Greetings all.
I'm currently on the last little bit of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer. This incomparable tome is vast and full of glistening bits of information that I never knew, or knew I knew; such as the infamous evil of Dr. August Hirt, who was much more sadistic and cunning than Dr. Mengele (who doesn't even merit a mention by name in the book). The book has opened my eyes about many things; but two remain a mystery. 1. How Hitler seized absolute power. It seemed that the coverage of this period was not as deep as it could have been (1928 - 1933). Possibly because the documents concerning this period of the dictator's rise either don't exist or the witnesses are all dead. 2. Why the German people followed this guy to utter ruin and destruction. Of course, after a certain point (1934) they no longer had a choice. After that, only the army could have deposed the dictator. Shirer spends a great deal of time discussing von Stauffenberg's conspiracy (Operation Valkyrie) and while reading it one cringes with angst at the near misses, and missed opportunities. Shirer spends some time on the Holocaust, but I'm sure he counted upon others to get the specifics down. He does manage to prove that the Holocaust really did happen, using accounting and statistics kept by the Third Reich itself. All in all, I feel better for having read this book. I've known much of this in an off-handed way, but now I know better. I cannot improve on the words of the ADL: Hitler's evil and destructive influence has no parallel in the annals of history.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Lisey's Story
I'm listening to Lisey's Story (read by the incomparable Mare Winningham) by Stephen King. As writers we hold the mirror up to nature as Aristotle's famous trope says. That means we are not strictly natural, we are mirroring the natural. The little bits of day-to-day minutae that comprise life are redacted in favor of those elements which support the story, and its artful rhythms.
While Lisey's Story has some heart-wrenchingly beautiful poetic prose (SK's description of John Lennon comes immediately to mind), the way Lisey thinks is simply not natural. She imagines all the little bits leading up to the big event (which I haven't got to yet). But that's not how real people think, I believe. That's how authors think who are plotting a mystery; or like a historian giving us the step-by-step reasons leading up to disasters like the Hindenberg's or the Titanic's. Because this thought process (not the words themselves, but the substance, the rhythm and the meaning) seems stilted, the book keeps me at arm's length, gnashing my teeth and muttering, "get to the point already!"
Real people remember the big events first. Then we fill in the gaps. We also have fantasies about what we could have done differently if only we could turn back time and have a do-over. Lisey experiences none of this (or very little--since I'm listening I may not have the same focus as reading on the page). Reactions make the story. Big events--then reactions--make the story. In all of her musings I often lose where she is in the moment--what's she's doing in real time. If she were writing the story--i.e., if it were in first person--then all of this would be moot because she would be de facto unreliable. Then we would have to piece together the clues ourselves because she's focused on other things and the author, like her subconscious, is dropping little hints along the way.
As it is, Lisey's Story is rather like a murder mystery in which you've been in the point of view of a character the whole time, and only on the last page do you discover this character is the killer. Fraud! Cheat! Compare this with Hearts in Atlantis, and I think you'll agree. When you're writing psychological horror--you have to get the psychology right.
While Lisey's Story has some heart-wrenchingly beautiful poetic prose (SK's description of John Lennon comes immediately to mind), the way Lisey thinks is simply not natural. She imagines all the little bits leading up to the big event (which I haven't got to yet). But that's not how real people think, I believe. That's how authors think who are plotting a mystery; or like a historian giving us the step-by-step reasons leading up to disasters like the Hindenberg's or the Titanic's. Because this thought process (not the words themselves, but the substance, the rhythm and the meaning) seems stilted, the book keeps me at arm's length, gnashing my teeth and muttering, "get to the point already!"
Real people remember the big events first. Then we fill in the gaps. We also have fantasies about what we could have done differently if only we could turn back time and have a do-over. Lisey experiences none of this (or very little--since I'm listening I may not have the same focus as reading on the page). Reactions make the story. Big events--then reactions--make the story. In all of her musings I often lose where she is in the moment--what's she's doing in real time. If she were writing the story--i.e., if it were in first person--then all of this would be moot because she would be de facto unreliable. Then we would have to piece together the clues ourselves because she's focused on other things and the author, like her subconscious, is dropping little hints along the way.
As it is, Lisey's Story is rather like a murder mystery in which you've been in the point of view of a character the whole time, and only on the last page do you discover this character is the killer. Fraud! Cheat! Compare this with Hearts in Atlantis, and I think you'll agree. When you're writing psychological horror--you have to get the psychology right.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Bram Stoker Award
Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet has been nominated for the 2008 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Anthology. Excuse me while I pinch myself. I must be dreaming!
Monday, March 16, 2009
Two Blogs - A Crisis of Theme
Since starting this blog, which was intended originally to be more about my writing and news regarding its publication-its theme got lost. I will endeavor to post my "deep thoughts" on my other blog, Furor Scribendi, which can be found by clicking on the link. I invite you to go there, read, absorb and comment if you like.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Conspiracy Theory
Reading Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi's Monster of Florence. Epiphany: Conspiracy theories are wonderful for fiction, but they are annoying and bizarre when applied to real life. But, when the police develop a conspiracy theory as in the the case of Dr. Narducci, the School of the Red Rose, and the serial killer(s) known as the Monster of Florence, then God help us.
It is as though the investigators, in their single-minded obsession to catch the killer, see it as a personal offront that the killer is still loose, and develop a kind of collective delusion. They must justify their obsession. They must justify why this character has eluded them for decades. Of course! It can't be only one person! Of course! It must be a conspiracy against law and order. Of course! It has to be a shadowy group of very rich and powerful individuals who are united against me, because a poor Sardianian illiterate could never have eluded justice so effectively for so long. There's nothing wrong with MY methods--I must be up against impossible odds. The motive? Of course--it MUST be SATANIC, because I certainly feel as though I'm in hell...
Apparently such investigative "technique" is tantamount to a kind of hysteria--and leads to factitious delusion and the most bizarre leaps in logic. Like auditors, investigators may need to be rotated so that they don't develop these Captain Ahab-like fixations and mental disorders.
Preston and Spezi, having the temerity to review the evidence and come to their own conclusions--which deviate from the investigator's bizarre construct of events, fall under the lens of suspicion themselves. Like the Salem Witch Trials, when questioning the procedure itself was enough to bring suspicion on the questioner.
Money quote: "I felt like I was in Franz Kafka's The Trial, acted out by Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis."
It is as though the investigators, in their single-minded obsession to catch the killer, see it as a personal offront that the killer is still loose, and develop a kind of collective delusion. They must justify their obsession. They must justify why this character has eluded them for decades. Of course! It can't be only one person! Of course! It must be a conspiracy against law and order. Of course! It has to be a shadowy group of very rich and powerful individuals who are united against me, because a poor Sardianian illiterate could never have eluded justice so effectively for so long. There's nothing wrong with MY methods--I must be up against impossible odds. The motive? Of course--it MUST be SATANIC, because I certainly feel as though I'm in hell...
Apparently such investigative "technique" is tantamount to a kind of hysteria--and leads to factitious delusion and the most bizarre leaps in logic. Like auditors, investigators may need to be rotated so that they don't develop these Captain Ahab-like fixations and mental disorders.
Preston and Spezi, having the temerity to review the evidence and come to their own conclusions--which deviate from the investigator's bizarre construct of events, fall under the lens of suspicion themselves. Like the Salem Witch Trials, when questioning the procedure itself was enough to bring suspicion on the questioner.
Money quote: "I felt like I was in Franz Kafka's The Trial, acted out by Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis."
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Daniel Hecht
Finished Bones of the Barbary Coast by Daniel Hecht. Wonderful, lush prose and vivid storytelling, an active main character, and adherence to Point of View make this title well worth reading. Three characters form a triangle of point of view, so that the mistaken notions of one are revealed in the point of view of another. This is effective novel writing. A fourth point of view makes itself known in the journal entries of a dead character, writing from the 1880s.
Hecht deftly works the theme of werewolf, the savage beast within, into the story, as Cree Black's allegiance changes over the course of the novel from her uncle Bert to Ray, a mysterious, deformed figure with strange ideas, who Bert has tangled with in the past. Both men must confront their inner beasts and Hecht uses point of view so extremely well, that there is a seamless transfer of the reader's allegiance, along with Cree's, from Bert to Ray.
I'm not giving too much away here, I hope, since the central mystery, the McGuffin, or raison d'etre, is the Wolfman--a skeleton found in the basement of a San Francisco house. The mystery of the Wolfman's origin forms the scaffold on which the novel is hung--with the character arcs forming all the connective mortar of the story.
Hecht understands physicality in a way that few writers do. His description of action, in particular is based in the physicality of the character from whose point of view he's writing. For Bert, it's dancing, and his heart, for Ray, his sheer exuberant masculine strength. Hecht's description of the thought process during one of the character's deaths (sorry--you have to read to find out which one) rings so emotionally true, that the reader is satisfied that this was contemplated deeply before being set down on the page. We can only ask that much of those whose writing we trust to read.
I note here, sadly, that I listened to the audio version of the book, which was narrated by Anna Fields, who died in a freak accident a year or so ago here in Seattle. She was gifted.
Hecht deftly works the theme of werewolf, the savage beast within, into the story, as Cree Black's allegiance changes over the course of the novel from her uncle Bert to Ray, a mysterious, deformed figure with strange ideas, who Bert has tangled with in the past. Both men must confront their inner beasts and Hecht uses point of view so extremely well, that there is a seamless transfer of the reader's allegiance, along with Cree's, from Bert to Ray.
I'm not giving too much away here, I hope, since the central mystery, the McGuffin, or raison d'etre, is the Wolfman--a skeleton found in the basement of a San Francisco house. The mystery of the Wolfman's origin forms the scaffold on which the novel is hung--with the character arcs forming all the connective mortar of the story.
Hecht understands physicality in a way that few writers do. His description of action, in particular is based in the physicality of the character from whose point of view he's writing. For Bert, it's dancing, and his heart, for Ray, his sheer exuberant masculine strength. Hecht's description of the thought process during one of the character's deaths (sorry--you have to read to find out which one) rings so emotionally true, that the reader is satisfied that this was contemplated deeply before being set down on the page. We can only ask that much of those whose writing we trust to read.
I note here, sadly, that I listened to the audio version of the book, which was narrated by Anna Fields, who died in a freak accident a year or so ago here in Seattle. She was gifted.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Point of View
Finished Val McDermid's Beneath the Bleeding. I love her characters. I love her caginess. But I have a technical bone to pick. This is not a whodoneit, since we know from the get-go who did the murders, but rather a whydoneit. Even so, you can't write from the killer's point of view and not spill the beans; unless it's some kind of epistolary artifact, like a written confession, a letter, a diary, or a blog, lol. But if you're just walking around inside the guy, inhabiting his head, then you can't simply omit telling the reader the answer to the central mystery--in this case--his motive.
Point of view is a delicate and fragile thing. It establishes trust, a contract with the reader--and when used well it enhances willing suspension of disbelief. You can't abuse it.
On the other hand, the question of the poisoner's motive is left unanswered--and is masterfully handled in the white space. The footballer's body shows evidence of anal abuse. The young policeman, subdued by the poisoner with a Micky Finn of roofie-laden OJ has his pants undone. The poisoner, when caught, argues "I'm NOT a pouffe." McDermid doesn't have to spell it out. It's there--in the white space. Absolutely masterful. She doesn't have to be explicit. Tony Hill knows, though he doesn't articulate it. We know--even though it isn't articulated. Throughout the book Tony keeps trying to profile the poisoner and is non-plussed by the seeming lack of a sexual motive. And in the end, of course, there is one. Brilliant.
So technically, what's the difference? Val McDermid never writes from the poisoner's point of view.
Point of view is a delicate and fragile thing. It establishes trust, a contract with the reader--and when used well it enhances willing suspension of disbelief. You can't abuse it.
On the other hand, the question of the poisoner's motive is left unanswered--and is masterfully handled in the white space. The footballer's body shows evidence of anal abuse. The young policeman, subdued by the poisoner with a Micky Finn of roofie-laden OJ has his pants undone. The poisoner, when caught, argues "I'm NOT a pouffe." McDermid doesn't have to spell it out. It's there--in the white space. Absolutely masterful. She doesn't have to be explicit. Tony Hill knows, though he doesn't articulate it. We know--even though it isn't articulated. Throughout the book Tony keeps trying to profile the poisoner and is non-plussed by the seeming lack of a sexual motive. And in the end, of course, there is one. Brilliant.
So technically, what's the difference? Val McDermid never writes from the poisoner's point of view.
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