I have been pondering lately the distinct pleasure afforded
by evocative writing - one in which words are meticulously measured and
artfully poised; in which the narrative is defined as much by what is absent rather
than blatantly present; where characters are suggested, distinguished by a smattering
of habitual behaviors or a particular physical attribute; where space and
stillness exist between the lines, the cadence measured, thoughtful and
precise. The evocative writer weaves a certain intuitive enchantment; fictional
individuals are perceived through a glass darkly, with much of their internal
selves concealed like the submerged leviathan detected only by the trajectory
of its spout or a hidden rose garden that is intimated by a wafting fragrance.
Recently I lost myself in Kathleen Spivack's Unspeakable Things for which I wrote a
review for Literary Fiction Book Review's
March postings - so I do not wish to abscond with their literary thunder by
duplicating content here - nevertheless, Spivack's novel was extraordinary. Her
prose redolent with a deft lyricism, imbued with an almost smoky appeal.
Juxtaposed against a subsequent read - the character and plot of which were
elaborated upon in tedious detail, Spivack's gossamer eloquence among the
literary ranks gleamed ever more brightly.
I think it is also a question of noise – literary noise. In
this tech-driven age mobile gadgetry is perpetually at hand, becoming as firmly
anchored to 21st century selves as any blood and bone limb, compromising dinner
conversations, intruding upon quiet reflection and literary habits with insistent
zings and beeps, insatiable in their demand for 'friends' and 'likes'. So I
find it with writers that insist upon relating it all, delineating each
movement of character – from stair to chair and back again – so that the resultant
narrative is overburdened; the prose, predictable with momentum motivated by sequential
mechanical action, becomes, at the literary end, stilted, robotic and, quite frankly, tedious.
Just as we are inundated with the clang and clamor of environmental noise,
riveted by the bombardment of tweets and posts, ceaselessly engaged with
trending content (much of which is vacuous), so we are regaled by meaningless matter
in books of this kind. And how much more potent and powerful is the implicit
narrative!
These novels of quiet power, of space and stillness, of
evocative suggestibility, they impart, in the sheer musical repose of finely
crafted narrative, a literary restfulness. Spivack shifts with luminous ability
between past and present, between the solidity of the corporeal world to the
incandescent suggestibility of the spiritual one. Ghosts weave and wander, with
sinuous ease, among the piping and the reader feels, like young Maria, the
evocative drama of "unspeakable things"; not only referencing dark
deeds of the nefarious Rasputin, but also the haunting power of this lovely
literary work and the compelling resonance of all that is left unsaid, by
character as well as author.
