Gonzalo Barr

One of the seminal thinkers of the twentieth century, Claude Lévi-Strauss, turned one hundred years old today.

(Updated Nov. 30, 2008):  An exhibit and a day of presentations were offered to the public at Le Musée du quai Branly in Paris on Friday.  Le monde reports that 12,123 persons attended and the lines spilled out into the street. Almost as good is the collection offered on line by the museum. There are 171 pages with pictures of objects and photos related to Lévi-Strauss and his travels in Brazil and elsewhere.

Yesterday, The Guardian also offered homage –

Claude Lévi-Strauss is one of those indefinable thinkers whose work influenced many things, including the Paris rebellions of 1968, but who survived long enough to go out of fashion, especially in the Anglo-Saxon world, which has always preferred utilitarian facts over sweeping theory. Such neglect is unfair. Lévi-Strauss, an anthropologist who became more famous than the discipline he studied, changed the study of society by breaking free of old cliches about primitive peoples. He saw humanity in terms of complex interrelationships rather than specific traditions. The intricacies of the structural anthropology he propounded now seem dated, based on mathematical and linguistic calculations far removed from the realities of life. But he was more than an abstract thinker, even if he did not always choose to admit it. “I hate travelling and explorers,” he claimed, in the opening words of the book that made his name, Tristes Tropiques, describing his 1930s journey through Brazil. That desire to provoke - attacking anthropologists as the “ragpickers of history” and 1970s society as “maggots in a sack of flour” - is what made him stand out.

Sources: Véronique Mortaigne, “Folle journée pour Lévi-Strauss,” Le monde (Nov. 29, 2008), Editorial, “In praise of … Claude Lévi-Strauss,” The Guardian (Nov. 29, 2008), Musée du Quai Branly website, article in Wikipedia on Claude Lévi-Strauss

From an essay on the Japanese print in which Frank Lloyd Wright discusses the representation of a pine tree –

The Japanese artist, by virtue of the shades of his ancestors, is born a trained observer; but only after a long series of patient studies does he consider that he knows his subject. However, he has naturally the ready ability to concentrate upon essentials, which is the prime condition of the artist’s creative insight. Were all pine trees, then, to vanish suddenly from the earth, he could, from his knowledge, furnish plan and elevation for the varied portrayal of a true species — because what he has learned… is the specific and distinguishing nature of the pine tree. Using this word “Nature” in the Japanese sense I do not of course mean that outward aspect which strikes the eye as a visual image of a scene or strikes the ground glass of a camera, but that inner harmony which penetrates the outward form or letter and is its determining character: that quality in the thing that is its significance and its Life…what Plato called …the “eternal idea of the thing”…

Ideas exist for us alone by virtue of form. The form can never be detached from the idea; the means must be perfectly adapted to the end. So in this art the problem of form and style is an organic problem solved easily and finally.

Source: William J.R. Curtis, “Grammar of Earth,” Times Literary Supplement (Oct. 24, 2008), at 10, quoting The Essential Frank Lloyd Wright (Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer, editor)

Since completing the reading draft of my novel last Thursday, I am taking time off.  First, a trip last weekend.  Then some slow and lazy reading of Pasolini poems, 2666, and several months of The Times Literary Supplement that piled up while I wrote the drafts.

I took few pictures last weekend.  My mind wasn’t in it.  My eyes were tired.  On Sunday, I left the camera in the room and took pictures with the iPhone, which is why one of these pictures looks different from the other two.

Photos:  Gonzalo Barr

I have finished!  My novel is ready to be read by more objective eyes than mine, people who can point out problems that I cannot see because I am still so close to the manuscript.  But I have finished the fourth draft.  And the novel is ready to crawl on its own.

Little book — no, I don’t begrudge it you — you’re off to the City without me…
Ovid, The Poems of Exile I:1-2

I began writing this book on February 11, 2008 and completed the first draft 42 working days later on March 29, 2008 (91,622 words, 467 pages). For two and a half months I worked on a chronology of my characters’ lives, going back three generations from the protagonist, and some other back stories. Then, on June 16, 2008, I began to write the second draft. Ninety-four working days later, on October 15, 2008, I completed the second draft (83,608 words, 369 pages). The third draft I wrote from October 17, 2008 to November 16, 2008, in 27 working days (75,427 words, 332 pages). Two days later, after no more than six hours of sleep combined, I completed the fourth draft (73,464 words, 324 pages).

I am exhausted. The many days of waking as early as 2:30 in the morning and writing until 5:00 in the evening have taken a toll: bleary eyes that don’t focus as well as they used to, jaws tired from incessant grinding, a Quasimodo-like balled-up right shoulder, an irritated right ulnar nerve, lower back pain, omnidirectional grumpiness, and inexcusable weight gain. But now, I have finished.

Reading this last draft is like watching a little machine that you have been working on in your garage. You press the start button, the lights come on, and the little machine does what you expected it to do.  And it does it with no help from you.

Time to run outside and get some fresh air.

Source:  Ovid, The Poems of Exile I:1-2 (translated by Peter Green)

When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.
Erasmus

Source:  A bookmark from amazon.com

My friend, author John Dufresne, whose latest book Requiem, Mass., came out earlier this year, gave me this list of tips to use when revising a story or novel. I don’t know if he wrote this. My guess is that he did, so I will credit him for it. In any case, it is good advice for writers.

Now, let’s talk a bit about editing and polishing. There are some common
stylistic problems that you will want to address in each stage of revision
or at some point before the manuscript is finished. The following list may
help you do that. By “challenge” here I mean to take out the possibly
offending word or phrase, read the piece again, and only if the word or
words in question are essential should you put them back in.

1. Challenge every adverb. “The adverb is the enemy of the verb.” Mark
Twain said that. Or Unknown did-I’ve seen it attributed to both. Often
what we need are not two words, one modifying, thus weakening, the other,
but one stronger word. Not “He walked unsteadily,” but “He staggered.”
Adverbs modifying verbs of attribution are particularly intrusive and
offensive. “‘I see the problem,’ she said confidently.” Show us her
confidence; don’t tell us.

2. Challenge every adjective. “The adjective is the enemy of the noun,”
Voltaire said. (Hmm.) Mark Twain said, “As to the adjective: when in
doubt, strike it out.” Like adverbs, many adjectives are unnecessary.
Often the adjectival concept is in the noun modified. A night is dark, an
ache painful, a needle sharp, a skyscraper tall. Color is often redundant,
as in blue sky, green grass, and so on. Other adjectives are too
conventional, like a tender heart or a sly fox.

3. Challenge every verb with an auxiliary. Replace passive voice verbs with
active ones that are immediate, clear, and vigorous. “I kissed her” is
better than “She was kissed by me.” And it’s shorter. On the other hand,
you might want to use the passive when the performer of the action is
irrelevant: My house was broken into last night. Also, replace progressive
forms of verbs with simple forms. “I brewed coffee” indicates a more
definite time than “I was brewing coffee.” And it’s shorter. There are, of
course, times when you want the progressive-to show actions taking place
simultaneously: “I was brewing coffee when the power went out.” (On the
other hand, be sure to use the past perfect tense when denoting an action
completed before a time in the past: “My mother had already called the
plumber by the time I arrived.” The calling took place before the
arriving.)

4. Challenge the first paragraph. Sometimes the first paragraph helps get
the story going, but often it merely introduces the reader to the story you
are about to tell. Action might actually begin in the second paragraph. So
pick up the story and start reading with the second paragraph.

5. Challenge the last paragraph. If the last paragraph unnecessarily
summarizes or explains the meaning of the story, cut it out.

6. Challenge every line that you love. Arthur Quiller-Couch advised
writers to “Murder your darlings.” Dr. Johnson put it this way: “Read over
your compositions, and whenever you meet with a passage which you think is
particularly fine, strike it out.” Distressing counsel you might think.
But the point is that you need to take out every word that is there for
effect, every phrase you think is clever, every sentence for which there is
no purpose or point. Hemingway said prose is architecture not interior
decoration. Your concern must be with the characters and not with your own
wit, style, or cleverness. If it’s not advancing the plot, expressing the
theme, or revealing the character, then it goes.

7. Challenge every exclamation point. Like adverbs, they are intrusive.
You get, let’s say, three exclamation points in your life. Use them wisely.
Using an exclamation point is rather like laughing at your own joke.

8. Challenge every use of the verb “to be.” We tend to overuse it. “To
be” will be used (like here) as an auxiliary often enough. We’re
comfortable with it; it’s flexible. But it’s weak. Whenever you can, find
a stronger, more assertive verb. Not “Yonder is your orphan with his gun,”
but “Yonder stands your orphan with his gun.” Not “It was Sarah who spoke,”
but “Sarah spoke.”

9. Be alert for your pet words. They may be more pests than pets. They
are the words you overuse without even knowing it. My own problem words are
“very,” “just,” and “that.” Delete them if they are not essential.

10. Be alert to your narrative weaknesses. Perhaps you tend to shift
tenses for no reason or your first-person narrators tell too much and ignore
the scenic. Know your tendencies and strengthen your writing by addressing
them.

11. Be alert for every cliche. Or hackneyed word or phrase, every overused
or unnecessary modifier. If you’ve heard it often, don’t use it.

12. Cut every nonessential dialogue tag. In a conversation between two
people, you may need only a single tag:

“Doris, I’m home,” Lefty said.
“In the kitchen, dear. Did you remember the milk?”
“Got it right here.”
And so on. The new paragraphs clearly indicate who is speaking.

13. Eliminate everything you’re not sure of. If you doubt whether a
sentence, word or behavior belongs, it doesn’t.

14. Read the draft aloud. Listen for awkward and repetitious words,
inadvertent rhyme, faulty rhythm. Your prose should be music. Fiction
needs to be at least as well written as poetry.

15. Proofread. For clarity, consistency, grammar, punctuation, spelling,
economy. And then proofread again.

Well, that’s a start. Revision is not just a time to edit. It’s a time to
invent and surprise, to add texture and nuance. In writing fiction, you
must be honest and rigorous. You cannot judge your characters or want to
say something so much that you manipulate them, twist the plot, or ignore
what their reactions and responses would be. Revision continues (in fact we
should probably say revisions-plural) until you feel you have done all you
can to make the story as compelling and honest as possible. And how do you
know when you’re finished with the story? You never are, really. It’s been
said that Tolstoy never read his novels after they were published because to
do so was agonizing. He knew that he could have made it better. When I
read to an audience from my work, I’m often editing as I go, even though the
book’s been published. I’m amazed at how I could have let a clunker like
that get through. And I went over the story, what, a hundred times? Ask
yourself if you care enough about these characters to put in the time.

This is my tenth post on revision.  Previous posts (in reverse chronological order) are here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here.

Source: email from John Dufresne

 I woke a little after two this morning, worked until five p.m. (am working still, to tell you the truth, and it is almost ten p.m.) and I revised pages 1 through 161 of the manuscript, which is the halfway point.  (Actually, I’m almost at page 180.)

If all goes well, I will be done with Draft Four tomorrow.

On this 27th day of revising, I completed the third draft of my novel.  The manuscript is 75,357 words (331 pages) long.

The plan now is to do one more read-through, including out loud, like Flaubert recommends, and the novel will be ready for more objective eyes than mine.  The plan is to do all this by Friday.

Recently, I posted that three drafts of a previously unknown novel by Alberto Moravia had been discovered and were being published in Italy.  I wrote then –

three drafts (”redazioni”) of a story, each about one hundred pages long, has been edited by Simone Casini and published in one book that Casini entitled, I due amici (The Two Friends).

Michael McDonald, writing in the Times Literary Supplement, described the book as “three successive renderings of the same story, each roughly a hundred pages long.”

Two Friends  tells the story of a young intellectual who must decide whether to sacrifice his lover for his cause.

Earlier this week, I learned that the novel will be published in English as Two Friends by Other Press. I could not, however, find any information on the translator.

Last year, Other Press published another novel by Moravia, Conjugal Love (L’amore coniugale, 1949).

Source:  Publishers Lunch Weekly Deluxe (requires subscription)(Nov. 10, 2008)

Rick Moody on the realistic novel –

It’s quaint to say so, but the realistic novel still needs a kick in the ass. The genre, with its epiphanies, its rising action, its predictable movement, its conventional humanisms, can still entertain and move us on occasion, but for me it’s politically and philosophically dubious and often dull. Therefore, it needs a kick in the ass.

James Wood responds –

Moody’s three sentences efficiently compact the reigning assumptions. Realism is a “genre’ (rather than, say, a central impulse in fiction-making); it is taken to be mere dead convention, and to be related to a certain kind of traditional plot, with predictable beginnings and endings; it deals in ’round’ characters, but softly and piously (’conventional humanisms’); it assumes that the world can be described, with a naively stable link between word and referent (’philosophically dubious’); and all this will tend toward a conservative and even oppressive politics (’politically…dubious’).

This is more or less nonsense.

Source: James Wood, How Fiction Works (2008), at 224-225