Sunday, June 23, 2013

Hemingway, the Beast, and Bleeding on The Typewriter

I have seldom used a typewriter but often lament it's passing nonetheless. There is a romanticism inherent in the tapping of keys, in that echoing resonance of click-clacking that evokes a previous age;  this absorbed intensity of writer hunched, the crumpled discards littering underfoot, the furious symphony of pounded keys that echoes the tumultuous haste of the literary mind: a Hemingway moment poised over the typewriter as bombs thundered in the streets outside - the ferment of war, the thrum and pulse of a quickened literary imperative; a darkened alphabetic imprint implying a forceful keyboard jab, the damp brow, the fleeting fingers, the quick catch of breath...when writers described a moment in all its intensity before it was gone. One can readily imagine the drops of sweat, blood and absinthe that marred Hemingway's pages (metaphorically or otherwise), that accompanied the feverish vehemence of prose that hammered out beneath his keys. As he himself said: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed."

Somehow the interaction now, between writer and vehicle of prose, seems, comparatively, a rather mute endeavor; the quiet hum and whir of computer processing power, the silent acquiescence of a pristinely effective delete function, and the intangible narrative product that exists in the dark obscurity of binary code. It is there somewhere, encoded in ones and zeros, in dusty company with other long-forgotten files and jpgs. Saved and stored, it exists in the abstract - it cannot be seen, let alone bled on. But of course Hemingway was referring to the figurative outpouring of everything that is essential within us - to get down to the steady beat of heart, the visceral muscular heat, the lifeblood that nourishes and sustains...the darkly pulsating warmth that resides within. It is about becoming acquainted with the darkest parts of ourselves, the unacknowledged failings, the ignored and unclaimed, the proclivities we deny, the secrets we bury deep. In short - letting loose the beast that resides within; for it is only when we have a passing knowledge of these subterranean undercurrents, these sluggish Stygian marshes, that we can attempt to write them. To find the words that capture, entwine, and depict the beast- which is, in essentials, an emotional, bloody, visceral thing. For we are attempting a portrayal of humanity, are we not? And when pushed to the brink, when cornered and threatened, do we not bare our teeth and snarl? Retaining some instincts of Sahelanthropus tchadensis, our last common ancestor with chimpanzees....

It is not an easy thing - to recognize or depict - when something is so deeply felt and hardly understood; the translation of which seems more appropriate to a Viking-growl or the fierce facade of Gothic warriors, then to words. This collection of letters in of themselves seem fairly mundane articles, poor conveyers of what seems a much greater thing. Perhaps it is the attempt of such that Hemingway refers to.

And as for typewriters - this poignant yearning for past things might also be indicative of the technologically-driven rate of world-transformation. Life oft seems to hurtle forward at an unimaginable velocity - the nature, shape and manifest inner workings of binary chip technology rapidly transforming into something else...nanotechnology, virtual reality...three-dimensional...touch pads...e-books... perhaps the typewriter is a stable iconographic image of the engaged writer - the hunched absorption, the auditory scales of keys forcibly punched, the intensity of prose sounding out an accompanying rhythm in flying fingers and furiously working mind. Click click clack. Perhaps the writer's innate tendency to retreat is a psychological reaction, in part, to the perpetual haste, the onward rush of things. For when we stop to muse, to ponder a word, to savor it on our tongue like the literary equivalent of a fine vintage...do we not ease that headlong momentum just a little? We take deliberate pause. There is time to catch one's breath so to speak.

Perhaps the typewriter is gilded with the sepia-brush of nostalgia, belonging to a golden age of something impossibly pristine, and this is why it maintains an unsurpassed literary significance (or perhaps this is merely an archaeologically-driven idiosyncrasy of my own particular mind); that it must inherently be bygone and bypassed to be so appreciated. When we see a writer sweating over the keys in a movie...the pages impatiently torn and crumpled, the ink-stains, the blots, the smudges...does one not, even for a moment, wish for that visceral closeness with the text? With words that can be tangibly smeared, that seem more intrinsically a part - and thus reluctantly parted with; grimaced and winced, a pained tortured affair - as if we were wringing words from their preferred abode of quiet-ether to the solid imperfection of ink on a page. Coercing them with gritted teeth and determined mien, a bloody-forced progression, words shoved and contorted, bribed and coaxed until they spill out upon the page like animals in the circus obediently lining up for the opening act. The beast within. Does Hemingway tame it with his blood-sacrifice? Or does it merely cooperate for its own amusement?

So if it is all about the beast, and perhaps the portrayal of it (blood-spilling seeming a requisite to the process) then the crux is less the mechanism (typewriter) than the implied emotional investment behind it.  Indubitably writers today are similarly intensely engaged in the literary endeavor...perhaps, for us, the emotional ferocity of typewritten novels might stem from the frustrations of inadequately inked-keys, or the half-hearted effectiveness of the white-out function, or the reams of paper crumpled on the floor in a visible reminder of literary failure. It is not that I do not appreciate the quiet efficiency of the computer, I just wonder whether the ferocious click-clacking of an intense narrative immersion facilitates bleeding Hemingway-style to a greater degree....whether somehow the beast is himself attuned to the clatter and rhythm of keystrokes; if he is, to a greater degree, repulsed by our stark efficiency, by our quietly humming immediacy and our limitless electronic databanks.





18 comments:

  1. PJ, you are an amazing writer. Please, point me to one of your novels. With the prose you create - rhythms and rhymes - one must pursue the next of them to satisfy the soul and longings.
    Walter

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    1. Dear Walter - thank you for your most kind compliment. My first novel will be in stores in September of this year (I will keep you posted)...thank you again for your wonderful words - they are more appreciated than I can adequately express!

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  2. PJ, this is by far your most brillant blog I have read. Not just to write Hemmingway; but to write about him in such a way that not only his words but also yours come alife. It is as if the two of you are side by side clicking on dual typewriters. This one I will keep to re-read. The prose of both are literally jumping off my screen.

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    1. Thank you Rachealgrace - I am honored and humbled by your visit and your most kind comment. You have, quite simply, made my day!

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  3. The correct spelling is "Hemingway," assuming you're speaking of Ernest. It's interesting that you invoke him, because your extremely vivid prose is the antithesis of his.

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    1. Indeed - a sticky 'm'! Thank you for pointing it out, I appreciate it indeed! Yes - we have very different writing styles, I find his terseness rather appealing. He is a bit of an icon in these parts, and his old home just around the corner.

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  4. Gorgeously lush prose as usual PJ - thoroughly enjoyed! Now hurry up your book-availability date as like Walter I cannot wait to purchase it!

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    1. Thank you dear Sarah - utterly thrilled you enjoyed it - and certainly would be pleased to keep you posted on the arrival of the tome!

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  5. Dear PJ, your musings always lead to an expansion of consciousness. Mr. Hemingway, with all due respect, was quite theatrical in his daily life and his literary discourse outside his fiction. I worked on a typewriter for many more years than I did on a computer. "Bleeding" over it is a brilliant trope, but my feeling is that creative writing makes us bleed regardless of the medium. The click-clack of my mother's typewriter when I was a child reminded me of her presence. The countless crumpled sheets (hers and mine) all over the floor heightened our feelings of frustration when we felt what we'd written just didn't sound right. I still delete whole pages, yet not having to see them as mute reproaches for my inadequacy is a wonderful relief. The beast in me awakens no matter how I write; the computer cannot alleviate the inner darkness that prompts my fiction.
    Thank you for a brilliant article, and looking forward to more, from your admirer Marta.

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    1. Dear Marta,
      Thank you for your lovely response, and for taking the time to read my humble offering. I utterly agree with you - the computer is, merely, the vehicle in which to write - and a much more convenient one than the typewriter certainly - but has little to do with the expressiveness of the inner beast which will finds its way on to the page regardless of the mechanism that gets it there (computer, typewriter or pen). Thank you again for your wonderful commentary and your unstinting support of my literary endeavors! PJ

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  6. Thanks for your posting. I remember once taking a break at an office in the early 80s when typewriters were still used for correspondence. The break room was next to the room for the typing pool. I closed my eyes and imagined that the sound of the typewriters was rain - a heavy, pounding rain and immediately felt transported. I was no longer sitting in a windowless room with a vending machine. I was someplace else, warm and dry while outside there was a furious storm.

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    1. Dear Sue,
      What a sublime image! Thank you so much for taking the time to read my musing, as well as the lovely comment you left behind. I have never thought of the typewriter evoking the heavy drum of rain - and many of them in concert doing so - what a wonderful moment! I can readily imagine that feeling of being transported to the midst of a tropical monsoon.

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  7. Dear PJ,
    When I was a child, my father was the"King" of the typewriter repair industry (he also repaired and restored antique clocks), so our home basement was his repair shop and it was constantly filled with typewriters of every make and model since the day they were invented. He traveled all over the Midwest to every major typewriter dealer in fifteen states because he was in such great demand to teach others his skill and trade. He always described his technique as "tearing down the beast to tackle the problem." When I was nine years old he gave me a vintage 1920 (blood red) Remington typewriter for my birthday so I could begin my creative writing career, because I loved writing stories.

    So you see, for some, like the dedicated writers, the beast within is the story to be told that must be wrestled to the ground and pounded out on the keys; and for others, the beast is the very machine that is continuously tortured by other bloody beasts in such a beautiful, beastly fashion.

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    1. Dearest Shari,
      Thank you for your wonderful comment - how utterly sublime your descriptions are - I can vividly imagine such an eclectic treasure trove under the floorboards....'tearing down the beast' - in all the forms it takes!! Wonderful, Shari - I so enjoyed your thoughts, thank you for visiting and leaving them for me!

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  8. I've always preferred stamping cuneiform into wet clay as we used to do in Sumer. I had to move to papyrus, though, when the bricks got too heavy. I like the smell of it. What's a typewriter?

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    1. Ha! Wonderful! In a recently completed novel I wrote a passage in which an aristocrat in post-Revolutionary France laments the tumultuous whirl of passing time and the transformation of his particular world - in specific regard to the invention by an Englishman of the nibbed pen and his reluctance to relinquish his quills...Thank you Geoffrey for your kind visit and your utterly delightful comment!

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    2. You've completed your novel? Congratulations! Tell us more.

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    3. Thank you Geoffrey - for your kind interest. It has been a ten-year haul no less, and has, over the last month, undergone all the last-minute spit and polish - with one final read through to be done (more to ease authorial anxiety about some misplaced, overlooked word...) and then it will be published in September. The title previously fixed upon was The Goodwin Agenda, but I have some concerns that 'agenda' (though in use in 1803) is more indicative of a modern board room and paperwork drudgery which is not exactly the allusion I am going for.....so mulling over titles. But extremely excited about launching the baby that is for certain!

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