of course Faulkner knew this--although he did try mightily.
It is like that with the things that we write. They are always partial, only pieces of something much larger, only one angle, one reflection, one shade. We know this perfectly well. We know we have failed to express what we intended to express. Yet he who reads what has been written may well give us more credit than we deserve, or even desire.
It is like this with living, too. We meant to be complete, comprehensive, accomplished, clear and well composed, yet we have ended up in a chaotic, incomplete, often clumsy, sometimes lamentable narrative that must surely be misinterpreted by those who read us. And we say inwardly No, no--this is not what I meant at all!
On the other hand, the reader--he who sees and appraises--actually prefers what is partial and incomplete, because the narrative is simpler that way. What appears, divested of the peripheral complications of what was wanted or intended, is good enough. We reduce, simplify, pigeonhole in order that we may have a useful narrative, a general sort of judgment. We end of with reductive caricatures, and we like it that way--though of course would feel the same method applied in summation of ourselves outrageous.
Well … these are the things I think about at night, rather than sleeping.
It is like that with the things that we write. They are always partial, only pieces of something much larger, only one angle, one reflection, one shade. We know this perfectly well. We know we have failed to express what we intended to express. Yet he who reads what has been written may well give us more credit than we deserve, or even desire.
It is like this with living, too. We meant to be complete, comprehensive, accomplished, clear and well composed, yet we have ended up in a chaotic, incomplete, often clumsy, sometimes lamentable narrative that must surely be misinterpreted by those who read us. And we say inwardly No, no--this is not what I meant at all!
On the other hand, the reader--he who sees and appraises--actually prefers what is partial and incomplete, because the narrative is simpler that way. What appears, divested of the peripheral complications of what was wanted or intended, is good enough. We reduce, simplify, pigeonhole in order that we may have a useful narrative, a general sort of judgment. We end of with reductive caricatures, and we like it that way--though of course would feel the same method applied in summation of ourselves outrageous.
Well … these are the things I think about at night, rather than sleeping.
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