If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. (Ernest Hemingway)

A stubborn after-image, which comes from all the previous modes of writing and even from the past of my own, drowns the sound of my present words. Any written trace precipitates, as inside a chemical at first transparent, innocent and neutral, mere duration gradually reveals in suspension a whole past of increasing density, like a cryptogram. (Roland Barthes)

Hemingway and Barthes have radically different styles. But do they stem from radically different ideas about the nature of writing, from opposing views about a writer’s problem? That’s what has been interesting me these days. While I often find myself citing Hemingway when giving advice to students, I am hesitant to invoke Barthes because his philosophical and literary sophistication can be daunting. Even in their use of analogy, as in the examples quoted above, Hemingway’s point is much more straightforward and easier to put into practice. Barthes is more likely to impress our students with what Robert Graves called “the huge impossibility of language”. Hemingway simply tells them to put their asses in their chairs and write what they know.

In my last post, I tried to show that the difficulty of writing prose is always relative to your ambition. If you want to write a paragraph that says that Hamlet loved his mother, you can, in principle, simply say it six times:

Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother.

This, I would say, is scholarly prose at “degree zero”. It is the minimum effort we can make as writers to say something we know. I also suggested what we might do to take it up a level by addressing the reader’s possible objections to our thesis about Hamlet’s feelings:

Hamlet resented his mother’s marriage. She had married his uncle. His uncle had taken his crown. But Hamlet loved his mother. Her betrayal hurt him. It broke his heart.

But this leaves a great deal under the surface, as it were. It is merely the tip of Hemingway’s iceberg, and scholars do like to be a bit more explicit, a bit more elaborate. They belabor the point, if you will, as a matter of professional pride. They don’t just tell you what they know (and presume that you know enough to make sense of it); they tell you also how they know (and therefore give you an opening to tell them what they’ve gotten wrong). They are also more upfront about what they think you think about their views, whether they are offering support, elaboration or a defense of their central claim. Consider:

It is sometimes argued that Hamlet’s pain stems from an ambivalence about his mother. To be sure, Hamlet resented his mother’s marriage. She had married his uncle and his uncle had taken his crown. But Hamlet loved his mother to the end. Indeed, his resentment does not belie his love but confirms it, just as jealousy is often evidence of a profound attachment. Her betrayal hurt him, but only someone we love can hurt us like this; only love can break our hearts. We must conclude that Hamlet was not ambivalent about his mother but suffered, precisely, because of his constancy. He was repulsed by someone he could not help but love.

Whatever you may think about its content, I hope you will agree that this paragraph is now more recognizably “scholarly” or “academic”. (Adding a few sources would cinch it, I think.) It makes explicit what the previous effort leaves implicit, namely, the reasoning by which we turn Hamlet’s apparent ambivalence into an argument for the constancy of his love for Gertrude.

I think Barthes would say that these reasons are already implicit in the simpler statement. If the reader is sufficiently steeped in the tradition of Elizabethan drama, then, given time, the “innocent, transparent” mind would soon dissolve the kernels of truth, rendering it cloudy, which is merely to say more “learned”. But scholars protect their statements from being dissolved any which way, which is to say, they don’t want to see them diluted, so they tie them to a particular past, they inscribe them in a particular code. As I noted in my earlier posts, they “situate the nature of their language in a social area”. If you want to take the argument apart, you now have to do it in a particular way. You have to respect the terms of the discourse.

Notice that Hemingway is not interested in the fact that the iceberg melts, but in the style of its motion. His scale is macroscopic, almost geological. Barthes would have considered how things dissolve, the chemistry of writing. He would put it under a microscope, approach it at the molecular level.

This is also why Barthes has so much more pull in the academy than Hemingway. “Papa’s” advice seems banal and always-already understood–in a word, unscientific. We want to say that we don’t need to be reminded about what writing is in that sense. We don’t want to “reduce” the problem of writing to merely being, say, knowledgeable and honest — which is one way to interpret the injunction to “write truly”. We want writing to be something much more subtle, much more sophisticated. We don’t want to practice; we want a theory. We want, I suspect, our failings to be understandable and even our failures to be commendable. It is not that we don’t know enough, we insist, or that we don’t mean what we say. It is that writing is difficult. But Hemingway is ready to grant us this too. It’s hard to tell the truth. But it is not impossible and we must never resent the difficulty. We must learn — and teach our students — to face it as authors. We must not let it be the death of us.

Imagine a college English class that has been studying Shakespeare’s Hamlet. After reading the play and discussing it for a couple of weeks, the professor gives the students a simple in-class assignment. “How did Hamlet feel about his mother? Write a paragraph that answers this question.” The professor is a longtime reader of this blog, so the students have been told exactly what a paragraph is: a composition of at least six sentences and at most 200 words that say one thing and support, elaborate or defend it. Also in keeping with my recommendations, the students are given half an hour to complete the task. That is, the professor is asking them to demonstrate that they know how Hamlet felt about his mother.

Let’s try to appreciate the difficulty of the students’ task as writers. If they don’t know the answer, this problem doesn’t really arise, or arises in a corrupted form; their writing will be an attempt to conceal their ignorance rather than exposing what they know to the criticism of other knowledgeable people. But suppose a student knows that Hamlet loved his mother; what difficulty now remains? How is this hard? In my last post, I cited Hemingway and Barthes on the “writer’s problem” and the “problematics of literature” respectively. Hemingway would say that the student’s problem is to “write truly” and make that truth part of the reader’s experience; Barthes said that writing is “the morality of form” and that the student must situate the nature of their language in a social area. Neither yet seems very helpful.

But Hemingway had some more specific advice to writers. In A Moveable Feast, he says: “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” In our case, this is the “key sentence” and we already know how to write it:

Hamlet loved his mother.

Now what? Well, remember that a paragraph is at least six sentences long and at most two hundred words and it says this one true thing. The student knows how to fulfill this requirement in a simple, mechanical way:

Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother. Hamlet loved his mother.

Obviously, this will not get a very high grade. But it is better than nothing; indeed, it is significantly better than nothing. It says something true about Hamlet and displays an understanding of the basic form of a paragraph. “Now every form is also a value,” says Barthes in Writing Degree Zero, “which is why there is room, between a language and a style, for another formal reality: writing.” We might say that our minimalist student has not filled out the room between their language and their style. “Within any literary form,” Barthes continues, “there is a general choice of tone, of ethos, if you like, and this is precisely where the writer shows himself clearly as an individual because this is where he commits himself” (p. 14). We might also say that our student’s commitments are imprecise, vague.

Let us suppose our student tried to do something a little harder, something more “committed”. I always tell students to imagine what their reader will find difficult about the key sentence. Is it hard to believe or hard to understand or hard to agree with? Suppose the student chooses the last of these. Notice that this is a “choice of social area”, a site for a moral reflection on the form of the paragraph. At bottom, the writer is deciding who the reader is. Obviously, if the reader is likely to disagree with the claim that Hamlet loved his mother, we cannot simply assert this proposition six times and think we’ve accomplished something. We have to defend the claim against the reader’s objections.

For now, let’s not give ourselves too much freedom, too many resources to work with. Let’s limit ourselves to six sentences and let’s keep them simple and declarative, just like our key sentence. We will keep the form of each sentence about the same as in our previous effort, but we will introduce more content rather than merely repeating it.

Hamlet resented his mother’s marriage. She had married his uncle. His uncle had taken his crown. But Hamlet loved his mother. Her betrayal hurt him. It broke his heart.

Notice what is happening here. Much of the paragraph deals with the reasons the reader might have for thinking that Hamlet did not love his mother. It tries to situate the claim within those reasons and even tries to use them to support it. Hamlet’s resentment now does not belie his love for his mother but confirms it. His jealousy becomes evidence for it. Only someone we love can hurt us like this, we are arguing; only love can break our hearts. This reasoning is of course left implicit, but that’s a choice the writer has made, perhaps on the strength of Hemingway’s advice about the dignity of icebergs. Not incidentally, it becomes a rather ham-fisted imitation of Hemingway’s style. “In stating as fully as I could how things really were,” Hemingway explains in an interview, “it was often very difficult and I wrote awkwardly and the awkwardness is what they called my style. All mistakes and awkwardnesses are easy to see, and they called it style.”

I think you can see where this going. I’ll take it a step further in my next post, perhaps attempting a no more elegant imitation of Barthes. I want to emphasize that writing well is simply making the most of the freedom we have within the form we are given (or take upon ourselves). “Writing as freedom,” said Barthes, “is one of the most explicit [moments] in history, since history is always and above all a choice and the limits of this choice.” Writing is about making choices — about what to say and how to say it.  “This is very hard to do,” said Hemingway during the Spanish civil war, “and I’ve worked at it very hard.” I’m trying to get us to appreciate this difficulty in the composition classroom and find ways to overcome it in practice.

A writer’s problem does not change. He himself changes, but his problem remains the same. It is always how to write truly and, having found what is true, to project it in such a way that it becomes a part of the experience of the person who reads it. (Ernest Hemingway)*

Placed at the center of the problematics of literature, which cannot exist prior to it, writing is thus essentially the morality of form, the choice of that social area within which the writer elects to situate the Nature of his language. (Roland Barthes)**

Hemingway and Barthes approached the problem of writing very differently. But surely they are talking about the same thing? Are they perhaps even saying the same thing? If so, is there a good reason to say it so differently? If not, is one of them wrong and the other right?

It seems to me that Hemingway talked about writing as a practitioner, while Barthes talked about it as a theorist. (He considered Writing Degree Zero to be “an introduction to what a history of writing might be,” or what I would call a theory of writing.) Barthes, of course, also did a lot of writing himself, but it would not be wrong to say that the basis of his ideas about writing was his reading of the literature, while Hemingway was reporting on his own struggle with writing, describing his own problem as a writer. I think writing instructors do well to think about this too. What is the basis of their advice to the writer’s they work with? Are they giving their students a theory of writing or guiding their practice?

I will take this up in a couple posts to come. My thesis will be that theory marks a shift from what Hemingway called “the person who reads” to  what Barthes called “the choice of social area”. For Hemingway, writing meant constructing an experience for the reader, for another individual. For Barthes, writing was a social function, a moral problem. The language, Barthes tells us, marks “the limit of the possible”, while “style is a necessity which binds the writer’s humor to his form of expression.” If Robert Graves talked about the “huge impossibility of language” that the poet faces, Barthes posited at least the deep contingency of history. Writing is the freedom to engage with the forces of history, gauging their weight according to one’s “nature”, in one’s own manner, according to one’s own style. There is a morality in Hemingway, too, to be sure, but it is captured straightforwardly in the injunction to “write truly”.

My feeling these days is that writing instruction, grounded in “composition studies”, is too beholden to theory and not sufficiently engaged in practice. This is weakening our style in universities. Instead of telling our students simply to write what they think is true for readers they know who are, we are presenting them with what to them appears to be a huge impossibility, namely, to “situate the nature of their language” (whatever we mean by that) within “the problematics” of an academic “literature”. It’s not that I think Barthes was wrong. In fact, I think he was mostly right. But he was right about writing in theory and this is not a good place to begin when teaching writing. Students do not, first and foremost, have a theoretical problem, nor even a moral one (though, to be sure, our grading is often experienced as a kind of moralizing). They have a practical one. We have to bring that problem into focus for them.

______
*”Fascism Is a Lie” (a speech at the American Writers’ Congress in June of 1937) in Conversations with Ernest Hemingway, Matthew J. Bruccoli, ed. (University Press of Mississippi, 1986), p.193.
**Writing Degree Zero (1953), trans. Annette Lavers and Colin Smith (Jonathan Cape, 1967), p. 16.

I got to thinking of the Zen masters, one old dog in particular. The one who said, “It’s your mind that’s troubling you, is it? Well then, bring it out, put it down here, let’s have a look at it!” (Henry Miller)

Rachael Cayley has a good post about academic writer’s block up at the LSE Impact Blog, citing Helen Kara and Julia Molinari as inspiration. I think we’re all more or less on the same page on this issue. “Writers block” is a false name for a real problem. When we “debunk” writer’s block we are not denying the experience it names, which is very real, and entirely unpleasant. We are simply proposing a less occult explanation for it than the one people who say they are “blocked” are invoking, sometimes unconsciously. We are not saying that things don’t go bump in the night. We are saying that your house is probably not haunted. Or at least not as haunted as you think.

When someone tells me they are blocked, I take the attitude of a parent dealing with the monsters under the child’s bed. Most importantly, I don’t participate in their fear. While the child’s mind is assembling the play of light and shadow and the creaking that the motions their own body makes in the bed into the shape of some horrid beast, I know what’s really down there — namely, nothing — and I am not afraid. The child learns from my reaction to the “signs” that they are not dangerous, just familiar indications of something much simpler, something harmless. An important part of the “exorcism”, of course, is to have a look. Perhaps with a flashlight, perhaps just by turning on the lights in the room. What we thought was a scary monster turns out to be a lost toy and an old sock.

But how do we get a good a look under the bed of the writing process? How do we see that there’s nothing in the way of anything where the process is supposedly blocked. Well, the first question is: what is it you can’t write? What is it you think you should be able to say but can’t because your writing is stuck? At this point, the author will usually be able to identify the paper or chapter that is giving them trouble. That is, there is some specific text on which they are not making progress. And if I had probed them a little further, they would probably even be able to identify the intellectual difficulty they are facing. Sometimes, if I had in fact talked to them about it, they would have revealed that they didn’t have a clear idea of who their reader is. Both of these insights, of course, would immediately have revealed that the blockage isn’t really located in their writing, but in their thinking, their knowing. They are writing either about something or for someone they don’t know well enough. That’s the problem they’ll have to fix. (This is essentially Rachael’s cure for so-called writer’s block.)

But I don’t actually go down that route very often. Usually, I just ask them to identify the single paragraph they can’t write when they give themselves a moment to do so. This is sometimes puzzling to them. They’re happy to focus on a particular section of the paper, perhaps, but a single paragraph? They hadn’t considered the problem in those terms.

So I send them home with the following prescription: this evening, when you are done learning new things, done thinking about old problems, and ready to relax with a good book or a television show or the pleasant company of your friends or family, take five minutes to identify one thing you know that is of relevance to your paper. Formulate a simple, declarative sentence that states this truth. Ask yourself whether it’s something you need to tell your reader. If it is, ask yourself what difficulty it poses for the reader, why does it deserve a whole paragraph. (Is it hard to believe, to understand, or to agree with?) That’s it for today. Don’t spend more than five minutes on this. Just write the sentence down and consider the reader’s difficulty. Decide on a time tomorrow morning when you will spend 18 or 27 minutes writing a paragraph to support, elaborate or defend your sentence. Then get on with that relaxing evening I was talking about.

The next day, spend the planned 18 or 27 minutes working on the paragraph. When the time has run out, stop. No matter how well it went, stop. Stop even if you feel the block is gone and you’re elated and want to keep going. Stop even if you got no further than the sentence you already had the day before. So long as you faced the difficulty squarely at the time you planned, you have done what you could today. At the end of the day, make another plan for tomorrow. Write or don’t write three paragraphs this way in three days. Then come and see me again.

If you have done as I said, if you formulated three key sentences on three consecutive evenings and sat down the next day writing, or not writing, for 18 or 27 minutes, then you have, at least, taken a serious look at the problem you call writer’s block. You have probably also realized that you aren’t actually blocked. But in the unlikely event that you did no writing at all under these conditions — just sat in front of you computer watching the cursor blink — you at least have those three key sentences to talk to me about. Three different things you don’t know how to say. And we can talk about how to say them, and who to say them to. The experiment — the process by which you got the experience we can talk about — can have taken as little as a an hour altogether. If you still want to believe in ghosts and monsters and blocks after that, I can’t stop you. And I’m actually not sure I can help you either. I don’t think it’s your writing that there’s something wrong with.

(To be continued.)

Well it's a nice idea. No one told Deleuze and Guattari, though.

— Ella Taylor-Smith (@EllaTasm) March 20, 2018

I get this quite a lot, actually. Sometimes (as I think it’s intended here) it is a (good-natured) complaint about Deleuze and Guattari; more often it’s an attempt to make me look silly. Other writers have been invoked to this end — Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Wittgenstein — almost always with the insinuation that I would ban their books, or that I am at least somehow offended by them. If my rules were universally followed, it is said, none of these great thinkers would ever have written their books. Kierkegaard himself can be said to have ridiculed my position in advance, calling me out, a century before my birth, as an “enterprising abstracter, a gobbler of paragraphs … who will cut [thought] up into paragraphs … with the same inflexibility as the man who, in order to serve the science of punctuation, divided his discourse by counting out the words, fifty words to a period and thirty-five to a semicolon.” (Ouch, says the writing coach who defines the paragraph as at least six sentences and at most 200 words to be written in exactly 27 minutes, and strung together, forty paragraphs to a paper.) Surely writing is not solely about supporting, elaborating or defending statements of fact, they balk. Surely there’s something more interesting going on.

In my defense, I wouldn’t burn any of their books. Their existence doesn’t offend me in the least; my life is the richer for it. Indeed, I’d object to burning them in the strongest possible terms. It’s just that, as I usually put it when talking to students, I don’t know how they were written. I can’t help you write something like them. “There is no difference,” say Deleuze and Guattari, “between what a book talks about and how it is made.” And for the longest time I’ve been happy to admit that, half the time at least, I don’t know what they are talking about. But Ella’s tweet reminded me of one paragraph that did once offend me, albeit in a way that might surprise you.

I was younger then and very much on the same page as Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, Deleuze and Guattari. Like Foucault, I was happy to leave the order of things to the bureaucrats and the police and write out of the unruly chaos of my own damnable heart. But then I got to the “War Machine” in A Thousand Plateaus and read this shockingly conventional, altogether orderly paragraph:

Georges Dumézil, in his definitive analyses of Indo-European mythology, has shown that political sovereignty, or domination, has two heads: the magician-king and the jurist-priest. Rex and flamen, raj and Brahman, Romulus and Numa, Varuna and Mitra, the despot and the legislator, the binder and the organiser. Undoubtedly, these two poles stand in opposition term by term, as the obscure and the clear, the violent and the calm, the quick and the weighty, the fearsome and the regulated, the “bond” and the “pact,” etc. But their opposition is only relative; they function as a pair, in alternation, as though they expressed a division of the One or constituted in themselves a sovereign unity. “At once antithetical and complementary, necessary to one another and consequently without hostility, lacking a mythology of conflict: a specification on any one level automatically calls forth a homologous specification on another. The two together exhaust the field of the function.” They are the principal elements of a State apparatus that proceeds by a One-Two, distributes binary distinctions, and forms a milieu of interiority. It is a double articulation that makes the State apparatus into a stratum. (ATP, p. 351-2)

What was I to make of these “definitive” analyses, this “undoubtable” polarity? Were Deleuze and Guattari expecting me to take this straight? Was my ass no longer a wolf? Two heads? Why not a thousand? Why not a multiplicity? And who was this Dumézil guy, anyway; wasn’t he some sort of fascist? Why quote him and not Henry Miller? What gives him this privileged position from which to speak? You get the idea. You’ve probably been there at one time or another yourself. But today, when I recalled this paragraph to my mind, I suspected something and took a closer look.

It consists of 8 sentences and 189 words. It says one thing, viz., “political sovereignty, or domination, has two heads: the magician-king and the jurist-priest,” and elaborates on it. Arguably, it also supports it, but it does so on the authority of Dumézil, which it endorses as “definitive”. It can be said to be an elaboration of Dumézil, except that he did not talk about the “State apparatus.” The key sentence might in fact be better said to be the last one: “[The opposition of magician-king and jurist-priest] is a double articulation that makes the State apparatus into a stratum.” After reading this paragraph, I dare say, we’re in no doubt about how it was made and we know, more or less, what they are talking about. It lays out the simple reasons behind a complex claim. It clearly exposes them to the criticism of their peers.

That is, maybe Ella is wrong. Maybe someone did tell Deleuze and Guattari what paragraphs are for and how they work. (Perhaps Deleuze’s teachers at the Lycée Carnot?) Indeed, maybe they made their books altogether deliberately out of paragraphs. “Each morning we would wake up, and each of us would ask himself what plateau he was going to tackle, writing five lines here, ten there.” They took their title concept “plateau” from Gregory Bateson, describing it as “a self-vibrating region of intensities whose development avoids any orientation toward a culmination point or external end”. Isn’t this how I advise authors to approach a moment in which to write a paragraph? I think it is.

Even Deleuze and Guattari’s translator seems to have missed this point.* Brian Massumi tells us that A Thousand Plateaus “presents itself as a network of ‘plateaus’ that are precisely dated but can be read in any order” (ix). But it’s the chapters, not the paragraphs, that are dated in this book. Perhaps he was misled by what the authors themselves say: “a book composed of chapters has culmination and termination points. What takes place in a book composed instead of plateaus that communicate with one another across microfissures, as in a brain?” (ATP, p. 22, my emphasis) The word “instead” leads us naturally to think that what looks like chapters are really plateaus. But the point is that the book was not composed into chapters, nor even around those precise dates, the moment when what is being talked about (how it is made) existed in some “pure form,” as Massumi suggests. Actually, forget the philosophical argument and just do the math: there are fifteen chapters in the book. But there are about 500 pages and an average of two paragraphs to the page is not a bad guess. What there’s a thousand of is neither chapters nor sections but paragraphs. Every morning the authors would get up and make one here, another one there. That’s what it’s about.

__________

*The idea that “chapters” = “plateaus” in A Thousand Plateaus seems to be pretty standard. It’s also how Brian Adkins approaches them in his critical guide (pp. 15-7).