Guiding Metaphor

A few points from Steven Pinker's book: Sense of Style: the thinking person's guide to writing in the 21st century.

 

"In classic prose the writer is directing the gaze of the reader to something in the world she can see for herself. Classic style minimizes abstractions, which cannot be seen with the naked eye. This doesn’t mean that it avoids abstract subject matter, only that it shows the events making up that subject matter transparently, by narrating an unfolding plot with real characters doing things, rather than by naming an abstract concept that encapsulates those events in a single word."

Me: Show it, don’t word it.

"The guiding metaphor of classic style: a writer, in conversation with a reader, directs the reader’s gaze to something in the world."

"Classic style makes the unnatural act of writing seem like two of our most natural acts: talking and seeing."

So let's try it out:

Plot: technology erodes feeling and emotion, instantaneous technology 

She swiped, then she swiped some more, almost walked into a street sign which almost interrupted her swiping, almost. When she wasn’t swiping, she was checking and when she wasn’t checking she was thinking about checking. She knew how and where to get information by swiping. She could find the best site to help you learn about elm trees but she had no interest in touching, smelling, sitting under an elm tree, embracing its shade, maybe with a friend talking about boys or maybe even with that boy she talked about, maybe even sneaking a kiss under that elm tree. She had no interests in sensing things outside pixilation. Her attention span mirrored the time between swipes. Seconds from swipe, look, swipe, tap, expand, look, swipe, tap tap, both thumbs, open video, swipe, check, swipe... for hours upon hours. For fourteen years she swiped and checked, checked and swiped as the world outside her was ignored. She didn’t take in a sunset though she lived near the water, she had her eyes glued to the phone; she didn’t really remember important events because she had her eyes glued to the phone; parties and the memories of them were usurped by selfies and real-time posting. Nostalgia became a thing of the present.

Multiply My God

“I’ve thought of myself as a loser for a long time.” He stood at the podium and announced into the microphone at a reading of his book that he thought of himself as a loser for a long time. “But,” he continued, “I cry at the end of every book I read. Good, bad or ugly, I feel connected and I cry. Some people claim atheists can’t feel connected. I feel the universe in me, the Spinozistic universe flows through me when the last page is turned.” He wasn’t reading from his book. He was just talking to us, sharing.

Maybe he was a loser. Maybe loser and winner are only defined by the individual. Maybe sold books and packed readings won’t make you feel like anything but a loser. Maybe he did cry when he finished a book. I don’t give a shit. Not one shit. I’m not here for this. I’m here to make money. That’s what I want. I won’t apologize for it, I won’t feel bad about the means justifying the ends, I’m only worried about the end and the end is money. When I have it I’m a winner, when I don’t I’m a loser.

II

I’ve just come from a working lunch. I made a deal that will make me more money. I smiled, I leaned in, I listened intently, I was funny, I was serious, I held the fork just so, wiped my mouth at the corners, and advised “Look” and “Listen” and “The reality is” a lot. I’m getting better at this and I was a natural to start. The amount doesn’t bother me anymore. I belong to a lot of money. More than most can fathom. The amount of money changes but people don’t. I started winning when I realized that.

Now this author, this self-proclaimed loser, can make me money. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with him. He wrote a book, I haven’t read it, but it’s popular and he has certain appeal for sensitive people. People sensitive to the wrong things but sensitive. These wrong things these sensitive people are sensitive to are going to make me money. So I’ll sit through this reading and do some reading myself. I’m going to size this guy up, see though the words, watch the body, watch the eyes, feel it all and use it, to my advantage, for my end. And you know what my end is.

III

“And the universe begins anew every time I open a new book. Maybe you feel the same way. Maybe you smell the pages, check the copy write date, check to see how many pages it is, what the last line is…maybe you are assembling the universe when you do these things, your universe, only to enter a new one, to enter, engage, go through a portal, where…oh, listen to me,” he smiled. They smiled. Something was happening at this book reading. Something was happening at all his book readings. Some sort of collective consciousness, some sort of raising of awareness, a heightened sensitivity…odd…and maybe marketable…mass marketable.

No pun intended but the money is in the numbers. Volume. This guy, this author, he can spread it around like butter, cover a lot of ground, cast a wide net…and he’s going to do it all for me. He’s a continent size rake and the ground is covered in money. Here’s the beauty though, he won’t even know he’s making me money, he won’t know he’s being used, will think he’s just part of the whole that “couldn’t be anything other than what it is.” Can you believe he uttered those words? He’s the sucker born every minute that is going to round up the other suckers born every minute. This fucking guy, this author…

IV

“….go on like this. For shame. It’s just that you all are so friendly, so warm. You all know I give everyone a hug after the show right? Isn’t that what it’s all about? I’m so honored that you all came here tonight and that you read my book, I am… but,” he teared up a little and forced down a swallow, “nothing compares to being in this room with you.” The audience fawned. He could make people cry, he could make people laugh and he, this is most important, could make people feel. Feelings were in short supply.

V

Technology had changed people. The phones, the google, the instantaneousness of it all rewired people’s brains. There was a time when people had to think, had to remember, otherwise things were not going to get done, problems were not going to get solved. That all changes when all that is needed is data entry. The unskilled mechanistic inputting of letters and numbers regressed humans faster than anyone ever thought possible. There was too much to enjoy to worry. That same author, that guy, once said that he doesn’t have time to worry, he's too busy living. There should have been worry. There should have been studies, there should have been a philosopher, a psychologist, someone to…worry. No one did. And machines don’t feel. Something had been inverted: someone had probably once claimed that machines don’t feel but if you can feel but only do machinations, feelings become moot. And that is what happened. That is what the technology did. To you.

Now this guy, this author, was bringing people back. No one knows how it happened, how he was exempt; there are rumors about his birth, about accidents, about a prolonged blackout…computers down, data not being inputted…pain being felt in the mother somehow. But no one knows for sure.

“'With' didn’t exist for a while. Machines aren't ‘with’ one another, they are 'around' other machines; 'in the vicinity' of is not 'with'. I am here with you tonight and you are with me. Are you with me?” he asked the audience. Some people started crying, absolutely sobbing, knowing they had not felt or been ‘with’ anyone or thing for that matter for as long as they can remember. It wasn’t a renaissance in the room that night, it was just birth.

He was birthing people, this guy, this author.

Now me, I know that there’s money to be made in birth and death. The religions from back in the day made it a point to have a lot of rites regarding birth and death. Maybe money is my religion, my god. I’ll put a few rites around birth and death to please my god. Multiply my god.

Then We Came To The End

I just finished Joshua Ferris’ Then We Came To The End and…

I was very moved at the end. To tears actually. I read the book based on reviews citing it as very funny. This was coming fresh off of A Confederacy of Dunces. End was not funny like Confederacy. Two very different books as far as humor goes; though, I have to say that the last chapter of End has a character, Benny, unhappy in his new marketing job and how no one listens to his stories and how it is all idle chatter (note: the author studied philosophy in undergrad so I wonder if he is familiar with Heidegger’s concept of Das Gerade) so he decides he will only utter Godfather movie (only 1 and 2, as “3 sucked”) quotations had me laughing out loud in a desolate student union. 

“Benny explained that he gave himself a simple rule: nothing could come from his mouth that had not come from the mouths of Michael, Sonny, Fredo, Tom Hagen, or the Don himself – or anybody at all in the first two films…

…At the conclusion of a morning meeting, during which he had remained perfectly silent, as everyone was gathering up their things, Benny had turned to Heidi Savoca and said “I spent my whole life trying not to be careless. Women and children can be careless, but not men.’” Heidi’s expression indicated she didn’t know where Benny’s comment was coming from, but more pressing than confusion was her distaste for the remark itself. “That’s a very sexist thing to say Benny,” she replied. Later that morning, Seth Keegan stopped by Benny’s cube to ask him a question about revisions for a project the two had been working on over the course of the previous few weeks. “Do you have a minute?” Seth asked Benny. Benny swiveled in his chair. “This one time,’” he said. “’This one time I’ll let you ask me about my affairs.’” “Cool,” said Seth, who entered the cubicle more fully. “I’m wondering what you think we should do about these drop shadows. What I was thinking we could do is…” Benny let him talk, nodding from time to time and before long, Seth has arrived at a conclusion without needing any input from Benny at all. Just as he was leaving, Benny thought what the hell, and called out to him. “’Hey, it’s my sister’s wedding,’” he said angrily. “Oh yeah?” Seth said. “Your sister’s getting married?” “’And when the boss tells me to push a button on a guy,’” Benny continued, I push a button.’” Seth stared at him. “Cool,” he said. He nodded, then walked away.
                In the afternoon Carter Shilling came to his cube, and Benny didn’t think he could continue to talk with Carter, his scruffy, cross-eyed boss. A rasp or a boom, those were the two ways Carter communicated, and he was currently booming, raving about how stupid the client was to request such changes to their ad. For a long time Benny didn’t have to say a word. Finally Carter looked at him and asked him if he agreed that the client was stupid. “’I think if we had a wartime consigliere,’” Benny found himself answering in a small voice, “’we wouldn’t be in this mess.’” Carter gazed down at him and asked if that was code for something. “Are you saying we’re at fault here?” asked Carter.
                “So I swear to god, Jim,” said Benny, “I put on my most serious face, man. I mean, I was nothing but business, and I looked him straight in the eye and I said, ‘Carter, this sort of thing has to happen every five years or so. Helps to get rid of the bad blood.’ And both of us, at the same time, looked back down at the ad, which the client had just ripped to shreds, and he says to me, ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I suppose.’ As if what I just said made any sense whatsoever. ‘Go ahead and make the changes, then,’ he says. ‘I don’t give a damn anymore.’ And then he stormed out of my office.

…Marcia was trying to get ahold of Benny so he could help her keep things together. Beny rushed over to the hospital and inquired at the nurses’ station was room the boy was in.
                “When I get there, nobody else was around. Tunrs out later, they were down talking to the doctor. I walked in and took one look at Mikey in his hospital bed – Jim, he was all fucked up. Broken arm, black eyes. Big gash in his chin. But he was awake. The kid was going to be fine. And you know what I said? I just couldn’t help myself. I went right up to him and I said, ‘My boy! Look what they done to my boy!’”

Why Didn’t I Merge Earlier?

There is hell, where souls burn for eternity and endure endless pain and agony exponentially greater than any earthly feeble pain like being caught in the gears of a combine harvester or having your feet sawed off at the ankles with a hacksaw and then there is the hell for 

Drivers who wait to the last second to merge when they saw the goddamn lane ends, merge right signs a fucking mile and half-mile ago!

Yes, these people will surely burn in a special section of hell reserved for the absolute, unequivocally worst of the worst. Murderers, rapists, torturers, and Patriots fans have a cakewalk in hell compared to these “people.” People is a misnomer. Because when you get down to it, these are monsters to the nth degree. One can imagine the havoc they would wreak on the globe if not for the good people like you and me who stop them from clubbing baby seals, destroying humanity and the universe as we know it. 

When these monsters get to the pearly gates to be judged by Peter, he is just going to show them video of them driving up as far as they can then BOTTLENECKING every decent person on their commute home. Peter will nod his head no in disgust and the floor will drop out from under the monster as she/he/monster falls naked down a chute of poison sumac as spritzes from skunk anal scent glands assail their bodies and olfactory senses while Yanni’s greatest hits blares through kmart speakers as they are hurled into the deepest, darkest, boiling layer of hell.

And for eternity, the pain, the anguish, the hell…will continue…while the only thought allowed is 

why didn’t I merge earlier?