Sunday 1 September 2013

Food for Thought on a Summer Sunday Morning (and Music, too!)

The following essay by the writer Jhumpa Lahiri is an example of how an author writing about her or his craft is as pleasant as reading one of her or his books. First published in The New York Times as part of Draft, a series on the art of writing, Lahiri's piece is posted here without any permission. I hope you enjoy it. I'm still on cyber-vacation.

My Life’s Sentences- by Jhumpa Lahiri

In college, I used to underline sentences that struck me, that made me look up from the page. They were not necessarily the same sentences the professors pointed out, which would turn up for further explication on an exam. I noted them for their clarity, their rhythm, their beauty and their enchantment. For surely it is a magical thing for a handful of words, artfully arranged, to stop time. To conjure a place, a person, a situation, in all its specificity and dimensions. To affect us and alter us, as profoundly as real people and things do.

I remember reading a sentence by Joyce, in the short story “Araby.” It appears toward the beginning. “The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed.” I have never forgotten it. This seems to me as perfect as a sentence can be. It is measured, unguarded, direct and transcendent, all at once. It is full of movement, of imagery. It distills a precise mood. It radiates with meaning and yet its sensibility is discreet.

When I am experiencing a complex story or novel, the broader planes, and also details, tend to fall away. Rereading them, certain sentences are what greet me as familiars. You have visited before, they say when I recognize them. We encounter books at different times in life, often appreciating them, apprehending them, in different ways. But their language is constant. The best sentences orient us, like stars in the sky, like landmarks on a trail.
 
They remain the test, whether or not to read something. The most compelling narrative, expressed in sentences with which I have no chemical reaction, or an adverse one, leaves me cold. In fiction, plenty do the job of conveying information, rousing suspense, painting characters, enabling them to speak. But only certain sentences breathe and shift about, like live matter in soil. The first sentence of a book is a handshake, perhaps an embrace. Style and personality are irrelevant. They can be formal or casual. They can be tall or short or fat or thin. They can obey the rules or break them. But they need to contain a charge. A live current, which shocks and illuminates.

Knowing — and learning to read in — a foreign tongue heightens and complicates my relationship to sentences. For some time now, I have been reading predominantly in Italian. I experience these novels and stories differently. I take no sentence for granted. I am more conscious of them. I work harder to know them. I pause to look something up, I puzzle over syntax I am still assimilating. Each sentence yields a twin, translated version of itself. When the filter of a second language falls away, my connection to these sentences, though more basic, feels purer, at times more intimate, than when I read in English.

The urge to convert experience into a group of words that are in a grammatical relation to one another is the most basic, ongoing impulse of my life. It is a habit of antiphony: of call and response. Most days begin with sentences that are typed into a journal no one has ever seen. There is a freedom to this; freedom to write what I will not proceed to wrestle with. The entries are mostly quotidian, a warming up of the fingers and brain. On days when I am troubled, when I am grieved, when I am at a loss for words, the mechanics of formulating sentences, and of stockpiling them in a vault, is the only thing that centers me again.

It's never too early to start building sentences
Constructing a sentence is the equivalent of taking a Polaroid snapshot: pressing the button, and watching something emerge. To write one is to document and to develop at the same time. Not all sentences end up in novels or stories. But novels and stories consist of nothing but. Sentences are the bricks as well as the mortar, the motor as well as the fuel. They are the cells, the individual stitches. Their nature is at once solitary and social. Sentences establish tone, and set the pace. One in front of the other marks the way.

My work accrues sentence by sentence. After an initial phase of sitting patiently, not so patiently, struggling to locate them, to pin them down, they begin arriving, fully formed in my brain. I tend to hear them as I am drifting off to sleep. They are spoken to me, I’m not sure by whom. By myself, I know, though the source feels independent, recondite, especially at the start. The light will be turned on, a sentence or two will be hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper, carried upstairs to the manuscript in the morning. I hear sentences as I’m staring out the window, or chopping vegetables, or waiting on a subway platform alone. They are pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, handed to me in no particular order, with no discernible logic. I only sense that they are part of the thing.

Over time, virtually each sentence I receive and record in this haphazard manner will be sorted, picked over, organized, changed. Most will be dispensed with. All the revision I do — and this process begins immediately, accompanying the gestation — occurs on a sentence level. It is by fussing with sentences that a character becomes clear to me, that a plot unfolds. To work on them so compulsively, perhaps prematurely, is to see the trees before the forest. And yet I am incapable of conceiving the forest any other way.

As a book or story nears completion, I grow acutely, obsessively conscious of each sentence in the text. They enter into the blood. They seem to replace it, for a while. When something is in proofs I sit in solitary confinement with them. Each is confronted, inspected, turned inside out. Each is sentenced, literally, to be part of the text, or not. Such close scrutiny can lead to blindness. At times — and these times terrify — they cease to make sense. When a book is finally out of my hands I feel bereft. It is the absence of all those sentences that had circulated through me for a period of my life. A complex root system, extracted.

Even printed, on pages that are bound, sentences remain unsettled organisms. Years later, I can always reach out to smooth a stray hair. And yet, at a certain point, I must walk away, trusting them to do their work. I am left looking over my shoulder, wondering if I might have structured one more effectively. This is why I avoid reading the books I’ve written. Why, when I must, I approach the book as a stranger, and pretend the sentences were written by someone else.

Next Post: "Food for Thought on a Summer Sunday Morning (and Music, too!)", to be published on 8th September at 10am (GMT)


27 comments:

  1. What an incredible essay. Thank you. So very much.

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  2. Sentences can sure stick out indeed and sometimes best to weed them down

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  3. sentences as unsettled organism on the page...i like that...ever growing and changing you know...it is the process...this was a cool read for sure...i enjoy hearing how someone crafts and their views on it...happy sunday man

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  4. I do that too...highlight sentences that hold a special meaning for me. It helps me to grasp the overall meaning of an essay or report in my own way.

    This visit to your wonderful blog has been very enlightening (as it always is!).
    Many thanks for that.:)

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  5. Yo nunca he sido de letras, ni comprendo como tengo dos blogs abiertos y gente que me lea, con lo cual pocas frases hago, pero en cambio admiro todos tus ensayos y tu facilidad en tus escritos.
    Un buen principio de semana y de Septiembre.

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  6. "To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman."

    I smile and my mind begins to drift whenever something or someone reminds me of that sentence.

    I really enjoyed this piece, CiL. So often it is a line -- a sentence, here and there in a story -- which stops the reader dead in his tracks and causes him to look up and away from the book and to think. He probably will read the sentence again a few times to absorb it and, maybe, never forget it -- or the story or the author. It is said a picture is worth a thousand words, but there also are sentences which convey and portray what a thousand pictures could not.

    The music was perfect for a Sunday, no matter what the time of day

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  7. Interesting insights. I totally sympathise with the idea of being unable to every let them completely alone! :)

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  8. There are sentences that stop me in my tracks. It's like the author is talking directly to me and knew exactly what I needed to hear. And I don't think this is always by accident. Very interesting ideas here.

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  9. I love Lahiri's thoughts on words.

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  10. Marvelous post! I enjoyed reading it very much and enjoyed the video also. Thank you and thank you for the kind words on my blog, I feel the same way about yours :)

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  11. Super useful advice. I have all the novel manuscripts sitting around and I tend to get too focused on the sentence by sentence stuff sometimes and not on the story. Especially as I've written for young people. It is all very difficult. This wonderful though, thanks. k.

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  12. such talent she has with words almost like a living relationship

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  13. This essay is gorgeous; thank you for bringing it to my attention. I am in agreement that the sentence by Joyce mentioned in the second paragraph is glorious--and, to take it further, I'd assert that Joyce's "The Dead" is as perfect a short story as has ever been written.

    Now I'm trying to think which of my students would respond to reading this essay, too!

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  14. Marvelous essay! Lahiri is one of my favorite authors. I'll be posting a review of her new novel later this month, closer to its release date. I read her books with a pencil in hand, underlining her lovely sentences. It was really interesting to learn more about her process. I love that line about smoothing a stray hair. It's hard for me to let a MS go and start a new one.

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  15. Constructing a sentence is the equivalent of taking a Polaroid snapshot...ha...i think i fully agree....

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  16. What a marvelous essay! Thank you so much for sharing it with us. Words have such power, and the ability to string them together into a perfect sentence is an art.

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  17. strange but I can understand it. :)

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  18. "The urge to convert experience into a group of words that are in a grammatical relation to one another is the most basic, ongoing impulse of my life."

    In mine, too, Juhumpa, in mine. I also liked what she said about speaking a foreign language and the how the filter of that second language falls away. It happened to me in English many years ago and it continues to happen.

    Great article. I'm glad you all liked it.

    Have a nice weekend.

    Greetings from London.

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  19. Nice post, great blog, following :)

    Good Luck :)

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  20. I so much enjoyed reading this post. Have never read someone write about sentences in such a beautiful and personal way. Thanks so much for posting this, it added a little more quality to my day. Hope yours is good too.

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  21. I can relate to nearly all of this - my poems very often accrue line by line, for example, and certainly when I read it is the dazzling little jewels of phrase or sentence that most often strike.

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  22. What an excellent essay! It speaks to all of us who play with words trying to create a magic moment, a smile, an image that brings that inner glow of satisfaction :-) thank you for sharing this--happy vacation!

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  23. The singing is so soothing and the strumming goes well with the song.

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  24. Many thanks for your kind comments.

    Greetings from London.

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  25. Jhumpa's essay caught me in the first paragraph with the sentence:
    For surely it is a magical thing for a handful of words, artfully arranged, to stop time.
    Thanks for sharing the essay!

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