Read Like A Writer

There are two ways to learn how to write fiction: by reading it and by writing it. Yes, you can learn lots about writing stories in workshops, in writing classes and writing groups, at writers' conferences. You can learn technique and process by reading the dozens of books like this one on fiction writing and by reading articles in writers' magazines. But the best teachers of fiction are the great works of fiction themselves. You can learn more about the structure of a short story by reading Anton Chekhov's 'Heartache' than you can in a semester of Creative Writing 101. If you read like a writer, that is, which means you have to read everything twice, at least. When you read a story or novel the first time, just let it happen. Enjoy the journey. When you've finished, you know where the story took you, and now you can go back and reread, and this time notice how the writer reached that destination. Notice the choices he made at each chapter, each sentence, each word. (Every word is a choice.) You see now how the transitions work, how a character gets across a room. All this time you're learning. You loved the central character in the story, and now you can see how the writer presented the character and rendered her worthy of your love and attention. The first reading is creative—you collaborate with the writer in making the story. The second reading is critical.


John Dufresne, from his book, The Lie That Tells A Truth: A Guide to Writing Fiction

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Saturday, January 28, 2017

Love Poems and Others by D. H. Lawrence

LOVE·POEMS
AND · OTHERS
BY·D. H. LAWRENCE
AUTHOR OF “THE WHITE PEACOCK” “THE TRESPASSER”

DUCKWORTH · AND · CO.
COVENT · GARDEN · LONDON
MCMXIII

Several of these Poems have appeared in the “English Review,” the “Nation,” and the “Westminster Gazette.”

 

WEDDING MORN [p. i]

The morning breaks like a pomegranate
In a shining crack of red,
Ah, when to-morrow the dawn comes late
Whitening across the bed,
It will find me watching at the marriage gate
And waiting while light is shed
On him who is sleeping satiate,
With a sunk, abandoned head.

And when the dawn comes creeping in,
Cautiously I shall raise
Myself to watch the morning win
My first of days,
As it shows him sleeping a sleep he got
Of me, as under my gaze,
He grows distinct, and I see his hot
Face freed of the wavering blaze.

Then I shall know which image of God
My man is made toward,
And I shall know my bitter rod
Or my rich reward.
And I shall know the stamp and worth
Of the coin I’ve accepted as mine,
Shall see an image of heaven or of earth
On his minted metal shine.

Yea and I long to see him sleep
In my power utterly,
I long to know what I have to keep, [p. ii]
I long to see
My love, that spinning coin, laid still
And plain at the side of me,
For me to count—for I know he will
Greatly enrichen me.

And then he will be mine, he will lie
In my power utterly,
Opening his value plain to my eye
He will sleep of me.
He will lie negligent, resign
His all to me, and I
Shall watch the dawn light up for me
This sleeping wealth of mine.

And I shall watch the wan light shine
On his sleep that is filled of me,
On his brow where the wisps of fond hair twine
So truthfully,
On his lips where the light breaths come and go
Naïve and winsomely,
On his limbs that I shall weep to know
Lie under my mastery.

KISSES IN THE TRAIN [p. iii]

I saw the midlands
Revolve through her hair;
The fields of autumn
Stretching bare,
And sheep on the pasture
Tossed back in a scare.

And still as ever
The world went round,
My mouth on her pulsing
Neck was found,
And my breast to her beating
Breast was bound.

But my heart at the centre
Of all, in a swound
Was still as a pivot,
As all the ground
On its prowling orbit
Shifted round.

And still in my nostrils
The scent of her flesh,
And still my wet mouth
Sought her afresh;
And still one pulse
Through the world did thresh.

And the world all whirling
Around in joy
Like the dance of a dervish [p. iv]
Did destroy
My sense—and my reason
Spun like a toy.

But firm at the centre
My heart was found;
Her own to my perfect
Heart-beat bound,
Like a magnet’s keeper
Closing the round.

CRUELTY AND LOVE [p. v]

What large, dark hands are those at the window
Lifted, grasping the golden light
Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves
To my heart’s delight?

Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,
In the west I see a redness come
Over the evening’s burning breast—
—’Tis the wound of love goes home!

The woodbine creeps abroad
Calling low to her lover:
The sun-lit flirt who all the day
Has poised above her lips in play
And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
Of pollen, now has gone away
—She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
And when above her his broad wings hover
Then her bright breast she will uncover
And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow
Saunters a man from the farm below,
Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed
Where hangs the swallow’s marriage bed.
The bird lies warm against the wall.
She glances quick her startled eyes
Towards him, then she turns away
Her small head, making warm display
Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway
Her out of the nest’s warm, busy ball, [p. vi]
Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies
In one blue stoop from out the sties
Into the evening’s empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,
Till the distance folds over his ominous tread.

The rabbit presses back her ears,
Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes
And crouches low: then with wild spring
Spurts from the terror of his oncoming
To be choked back, the wire ring
Her frantic effort throttling:
Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies,
And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.
Yet calm and kindly are his eyes
And ready to open in brown surprise
Should I not answer to his talk
Or should he my tears surmise.

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair
Watching the door open: he flashes bare
His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise
He flings the rabbit soft on the table board
And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword
Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad [p. vii]
Blade of his hand that raise my face to applaud
His coming: he raises up my face to him
And caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grim
Of the rabbit’s fur! God, I am caught in a snare!
I know not what fine wire is round my throat,
I only know I let him finger there
My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood:
And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down
His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood
Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown
Within him, die, and find death good.

CHERRY ROBBERS [p. viii]

Under the long, dark boughs, like jewels red
In the hair of an Eastern girl
Shine strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled
Blood-drops beneath each curl.

Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings
Three dead birds lie:
Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings
Stained with red dye.

Under the haystack a girl stands laughing at me,
With cherries hung round her ears—
Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see
If she has any tears.

LILIES IN THE FIRE [p. ix]

I

Ah, you stack of white lilies, all white and gold,
I am adrift as a sunbeam, and without form
Or having, save I light on you to warm
Your pallor into radiance, flush your cold

White beauty into incandescence: you
Are not a stack of white lilies to-night, but a white
And clustered star transfigured by me to-night,
And lighting these ruddy leaves like a star dropped through

The slender bare arms of the branches, your tire-maidens
Who lift swart arms to fend me off; but I come
Like a wind of fire upon you, like to some
Stray whitebeam who on you his fire unladens.

And you are a glistening toadstool shining here
Among the crumpled beech-leaves phosphorescent,
My stack of white lilies burning incandescent
Of me, a soft white star among the leaves, my dear.

II

Is it with pain, my dear, that you shudder so?
Is it because I have hurt you with pain, my dear?

Did I shiver?—Nay, truly I did not know—
A dewdrop may-be splashed on my face down here.

Why even now you speak through close-shut teeth.
I have been too much for you—Ah, I remember!

The ground is a little chilly underneath [p. x]
The leaves—and, dear, you consume me all to an ember.

You hold yourself all hard as if my kisses
Hurt as I gave them—you put me away—

Ah never I put you away: yet each kiss hisses
Hot as a drop of fire wastes me away.

III

I am ashamed, you wanted me not to-night—
Nay, it is always so, you sigh with me.
Your radiance dims when I draw too near, and my free
Fire enters your petals like death, you wilt dead white.

Ah, I do know, and I am deep ashamed;
You love me while I hover tenderly
Like clinging sunbeams kissing you: but see
When I close in fire upon you, and you are flamed

With the swiftest fire of my love, you are destroyed.
’Tis a degradation deep to me, that my best
Soul’s whitest lightning which should bright attest
God stepping down to earth in one white stride,

Means only to you a clogged, numb burden of flesh
Heavy to bear, even heavy to uprear
Again from earth, like lilies wilted and sere
Flagged on the floor, that before stood up so fresh.

COLDNESS IN LOVE [p. xi]

And you remember, in the afternoon
The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk
A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon
Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth,
And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon.

A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime
Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled
Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time
You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw
The words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime.

And all day long that raw and ancient cold
Deadened me through, till the grey downs darkened to sleep.
Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold
Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep
Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold.

But still to me all evening long you were cold,
And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache;
Till old days drew me back into their fold,
And dim sheep crowded me warm with companionship,
And old ghosts clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled.

I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust,
Like the linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor
Of a disused room: a grey pale light like must
That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed
To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust.

Then I rose in fear, needing you fearfully, [p. xii]
For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood.
I thought I could plunge in your spurting hotness, and be
Clean of the cold and the must.—With my hand on the latch
I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me.

And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed.
So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea
And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed
With cold, like the shell of the moon: and strange it seems
That my love has dawned in rose again, like the love of a maid.

END OF ANOTHER HOME-HOLIDAY [p. xiii]

I

When shall I see the half moon sink again
Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden?
When will the scent of the dim, white phlox
Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?

Why is it, the long slow stroke of the midnight bell,
(Will it never finish the twelve?)
Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?

The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell,
And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned:
Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well?

Ah home, suddenly I love you,
As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road,
Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence,
Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley.

The light has gone out from under my mother’s door.
That she should love me so,
She, so lonely, greying now,
And I leaving her,
Bent on my pursuits!

Love is the great Asker,
The sun and the rain do not ask the secret
Of the time when the grain struggles down in the dark. [p. xiv]
The moon walks her lonely way without anguish,
Because no loved one grieves over her departure.

II

Forever, ever by my shoulder pitiful Love will linger,
Crouching as little houses crouch under the mist when I turn.
Forever, out of the mist the church lifts up her reproachful finger,
Pointing my eyes in wretched defiance where love hides her face to mourn.

Oh but the rain creeps down to wet the grain
That struggles alone in the dark,
And asking nothing, cheerfully steals back again!
The moon sets forth o’ nights
To walk the lonely, dusky heights
Serenely, with steps unswerving;
Pursued by no sigh of bereavement,
No tears of love unnerving
Her constant tread:
While ever at my side,
Frail and sad, with grey bowed head,
The beggar-woman, the yearning-eyed
Inexorable love goes lagging.

The wild young heifer, glancing distraught,
With a strange new knocking of life at her side
Runs seeking a loneliness.
The little grain draws down the earth to hide.
Nay, even the slumberous egg, as it labours under the shell, [p. xv]
Patiently to divide, and self-divide,
Asks to be hidden, and wishes nothing to tell.

But when I draw the scanty cloak of silence over my eyes,
Piteous Love comes peering under the hood.
Touches the clasp with trembling fingers, and tries
To put her ear to the painful sob of my blood,
While her tears soak through to my breast,
Where they burn and cauterise.

III

The moon lies back and reddens.
In the valley, a corncrake calls
Monotonously,
With a piteous, unalterable plaint, that deadens
My confident activity:
With a hoarse, insistent request that falls
Unweariedly, unweariedly,
Asking something more of me,
Yet more of me!

REMINDER [p. xvi]

Do you remember
How night after night swept level and low
Overhead, at home, and had not one star,
Nor one narrow gate for the moon to go
Forth to her field of November.

And you remember,
How towards the north a red blot on the sky
Burns like a blotch of anxiety
Over the forges, and small flames ply
Like ghosts the shadow of the ember.

Those were the days
When it was awful autumn to me,
When only there glowed on the dark of the sky
The red reflection of her agony,
My beloved smelting down in the blaze

Of death—my dearest
Love who had borne, and was now leaving me.
And I at the foot of her cross did suffer
My own gethsemane.

So I came to you,
And twice, after great kisses, I saw
The rim of the moon divinely rise
And strive to detach herself from the raw
Blackened edge of the skies.

Strive to escape; [p. xvii]
With her whiteness revealing my sunken world
Tall and loftily shadowed. But the moon
Never magnolia-like unfurled
Her white, her lamp-like shape.

For you told me no,
And bade me not to ask for the dour
Communion, offering—“a better thing.”
So I lay on your breast for an obscure hour
Feeling your fingers go

Like a rhythmic breeze
Over my hair, and tracing my brows,
Till I knew you not from a little wind:
—I wonder now if God allows
Us only one moment his keys.

If only then
You could have unlocked the moon on the night,
And I baptized myself in the light
Of your love; we both have entered then the white
Pure passion, and never again.

I wonder if only
You had taken me then, how different
Life would have been: should I have spent
Myself in waste, and you have bent
Your pride, through being lonely?

BEI HENNEF [p. xviii]

The little river twittering in the twilight,
The wan, wondering look of the pale sky,
This is almost bliss.

And everything shut up and gone to sleep,
All the troubles and anxieties and pain
Gone under the twilight.

Only the twilight now, and the soft “Sh!” of the river
That will last for ever.

And at last I know my love for you is here,
I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight,
It is large, so large, I could not see it before
Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,
Troubles, anxieties and pains.

You are the call and I am the answer,
You are the wish, and I the fulfilment,
You are the night, and I the day.
What else—it is perfect enough,
It is perfectly complete,
You and I,
What more——?
Strange, how we suffer in spite of this!

LIGHTNING [p. xix]

I felt the lurch and halt of her heart
Next my breast, where my own heart was beating;
And I laughed to feel it plunge and bound,
And strange in my blood-swept ears was the sound
Of the words I kept repeating,
Repeating with tightened arms, and the hot blood’s blindfold art.

Her breath flew warm against my neck,
Warm as a flame in the close night air;
And the sense of her clinging flesh was sweet
Where her arms and my neck’s blood-surge could meet.
Holding her thus, did I care
That the black night hid her from me, blotted out every speck?

I leaned me forward to find her lips,
And claim her utterly in a kiss,
When the lightning flew across her face,
And I saw her for the flaring space
Of a second, afraid of the clips
Of my arms, inert with dread, wilted in fear of my kiss.

A moment, like a wavering spark,
Her face lay there before my breast,
Pale love lost in a snow of fear,
And guarded by a glittering tear,
And lips apart with dumb cries;
A moment, and she was taken again in the merciful dark.

I heard the thunder, and felt the rain, [p. xx]
And my arms fell loose, and I was dumb.
Almost I hated her, she was so good,
Hated myself, and the place, and my blood,
Which burned with rage, as I bade her come
Home, away home, ere the lightning floated forth again.

SONG-DAY IN AUTUMN [p. xxi]

When the autumn roses
Are heavy with dew,
Before the mist discloses
The leaf’s brown hue,
You would, among the laughing hills
Of yesterday
Walk innocent in the daffodils,
Coiffing up your auburn hair
In a puritan fillet, a chaste white snare
To catch and keep me with you there
So far away.

When from the autumn roses
Trickles the dew,
When the blue mist uncloses
And the sun looks through,
You from those startled hills
Come away,
Out of the withering daffodils;
Thoughtful, and half afraid,
Plaiting a heavy, auburn braid
And coiling it round the wise brows of a maid
Who was scared in her play.

When in the autumn roses
Creeps a bee,
And a trembling flower encloses
His ecstasy,
You from your lonely walk
Turn away,
And leaning to me like a flower on its stalk, [p. xxii]
Wait among the beeches
For your late bee who beseeches
To creep through your loosened hair till he reaches,
Your heart of dismay.

AWARE [p. xxiii]

Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,
Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so
Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze
See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know
I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

A PANG OF REMINISCENCE [p. xxiv]

High and smaller goes the moon, she is small and very far from me,
Wistful and candid, watching me wistfully, and I see
Trembling blue in her pallor a tear that surely I have seen before,
A tear which I had hoped that even hell held not again in store.

A WHITE BLOSSOM [p. xxv]

A tiny moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower
Leans all alone above my window, on night’s wintry bower,
Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain
She shines, the one white love of my youth, which all sin cannot stain.

RED MOON-RISE [p. xxvi]

The train in running across the weald has fallen into a steadier stroke
So even, it beats like silence, and sky and earth in one unbroke
Embrace of darkness lie around, and crushed between them all the loose
And littered lettering of leaves and hills and houses closed, and we can use
The open book of landscape no more, for the covers of darkness have shut upon
Its written pages, and sky and earth and all between are closed in one.

And we are smothered between the darkness, we close our eyes and say “Hush!” we try
To escape in sleep the terror of this immense deep darkness, and we lie
Wrapped up for sleep. And then, dear God, from out of the twofold darkness, red
As if from the womb the moon arises, as if the twin-walled darkness had bled
In one great spasm of birth and given us this new, red moon-rise
Which lies on the knees of the darkness bloody, and makes us hide our eyes.

The train beats frantic in haste, and struggles away
From this ruddy terror of birth that has slid down
From out of the loins of night to flame our way
With fear; but God, I am glad, so glad that I drown
My terror with joy of confirmation, for now [p. xxvii]
Lies God all red before me, and I am glad,
As the Magi were when they saw the rosy brow
Of the Infant bless their constant folly which had
Brought them thither to God: for now I know
That the Womb is a great red passion whence rises all
The shapeliness that decks us here-below:
Yea like the fire that boils within this ball
Of earth, and quickens all herself with flowers,
God burns within the stiffened clay of us;
And every flash of thought that we and ours
Send up to heaven, and every movement, does
Fly like a spark from this God-fire of passion;
And pain of birth, and joy of the begetting,
And sweat of labour, and the meanest fashion
Of fretting or of gladness, but the jetting
Of a trail of the great fire against the sky
Where we can see it, a jet from the innermost fire:
And even in the watery shells that lie
Alive within the cozy under-mire,
A grain of this same fire I can descry.

And then within the screaming birds that fly
Across the lightning when the storm leaps higher;
And then the swirling, flaming folk that try
To come like fire-flames at their fierce desire,
They are as earth’s dread, spurting flames that ply
Awhile and gush forth death and then expire.
And though it be love’s wet blue eyes that cry
To hot love to relinquish its desire,
Still in their depths I see the same red spark
As rose to-night upon us from the dark.

RETURN [p. xxviii]

Now I am come again, you who have so desired
My coming, why do you look away from me?
Why does your cheek burn against me—have I inspired
Such anger as sets your mouth unwontedly?

Ah, here I sit while you break the music beneath
Your bow; for broken it is, and hurting to hear:
Cease then from music—does anguish of absence bequeath
Me only aloofness when I would draw near?

THE APPEAL [p. xxix]

You, Helen, who see the stars
As mistletoe berries burning in a black tree,
You surely, seeing I am a bowl of kisses,
Should put your mouth to mine and drink of me.

Helen, you let my kisses steam
Wasteful into the night’s black nostrils; drink
Me up I pray; oh you who are Night’s Bacchante,
How can you from my bowl of kisses shrink!

REPULSED [p. xxx]

The last, silk-floating thought has gone from the dandelion stem,
And the flesh of the stalk holds up for nothing a blank diadem.

The night’s flood-winds have lifted my last desire from me,
And my hollow flesh stands up in the night abandonedly.

As I stand on this hill, with the whitening cave of the city beyond,
Helen, I am despoiled of my pride, and my soul turns fond:

Overhead the nightly heavens like an open, immense eye,
Like a cat’s distended pupil sparkles with sudden stars,
As with thoughts that flash and crackle in uncouth malignancy
They glitter at me, and I fear the fierce snapping of night’s thought-stars.

Beyond me, up the darkness, goes the gush of the lights of two towns,
As the breath which rushes upwards from the nostrils of an immense
Life crouched across the globe, ready, if need be, to pounce
Across the space upon heaven’s high hostile eminence.

All round me, but far away, the night’s twin consciousness roars [p. xxxi]
With sounds that endlessly swell and sink like the storm of thought in the brain,
Lifting and falling like slow breaths taken, pulsing like oars
Immense that beat the blood of the night down its vein.

The night is immense and awful, Helen, and I am insect small
In the fur of this hill, clung on to the fur of shaggy, black heather.
A palpitant speck in the fur of the night, and afraid of all,
Seeing the world and the sky like creatures hostile together.

And I in the fur of the world, and you a pale fleck from the sky,
How we hate each other to-night, hate, you and I,
As the world of activity hates the dream that goes on on high,
As a man hates the dreaming woman he loves, but who will not reply.

DREAM-CONFUSED [p. xxxii]

Is that the moon
At the window so big and red?
No one in the room,
No one near the bed——?

Listen, her shoon
Palpitating down the stair?
—Or a beat of wings at the window there?

A moment ago
She kissed me warm on the mouth,
The very moon in the south
Is warm with a bloody glow,
The moon from far abysses
Signalling those two kisses.

And now the moon
Goes slowly out of the west,
And slowly back in my breast
My kisses are sinking, soon
To leave me at rest.

COROT [p. xxxiii]

The trees rise tall and taller, lifted
On a subtle rush of cool grey flame
That issuing out of the dawn has sifted
The spirit from each leaf’s frame.

For the trailing, leisurely rapture of life
Drifts dimly forward, easily hidden
By bright leaves uttered aloud, and strife
Of shapes in the grey mist chidden.

The grey, phosphorescent, pellucid advance
Of the luminous purpose of God, shines out
Where the lofty trees athwart stream chance
To shake flakes of its shadow about.

The subtle, steady rush of the whole
Grey foam-mist of advancing God,
As He silently sweeps to His somewhere, his goal,
Is heard in the grass of the sod.

Is heard in the windless whisper of leaves
In the silent labours of men in the fields,
In the downward dropping of flimsy sheaves
Of cloud the rain skies yield.

In the tapping haste of a fallen leaf,
In the flapping of red-roof smoke, and the small
Foot-stepping tap of men beneath
These trees so huge and tall.

For what can all sharp-rimmed substance but catch [p. xxxiv]
In a backward ripple, God’s purpose, reveal
For a moment His mighty direction, snatch
A spark beneath His wheel.

Since God sweeps onward dim and vast,
Creating the channelled vein of Man
And Leaf for His passage, His shadow is cast
On all for us to scan.

Ah listen, for Silence is not lonely:
Imitate the magnificent trees
That speak no word of their rapture, but only
Breathe largely the luminous breeze.

MORNING WORK [p. xxxv]

A gang of labourers on the piled wet timber
That shines blood-red beside the railway siding
Seem to be making out of the blue of the morning
Something faery and fine, the shuttles sliding,

The red-gold spools of their hands and faces shuttling
Hither and thither across the morn’s crystalline frame
Of blue: trolls at the cave of ringing cerulean mining,
And laughing with work, living their work like a game.

TRANSFORMATIONS [p. xxxvi]

I

The Town

Oh you stiff shapes, swift transformation seethes
About you: only last night you were
A Sodom smouldering in the dense, soiled air;
To-day a thicket of sunshine with blue smoke-wreaths.

To-morrow swimming in evening’s vague, dim vapour
Like a weeded city in shadow under the sea,
Beneath an ocean of shimmering light you will be:
Then a group of toadstools waiting the moon’s white taper.

And when I awake in the morning, after rain,
To find the new houses a cluster of lilies glittering
In scarlet, alive with the birds’ bright twittering,
I’ll say your bond of ugliness is vain.

II

The Earth

Oh Earth, you spinning clod of earth,
And then you lamp, you lemon-coloured beauty;
Oh Earth, you rotten apple rolling downward,
Then brilliant Earth, from the burr of night in beauty
As a jewel-brown horse-chestnut newly issued:—
You are all these, and strange, it is my duty
To take you all, sordid or radiant tissued.


Men

Oh labourers, oh shuttles across the blue frame of morning,
You feet of the rainbow balancing the sky!
Oh you who flash your arms like rockets to heaven,
Who in lassitude lean as yachts on the sea-wind lie!
You who in crowds are rhododendrons in blossom,
Who stand alone in pride like lighted lamps;
Who grappling down with work or hate or passion,
Take strange lithe form of a beast that sweats and ramps:
You who are twisted in grief like crumpled beech-leaves,
Who curl in sleep like kittens, who kiss as a swarm
Of clustered, vibrating bees; who fall to earth
At last like a bean-pod: what are you, oh multiform?

RENASCENCE [p. xxxviii]

We have bit no forbidden apple,
Eve and I,
Yet the splashes of day and night
Falling round us no longer dapple
The same Eden with purple and white.

This is our own still valley
Our Eden, our home,
But day shows it vivid with feeling
And the pallor of night does not tally
With dark sleep that once covered its ceiling.

My little red heifer, to-night I looked in her eyes,
—She will calve to-morrow:
Last night when I went with the lantern, the sow was grabbing her litter
With red, snarling jaws: and I heard the cries
Of the new-born, and after that, the old owl, then the bats that flitter.

And I woke to the sound of the wood-pigeons, and lay and listened,
Till I could borrow
A few quick beats of a wood-pigeon’s heart, and when I did rise
The morning sun on the shaken iris glistened,
And I saw that home, this valley, was wider than Paradise.

I learned it all from my Eve [p. xxxix]
This warm, dumb wisdom.
She’s a finer instructress than years;
She has taught my heart-strings to weave
Through the web of all laughter and tears.

And now I see the valley
Fleshed all like me
With feelings that change and quiver:
And all things seem to tally
With something in me,
Something of which she’s the giver.

DOG-TIRED [p. xl]

If she would come to me here,
Now the sunken swaths
Are glittering paths
To the sun, and the swallows cut clear
Into the low sun—if she came to me here!

If she would come to me now,
Before the last mown harebells are dead,
While that vetch clump yet burns red;
Before all the bats have dropped from the bough
Into the cool of night—if she came to me now!

The horses are untackled, the chattering machine
Is still at last. If she would come,
I would gather up the warm hay from
The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green
Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen.

I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee
And lie stone still, while she
Breathed quiet above me—we could stop
Till the stars came out to see.

I should like to lie still
As if I was dead—but feeling
Her hand go stealing
Over my face and my hair until
This ache was shed.

MICHAEL-ANGELO [p. xli]

God shook thy roundness in His finger’s cup,
He sunk His hands in firmness down thy sides,
And drew the circle of His grasp, O Man,
Along thy limbs delighted, thine, His bride’s.

And so thou wert God-shapen: His finger
Curved thy mouth for thee, and His strong shoulder
Planted thee upright: art not proud to see
In the curve of thine exquisite form the joy of the Moulder?

He took a handful of light and rolled a ball,
Compressed it till its beam grew wondrous dark,
Then gave thee thy dark eyes, O Man, that all
He made had doorway to thee through that spark.

God, lonely, put down His mouth in a kiss of creation,
He kissed thee, O Man, in a passion of love, and left
The vivid life of His love in thy mouth and thy nostrils;
Keep then the kiss from the adultress’ theft.

 

VIOLETS [p. xlii]

Sister, tha knows while we was on the planks
Aside o’ th’ grave, while th’ coffin wor lyin’ yet
On th’ yaller clay, an’ th’ white flowers top of it
Tryin’ to keep off ’n him a bit o’ th’ wet,

An’ parson makin’ haste, an’ a’ the black
Huddlin’ close together a cause o’ th’ rain,
Did t’ ’appen ter notice a bit of a lass away back
By a head-stun, sobbin’ an’ sobbin’ again?

—How should I be lookin’ round
An’ me standin’ on the plank
Beside the open ground,
Where our Ted ’ud soon be sank?

Yi, an’ ’im that young,
Snapped sudden out of all
His wickedness, among
Pals worse n’r ony name as you could call.

Let be that; there’s some o’ th’ bad as we
Like better nor all your good, an’ ’e was one.
—An’ cos I liked him best, yi, bett’r nor thee,
I canna bide to think where he is gone.

Ah know tha liked ’im bett’r nor me. But let
Me tell thee about this lass. When you had gone
Ah stopped behind on t’ pad i’ th’ drippin wet
An’ watched what ’er ’ad on.

Tha should ha’ seed her slive up when we’d gone, [p. xliii]
Tha should ha’ seed her kneel an’ look in
At th’ sloppy wet grave—an’ ’er little neck shone
That white, an’ ’er shook that much, I’d like to begin

Scraïghtin’ my-sen as well. ’En undid her black
Jacket at th’ bosom, an’ took from out of it
Over a double ’andful of violets, all in a pack
Ravelled blue and white—warm, for a bit

O’ th’ smell come waftin’ to me. ’Er put ’er face
Right intil ’em and scraïghted out again,
Then after a bit ’er dropped ’em down that place,
An’ I come away, because o’ the teemin’ rain.

WHETHER OR NOT [p. xliv]

I

Dunna thee tell me its his’n, mother,
Dunna thee, dunna thee.
—Oh ay! he’ll be comin’ to tell thee his-sèn
Wench, wunna he?

Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
He’s gone wi that—
—My gel, owt’ll do for a man i’ the dark,
Tha’s got it flat.

But ’er’s old, mother, ’er’s twenty year
Older nor him—
—Ay, an’ yaller as a crowflower, an’ yet i’ the dark
Er’d do for Tim.

Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
It’s somebody’s lies.
—Ax him thy-sèn wench—a widder’s lodger;
It’s no surprise.

II

A widow of forty-five
With a bitter, swarthy skin,
To ha’ ’ticed a lad o’ twenty-five
An’ ’im to have been took in!

A widow of forty-five
As has sludged like a horse all her life,
Till ’er’s tough as whit-leather, to slive
Atween a lad an’ ’is wife!

A widow of forty-five. [p. xlv]
A tough old otchel wi’ long
Witch teeth, an’ ’er black hawk-eyes as I’ve
Mistrusted all along!

An’ me as ’as kep my-sen
Shut like a daisy bud,
Clean an’ new an’ nice, so’s when
He wed he’d ha’e summat good!

An’ ’im as nice an’ fresh
As any man i’ the force,
To ha’e gone an’ given his white young flesh
To a woman that coarse!

III

You’re stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
Are you makin’ Brinsley way?
—I’m off up th’ line to Underwood
Wi’ a dress as is wanted to-day.

Oh are you goin’ to Underwood?
’Appen then you’ve ’eered?
—What’s that as ’appen I’ve ’eered-on, Missis,
Speak up, you nedna be feared.

Why, your young man an’ Widow Naylor,
Her as he lodges wi’,
They say he’s got her wi’ childt; but there,
It’s nothing to do wi’ me.

Though if it’s true they’ll turn him out
O’ th’ p’lice force, without fail;
An’ if it’s not true, I’d back my life [p. xlvi]
They’ll listen to her tale.

Well, I’m believin’ no tale, Missis,
I’m seein’ for my-sen;
An’ when I know for sure, Missis,
I’ll talk then.

IV

Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna
Sit noddin’ thy head at me;
My breast’s as red as thine, I reckon,
Flayed red, if tha could but see.

Nay, you blessed pee-whips,
You nedna screet at me!
I’m screetin’ my-sen, but are-na goin’
To let iv’rybody see.

Tha art smock-ravelled, bunny,
Larropin’ neck an’ crop
I’ th’ snow: but I’s warrant thee, bunny,
I’m further ower th’ top.

V

Now sithee theer at th’ railroad crossin’
Warmin’ his-sen at the stool o’ fire
Under the tank as fills the ingines,
If there isn’t my dearly-beloved liar!

My constable wi’ ’is buttoned breast
As stout as the truth, my sirs!—An’ ’is face
As bold as a robin! It’s much he cares [p. xlvii]
For this nice old shame and disgrace.

Oh but he drops his flag when ’e sees me,
Yes, an’ ’is face goes white ... oh yes
Tha can stare at me wi’ thy fierce blue eyes,
But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!

VI

Whativer brings thee out so far
In a’ this depth o’ snow?
—I’m takin’ ’ome a weddin’ dress
If tha maun know.

Why, is there a weddin’ at Underwood,
As tha ne’d trudge up here?
—It’s Widow Naylor’s weddin’-dress,
An’ ’er’s wantin it, I hear.

’Er doesna want no weddin-dress ...
What—but what dost mean?
—Doesn’t ter know what I mean, Tim?—Yi,
Tha must’ a’ been hard to wean!

Tha’rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;
But tell me, isn’t it true
As ’er’ll be wantin’ my weddin’ dress
In a week or two?

Tha’s no occasions ter ha’e me on
Lizzie—what’s done is done!
Done, I should think so—Done! But might
I ask when tha begun?

It’s thee as ’as done it as much as me, [p. xlviii]
Lizzie, I tell thee that.
—“Me gotten a childt to thy landlady—!”
Tha’s gotten thy answer pat,

As tha allers hast—but let me tell thee
Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I
Was a’most burstin’ mad o’ my-sen
An’ walkin’ in agony;

After thy kisses, Lizzie, after
Tha’s lain right up to me Lizzie, an’ melted
Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,
Till I was verily swelted.

An’ if my landlady seed me like it,
An’ if ’er clawkin’, tiger’s eyes
Went through me just as the light went out
Is it any cause for surprise?

No cause for surprise at all, my lad,
After lickin’ and snuffin’ at me, tha could
Turn thy mouth on a woman like her—
Did ter find her good?

Ay, I did, but afterwards
I should like to ha’ killed her!
—Afterwards!—an’ after how long
Wor it tha’d liked to ’a killed her?

Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,
I might lose my-sen.
—I’ll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,
An’ gi’e her thee back again.

I’ll ta’e thy word ‘Good-bye,’ Liz, [p. xlix]
But I shonna marry her,
I shonna for nobody.—It is
Very nice on you, Sir.

The childt maun ta’e its luck, it maun,
An’ she maun ta’e her luck,
For I tell ye I shonna marry her—
What her’s got, her took.

That’s spoken like a man, Timmy,
That’s spoken like a man ...
“He up an’ fired off his pistol
An’ then away he ran.”

I damn well shanna marry ’er,
So chew at it no more,
Or I’ll chuck the flamin’ lot of you—
—You nedn’t have swore.

VII

That’s his collar round the candle-stick
An’ that’s the dark blue tie I bought ’im,
An’ these is the woman’s kids he’s so fond on,
An’ ’ere comes the cat that caught ’im.

I dunno where his eyes was—a gret
Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think
Of him stoopin’ to her! You’d wonder he could
Throw hisself in that sink.

I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor! [p. l]
—Who yer are?—yis, you’re Lizzie Stainwright.
’An ’appen you might guess what I’ve come for?
—’Appen I mightn’t, ’appen I might.

You knowed as I was courtin’ Tim Merfin.
—Yis, I knowed ’e wor courtin’ thee.
An’ yet you’ve been carryin’ on wi’ him.
—Ay, an’ ’im wi’ me.

Well, now you’ve got to pay for it,
—An’ if I han, what’s that to thee?
For ’e isn’t goin’ to marry you.
—Is it a toss-up ’twixt thee an’ me?

It’s no toss-up ’twixt thee an’ me.
—Then what art colleyfoglin’ for?
I’m not havin’ your orts an’ slarts.
—Which on us said you wor?

I want you to know ’e’s non marryin’ you.
—Tha wants ’im thy-sen too bad.
Though I’ll see as ’e pays you, an’ comes to the scratch.
—Tha’rt for doin’ a lot wi’ th’ lad.

VIII

To think I should ha’e to haffle an’ caffle
Wi’ a woman, an’ pay ’er a price
For lettin’ me marry the lad as I thought
To marry wi’ cabs an’ rice.

But we’ll go unbeknown to the registrar, [p. li]
An’ give ’er what money there is,
For I won’t be beholden to such as her
For anythink of his.

IX

Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,
An’ come wi’ me in here,
Ta’e off thy p’lice-man’s helmet
An’ look me clear.

I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,
I do, an’ that I do!
For whenever I look thee i’ th’ face, I s’ll see
Her face too.

I wish tha could wesh ’er off’n thee,
For I used to think that thy
Face was the finest thing that iver
Met my eye....

X

Twenty pound o’ thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha’e I,
Thine shall go to pay the woman, an’ wi’ my bit we’ll buy
All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,
An’ we’ll be married at th’ registrar—now lift thy face.

Lift thy face an’ look at me, man, up an’ look at me:
Sorry I am for this business, an’ sorry if I ha’e driven thee
To such a thing: but it’s a poor tale, that I’m bound to say, [p. lii]
Before I can ta’e thee I’ve got a widow of forty-five to pay.

Dunnat thee think but what I love thee—I love thee well,
But ’deed an’ I wish as this tale o’ thine wor niver my tale to tell;
Deed an’ I wish as I could stood at the altar wi’ thee an’ been proud o’ thee,
That I could ha’ been first woman to thee, as thou’rt first man to me.

But we maun ma’e the best on’t—I’ll rear thy childt if ’er’ll yield it to me,
An’ then wi’ that twenty pound we gi’e ’er I s’d think ’er wunna be
So very much worser off than ’er wor before—An’ now look up
An’ answer me—for I’ve said my say, an’ there’s no more sorrow to sup.

Yi, tha’rt a man, tha’rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes
As sulky an’ ormin’ as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise
From what I’ve arranged wi’ thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou art,
Kiss me then—there!—ne’er mind if I scraight—I wor fond o’ thee, Sweetheart.

A COLLIER’S WIFE [p. liii]

Somebody’s knocking at the door
Mother, come down and see.
—I’s think it’s nobbut a beggar,
Say, I’m busy.

Its not a beggar, mother,—hark
How hard he knocks ...
—Eh, tha’rt a mard-’arsed kid,
’E’ll gi’e thee socks!

Shout an’ ax what ’e wants,
I canna come down.
—’E says “Is it Arthur Holliday’s?”
Say “Yes,” tha clown.

’E says, “Tell your mother as ’er mester’s
Got hurt i’ th’ pit.”
What—oh my sirs, ’e never says that,
That’s niver it.

Come out o’ the way an’ let me see,
Eh, there’s no peace!
An’ stop thy scraightin’, childt,
Do shut thy face.

“Your mester’s ’ad an accident,
An’ they’re ta’ein ’im i’ th’ ambulance
To Nottingham,”—Eh dear o’ me
If ’e’s not a man for mischance!

Wheers he hurt this time, lad? [p. liv]
—I dunna know,
They on’y towd me it wor bad—
It would be so!

Eh, what a man!—an’ that cobbly road,
They’ll jolt him a’most to death,
I’m sure he’s in for some trouble
Nigh every time he takes breath.

Out o’ my way, childt—dear o’ me, wheer
Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;
Goodness knows if they’ll be able
To take off his pit dirt.

An’ what a moan he’ll make—there niver
Was such a man for a fuss
If anything ailed him—at any rate
I shan’t have him to nuss.

I do hope it’s not very bad!
Eh, what a shame it seems
As some should ha’e hardly a smite o’ trouble
An’ others has reams.

It’s a shame as ’e should be knocked about
Like this, I’m sure it is!
He’s had twenty accidents, if he’s had one;
Owt bad, an’ it’s his.

There’s one thing, we’ll have peace for a bit, [p. lv]
Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;
An’ there’s compensation, sin’ it’s accident,
An’ club money—I nedn’t grouse.

An’ a fork an’ a spoon he’ll want, an’ what else;
I s’ll never catch that train—
What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt—
I s’d think he’ll get right again.

THE DRAINED CUP [p. lvi]

The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress
Love, should I tell thee summat?
The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress
An’ a thick mist sucks at the clots o’ snow,
An’ the moon above in a weddin’ dress
Goes fogged an’ slow—
Love, should I tell thee summat?

Tha’s been snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me,
Nay, I’m tellin’ thee summat.—
Tha’s bin snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me
While th’ clocks has a’ run down an’ stopped
An’ the short days withering silently
Unbeknown have dropped.
—Yea, but I’m tellin’ thee summat.

How many days dost think has gone?—
Now I’m tellin’ thee summat.
How many days dost think has gone?
How many days has the candle-light shone
On us as tha got more white an’ wan?
—Seven days, or none—
Am I not tellin’ thee summat?

Tha come to bid farewell to me—
Tha’rt frit o’ summat.
To kiss me and shed a tear wi’ me,
Then off and away wi’ the weddin’ ring
For the girl who was grander, and better than me
For marrying—
Tha’rt frit o’ summat?

I durstna kiss thee tha trembles so, [p. lvii]
Tha’rt frit o’ summat.
Tha arena very flig to go,
’Appen the mist from the thawin’ snow
Daunts thee—it isna for love, I know,
That tha’rt loath to go.
—Dear o’ me, say summat.

Maun tha cling to the wa’ as tha goes,
So bad as that?
Tha’lt niver get into thy weddin’ clothes
At that rate—eh, theer goes thy hat;
Ne’er mind, good-bye lad, now I lose
My joy, God knows,
—An’ worse nor that.

The road goes under the apple tree;
Look, for I’m showin’ thee summat.
An’ if it worn’t for the mist, tha’d see
The great black wood on all sides o’ thee
Wi’ the little pads going cunningly
To ravel thee.
So listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.

When tha comes to the beechen avenue,
I’m warnin’ thee o’ summat.
Mind tha shall keep inwards, a few
Steps to the right, for the gravel pits
Are steep an’ deep wi’ watter, an’ you
Are scarce o’ your wits.
Remember, I’ve warned the o’ summat.

An’ mind when crossin’ the planken bridge, [p. lviii]
Again I warn ye o’ summat.
Ye slip not on the slippery ridge
Of the thawin’ snow, or it’ll be
A long put-back to your gran’ marridge,
I’m tellin’ ye.
Nay, are ter scared o’ summat?

In kep the thick black curtains drawn,
Am I not tellin’ thee summat?
Against the knockin’ of sevenfold dawn,
An’ red-tipped candles from morn to morn
Have dipped an’ danced upon thy brawn
Till thou art worn—
Oh, I have cost thee summat.

Look in the mirror an’ see thy-sen,
—What, I am showin’ thee summat.
Wasted an’ wan tha sees thy-sen,
An’ thy hand that holds the mirror shakes
Till tha drops the glass and tha shudders when
Thy luck breaks.
Sure, tha’rt afraid o’ summat.

Frail thou art, my saucy man,
—Listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.
Tottering and tired thou art, my man,
Tha came to say good-bye to me,
An’ tha’s done it so well, that now I can
Part wi’ thee.
—Master, I’m givin’ thee summat.

THE SCHOOLMASTER [p. lix]

I
A Snowy Day in School

All the slow school hours, round the irregular hum of the class,
Have pressed immeasurable spaces of hoarse silence
Muffling my mind, as snow muffles the sounds that pass
Down the soiled street. We have pattered the lessons ceaselessly—

But the faces of the boys, in the brooding, yellow light
Have shone for me like a crowded constellation of stars,
Like full-blown flowers dimly shaking at the night,
Like floating froth on an ebbing shore in the moon.

Out of each star, dark, strange beams that disquiet:
In the open depths of each flower, dark restless drops:
Twin bubbles, shadow-full of mystery and challenge in the foam’s whispering riot:
—How can I answer the challenge of so many eyes!

The thick snow is crumpled on the roof, it plunges down
Awfully. Must I call back those hundred eyes?—A voice
Wakes from the hum, faltering about a noun—
My question! My God, I must break from this hoarse silence

That rustles beyond the stars to me.—There,
I have startled a hundred eyes, and I must look
Them an answer back. It is more than I can bear.

The snow descends as if the dull sky shook [p. lx]
In flakes of shadow down; and through the gap
Between the ruddy schools sweeps one black rook.

The rough snowball in the playground stands huge and still
With fair flakes settling down on it.—Beyond, the town
Is lost in the shadowed silence the skies distil.

And all things are possessed by silence, and they can brood
Wrapped up in the sky’s dim space of hoarse silence
Earnestly—and oh for me this class is a bitter rood.

II
The Best of School

The blinds are drawn because of the sun,
And the boys and the room in a colourless gloom
Of under-water float: bright ripples run
Across the walls as the blinds are blown
To let the sunlight in; and I,
As I sit on the beach of the class alone,
Watch the boys in their summer blouses,
As they write, their round heads busily bowed:
And one after another rouses
And lifts his face and looks at me,
And my eyes meet his very quietly,
Then he turns again to his work, with glee.

With glee he turns, with a little glad
Ecstasy of work he turns from me,
An ecstasy surely sweet to be had.
And very sweet while the sunlight waves [p. lxi]
In the fresh of the morning, it is to be
A teacher of these young boys, my slaves
Only as swallows are slaves to the eaves
They build upon, as mice are slaves
To the man who threshes and sows the sheaves.

Oh, sweet it is
To feel the lads’ looks light on me,
Then back in a swift, bright flutter to work,
As birds who are stealing turn and flee.

Touch after touch I feel on me
As their eyes glance at me for the grain
Of rigour they taste delightedly.

And all the class,
As tendrils reached out yearningly
Slowly rotate till they touch the tree
That they cleave unto, that they leap along
Up to their lives—so they to me.

So do they cleave and cling to me,
So I lead them up, so do they twine
Me up, caress and clothe with free
Fine foliage of lives this life of mine;
The lowest stem of this life of mine,
The old hard stem of my life
That bears aloft towards rarer skies
My top of life, that buds on high
Amid the high wind’s enterprise.
They all do clothe my ungrowing life [p. lxii]
With a rich, a thrilled young clasp of life;
A clutch of attachment, like parenthood,
Mounts up to my heart, and I find it good.

And I lift my head upon the troubled tangled world, and though the pain
Of living my life were doubled, I still have this to comfort and sustain,
I have such swarming sense of lives at the base of me, such sense of lives
Clustering upon me, reaching up, as each after the other strives
To follow my life aloft to the fine wild air of life and the storm of thought,
And though I scarcely see the boys, or know that they are there, distraught
As I am with living my life in earnestness, still progressively and alone,
Though they cling, forgotten the most part, not companions, scarcely known
To me—yet still because of the sense of their closeness clinging densely to me,
And slowly fingering up my stem and following all tinily
The way that I have gone and now am leading, they are dear to me.

They keep me assured, and when my soul feels lonely,
All mistrustful of thrusting its shoots where only
I alone am living, then it keeps
Me comforted to feel the warmth that creeps
Up dimly from their striving; it heartens my strife: [p. lxiii]
And when my heart is chill with loneliness,
Then comforts it the creeping tenderness
Of all the strays of life that climb my life.

III
Afternoon in School
THE LAST LESSON

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
I can haul them and urge them no more.
No more can I endure to bear the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score
Of several insults of blotted page and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll
Of their insults in punishment?—I will not!
I will not waste myself to embers for them,
Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot, [p. lxiv]
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep
Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell
It all for them, I should hate them—
—I will sit and wait for the bell.

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH

Transcriber’s note

The author’s representation of dialect exhibits some inconsistencies, which have been retained as printed.

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Story Composition by Sherwin Cody (1897)

Story Composition 


BY  

SHERWIN CODY 

Author of "How to Write Fiction," "In the Heart of the Hills,-' etc.

CONTENTS.

Introduction.

I. Story Writing as an Exercise in Composition.

II. The Practical Construction of a Snake Story.

III. The Art of Description.

IV. Plot-Construction. Imagination.

V. Dialogue.

VI. Characterization.

VII. Sentiment.

VIII. The Love Story.

IX. Fancy and Invention.

X. The Complete Story.





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Monday, January 9, 2017

Fundamentals Of Good Writing by Robert Perm Warren (1946)

Fundamentals Of Good Writing by Robert Perm Warren (1946)

Fundamentals
of
Good Writing 


A HANDBOOK OF MODERN RHETORIC 

Cleanth Brooks 
Robert Perm Warren 




Harcourt, Brace and Company New York 



COPYRIGHT, 1949, I95O, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 



All rights reserved, including 
the right to reproduce this book 
or portions thereof in any form. 



TO DAVID M. CLAY




CONTENTS



Introduction

THE MAIN CONSIDERATIONS 1

THE MOTIVATION OF THE WRITER 3

THE NATURE OF THE READER 5

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN READER AND WRITER 5

THE FUSION OF MEDIUM, SUBJECT AND OCCASION 6

YOUR BACKGROUND FOR SUCCESSFUL WRITING 7

1. SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS 

FINDING A TRUE SUBJECT 11

UNITY 13

COHERENCE 15

EMPHASIS 19

THE MAIN DIVISIONS OF A DISCOURSE 23

PROPORTIONING THE MAIN DIVISIONS 25

THE OUTLINE 26

2. THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE 

THE MAIN INTENTION 29

THE FOUR KINDS OF DISCOURSE 30

MIXTURE OF THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE 30

OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DISCOURSE 31

3. EXPOSITION

INTEREST 38

THE METHODS OF EXPOSITION 41

IDENTIFICATION 41

EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 42
THE RELATION BETWEEN THE TECHNICAL-SUGGESTIVE DISTINCTION

AND THE OBJECTIVE-SUBJECTIVE DISTINCTION 53

THE USES OF TECHNICAL AND SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION 55

EXPOSITORY NARRATION 57

ILLUSTRATION 57

COMPARISON AND CONTRAST 61

CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 67

DEFINITION 83

EXTENDED DEFINITION 91

ANALYSIS: THE TWO KINDS 98

ANALYSIS AND STRUCTURE 99

ANALYSIS: RELATION AMONG PARTS 100

ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 101

EXPOSITORY METHODS AND THEIR USES 119

SUMMARY 120

4. ARGUMENT 

THE APPEAL OF ARGUMENT 125

ARGUMENT AND CONFLICT 125

ARGUMENT AND THE UNDERSTANDING 127

WHAT ARGUMENT IS ABOUT 128

THE PROPOSITION: TWO KINDS 131

THE STATEMENT OF THE PROPOSITION 131

HISTORY OF THE QUESTION 134

ISSUES 135

PROPOSITIONS OF FACT 146

EVIDENCE 148

KINDS OF EVIDENCE: FACT AND OPINION 148

REASONING 154

INDUCTION: GENERALIZATION 155

DEDUCTION 159

FALLACIES 167

FALLACIES AND REFUTATION 170

THE IMPLIED SYLLOGISM 170

EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 172

ORDER OF THE BRIEF AND ORDER OF THE ARGUMENT 183

PERSUASION 183

SUMMARY 189

5. DESCRIPTION 

RELATION OF SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION TO OTHER KINDS

OF DISCOURSE 195

THE DOMINANT IMPRESSION 200

PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 200

TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION 211

DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS AND STATES OF MIND 220
FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE IN THE DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS

AND STATES OF MIND 223

CHOICE OF WORDS IN THE TEXTURE OF DESCRIPTION 226

SUMMARY 229

6. NARRATION 

MOVEMENT 237

TIME 238

MEANING 239

NARRATIVE AND NARRATION 240

NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE 242

PATTERN IN NARRATION 250

EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 255

PROPORTION 262

TEXTURE AND SELECTION 264

POINT OF VIEW 267

SCALE 273

DIALOGUE 275

CHARACTERIZATION 281

SUMMARY 285

7. THE PARAGRAPH 

THE PARAGRAPH AS A CONVENIENCE TO THE READER 290

THE PARAGRAPH AS A UNIT OF THOUGHT 291

THE STRUCTURE OF THE PARAGRAPH 292

SOME TYPICAL STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 294

LINKING PARAGRAPHS TOGETHER 299

USE OF THE PARAGRAPH TO INDICATE DIALOGUE 302

SUMMARY 302

8. THE SENTENCE

RHETORIC AND GRAMMAR 304

THE FIXED WORD ORDER OF THE NORMAL SENTENCE 307

POSITION OF THE MODIFIERS 311

GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF SENTENCE STRUCTURE 318

SENTENCE LENGTH AND SENTENCE VARIATION 323

SUMMARY 327

9. STYLE 

GENERAL DEFINITION OF STYLE 329

THREE ASPECTS OF LITERARY STYLE 330

STYLE AS AN INTERPLAY OF ELEMENTS 331

THE PLAN OF THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS ON STYLE 332

10. DICTION 

DENOTATION AND CONNOTATION 335

LANGUAGE GROWTH BY EXTENSION OF MEANING 342

THE COMPANY A WORD KEEPS: COLLOQUIAL, INFORMAL,

AND FORMAL 348

HOW CONNOTATIONS CONTROL MEANINGS 349

WORN-OUT WORDS AND CLICHES 353

SUMMARY 359

11. METAPHOR 

METAPHOR DEFINED 361

IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 362

THE FUNCTION OF METAPHOR 371

METAPHOR AS ESSENTIAL STATEMENT 374

WHAT MAKES A "GOOD" METAPHOR? 378

METAPHOR AND SYMBOL 385

METAPHOR AND THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 386

SUMMARY 388

12. SITUATION AND TONE

TONE AS THE EXPRESSION OF ATTITUDE 390

THE IMPORTANCE OF TONE 391

WHAT DETERMINES TONE? 392

TONE AS A QUALIFICATION OF MEANING 397

SOME PRACTICAL DON'TS 401

SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 402

TONE: FAMILIAR AND FORMAL 411

COMPLEXITY OF TONE: WHEN, AND WHY, IT IS NECESSARY 416

SUMMARY 422

13. THE FINAL INTEGRATION 

RHYTHM 425

RHYTHM AS A DEVICE OF EXPRESSION 428

STYLE AS HARMONIOUS INTEGRATION 432

THE INSEPARABILITY OF FORM AND CONTENT 435

STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 438

STYLE CULTIVATED BY READING 455

SUMMARY 457

A MORE CONCRETE SUMMARY 459

14. READING: WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO A WRITER? 461

APPENDIXES 473

Appendix 1. CAUSAL ANALYSIS 475

Appendix 2. THE SYLLOGISM 481
Appendix 3. THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS; NOTES;

RESEARCH PAPER; AND BOOK REPORT 486

INDEX 519



Fundamentals of Good Writing 




INTRODUCTION 


THERE is no easy way to learn to write. There is no certain formula, no short cut, no bag of tricks. It is not a matter of memorizing rules or of acquiring a few skills. To write well is not easy for the simple reason that to write well you must think straight. And thinking straight is never easy.

Straight thinking is the basis of all good writing. It does not matter whether you are planning to write fiction, poetry, news reports, magazine articles, essays, or sermons. What is common to all kinds of good writing is more important than what distinguishes one kind from another. This is a fundamental point, and this book is an attempt to deal with the fundamentals of writing.

THE MAIN CONSIDERATIONS 

What is it that we must think straight about if we are to write well? Unfortunately there is no simple answer to this. A writer, as Robert Louis Stevenson says in his "Essay on Style," is like a juggler who must keep several balls in the air at once.

What are the several balls? What are the considerations that a writer must simultaneously think straight about? This book is an attempt to answer that question; but even when this book is finished the answer will not be a complete one. For the present, however, we may try to reduce the considerations to three general types. We may define them in reference to various aspects of the act of writing:


  1. The medium 
  2. The subject 
  3. The occasion 


These terms, as we are using them, require some explanation.

THE MEDIUM 

A writer writes in a language, the substance, as it were, through which he exerts his force, the medium through which he communicates his ideas and feelings. This language operates in terms of certain principles and usages which a writer must observe if he is to exercise his full force or even, in some instances, to be understood at all. For example, grammar is an aspect of the medium itself. Rhythm is another aspect, and it may exercise a very powerful effect on the reader, even if he is not aware of it. Another aspect is diction the qualities of the individual words even beyond their bare dictionary definitions.

These topics, and others related to them, will be discussed in the course of this book, but for the present it is important only that we understand them as representing aspects of the medium, of language itself.

THE SUBJECT

A writer writes about something. The something may be his own feelings, his love or his hate, or again it may be the theory of aerodynamics. But in either instance he has a subject and one that can be distinguished from all other possible subjects.

The nature of the subject will, in some respects, dictate the nature of the treatment. For instance, if a writer is interested in explaining a process of some kind, the running of an experiment in physics or the building of a log cabin, he will have to organize his material with some reference to the chronological order of the process. If he is trying to explain why he loves or hates someone, he will probably be concerned with the analysis of traits of character which have no necessary reference to chronology; therefore, his ordering of the material may well be in terms of degrees of importance and not in terms of time sequence.

Furthermore, the subject may dictate differences in diction. For instance, if the writer is trying to explain the process of an experiment in physics, his diction will be dry and technical, clear and factual; but if he is trying to define the grief experienced at the Heath of a friend, his diction may well be chosen to convey emotional effects.

Or the type of rhythm may vary according to the subject. The explanation of the experiment in physics will probably involve a rather flat rhythm, or at least an unobtrusive rhythm, but the attempt to define the grief at the death of the friend will probably depend to a considerable degree for its success on the rhythm employed, for the rhythm of language, even in prose, is of enormous importance in the communication of feelings.

THE OCCASION 

Third, a writer writes out of a special situation, the occasion. We may say that this situation involves three basic elements: the motivation of the writer; the nature of the reader; and the relationship between writer and reader.

THE MOTIVATION OF THE WRITER 

As for motivation, two general types may be distinguished: expression and communication. The writer may be primarily concerned to affirm his own feelings, to clarify his own mind, to define for himself his own sense of the world. When he writes from some such motivation, the urge to expression may be said to be dominant, and he has, on such an occasion, more in common with a man singing in the bath, with the child uttering the spontaneous cry of pain, or with the cat purring on the rug than he has with the judge handing down a decision from the bench, a teacher explaining a point of grammar from the platform, or a woman giving her daughter a recipe for pie. For the judge, the teacher, and the cook are not primarily concerned to express but to communicate something.

It may be said, however, that, in the ultimate sense, we never have a case of pure expression or pure communication. Even the cry of pain, which seems to be pure expression, may be said to presuppose a hearer; the hurt child redoubles its screams when it sees the mother approaching. And the poet who has written his poem' without a conscious thought of the reader, who has been concerned with the effort of getting his own feelings and ideas into form, hurries to the post office to mail his finished poem to a magazine through which it can reach a number of readers.

Conversely, even the most objective presentation of an idea or analysis of a situation may involve an expressive element. To take an extreme instance, we may say that a man may take pleasure in the accuracy and tidiness of his working out of a mathematical demonstration and feel that those qualities "express" him.

If it is true that we can never find an example of pure expression or of pure communication, if we have to regard expression and communication as, shall we say, the poles of the process of writing or speaking, we can still see that a great deal of variation in the relative proportions of communication and expression may exist.

ACCENT ON EXPRESSION 

When the writer is primarily concerned with expression, he does not pay attention to his audience; if, under such circumstances, he thinks of the audience, it is only to assume that there will be people enough like himself to have an interest in his work. Yet even then, even when the writer is primarily concerned with expression, his private and individual intentions will have to be represented in a medium that has public and general standards. When the writer accepts language as his medium of expression, he also accepts the standards of communication.

ACCENT ON COMMUNICATION 

When the writer is primarily concerned with communication rather than expression, he must, however, give special attention to the audience which he wishes to reach. He must consider the reader's interests and attitudes. Even if the writer wishes to give the reader a new interest, he must work in terms of the interests that already exist. When the writer does not, in some way, appeal to the already existing interests, the reader will not even bother to finish the book or article. Or if the writer wishes to make the reader change his attitude on some issue, he must work in terms of already existing attitudes. Unless the writer can discover that he and the reader have some attitudes in common, he can have no hope of convincing the reader about the matter on which they disagree.

THE NATURE OF THE READER 

Just as the writer must concern himself with the reader's interests and attitudes, so he must concern himself with the reader's training and capacities. Every piece of writing is addressed to a more or less limited audience. It is perfectly logical that a piece of writing addressed to the specialist will not be understood by the layman. Articles in professional medical journals or law journals employ a language and a treatment largely incomprehensible to the ordinary reader. But the same thing holds true, though less obviously, in regard to all differences of education or capacity. Because of differences in education, the housewife is not likely to understand the article on international finance that may be perfectly clear to the banker or businessman who is her husband. Or one housewife, because of innate intelligence and sensitivity, can understand and enjoy a certain novel, while another woman in the same block, who has been educated at the same school, is merely confused and annoyed by the book.

It is true that there are types of writing which have a relatively broad appeal the novels of Dickens or the plays of Shakespeare but we must remember that even their appeal is only relatively broad, and that there are a great number of people who infinitely prefer the sports page of the daily paper or the financial section or the comic strip to Dickens or Shakespeare. And remembering this, the writer must concern himself with the level of education and intelligence of the special group which he wishes to address.

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN READER AND WRITER

Just as the writer must consider his own motivation and the nature of his intended reader as components of the "occasion," so must he consider the relationship between himself and that reader. For instance, does he feel that he must speak down to his reader? If he does speak down, shall he take the tone of a man laying down the law from some position of authority like a judge on a bench or shall he take a tone of good-natured condescension? Or if he does not wish to speak down to his reader but regards the reader as on the same level with himself, shall he take a tone of friendly discussion or of serious, life-and-death argument?

The possible variations on this score are almost numberless, too, and the writer, if he is to be most effective, must take them into consideration. Is he, for instance, addressing a reader who is hostile and suspicious? If so, he must try to discover the approach which will mollify the hostility and allaythe suspicions. Or if his reader is assumed to be friendly but unserious, how shall he adapt himself to that situation? Is he writing to a student who is anxious to learn or to a casual reader who must be lured into the subject under discussion? Obviously the writer must, if he wishes to succeed with his reader, study the relationship existing between himself and his intended reader and adapt his tone to that aspect of the occasion.

TONE 

The writer's relationship to his reader and to his subject may be summed up in the word tone (see Chapter 12). Just as the tone of voice indicates what the speaker's attitude is to his subject and his listener, so certain qualities of a piece of writing may indicate the attitude of the writer. Rhythms may be harsh and abrupt or lingering and subtle. Diction may be homely and direct or elaborate and suggestive. Sentence structure may be simple and downright or complicated by modifying and qualifying elements. Appeal maybe made through logic or through persuasion. These and many other factors are related to the writer's conception of the relation between himself and the reader.

THE FUSION OF MEDIUM, SUBJECT AND OCCASION 

Under the headings of (1) medium, (2) subject, and (3) occasion, we have briefly discussed some of the basic considerations which the writer must keep in mind the balls which the juggler of Stevenson's essay must keep simultaneously in the air. The word simultaneously is important here, for though we have necessarily had to discuss our topics in order, we are not to assume that the order is one of either importance or of time sequence. Can one say that a knowledge of the subject under discussion is more or less important than a knowledge of the principles and usages of the language in which the subject is to be discussed? Or that a knowledge of the principles and usages of the language is more or less important than the sense of the nature of the occasion?

In the process of writing there is no one consideration to which the writer must give his attention first. His mind, in so far as he is a conscious craftsman, will play among the various considerations in the attempt to produce a piece of writing which will fulfill at the same time the demands of the medium, the subject, and the occasion. In this book we shall take up various topics individually, and you may find it helpful when you are revising a piece of writing to consider one question at a time, But the final piece of writing is always a fusion.

YOUR BACKGROUND FOR SUCCESSFUL WRITING 

The foregoing remarks, with their emphasis on the complicated demands that a good piece of writing must fulfill, have perhaps made the business of writing seem enormously difficult. And it is true that the simplest piece of writing, when well done, is the fruit of a great deal of effort. But you are not, with this book, starting your career as a writer from scratch. You already have behind you many years of effort which can be made to apply on the writing you now do. You are already the beneficiary of a long training.

LANGUAGE AND EXPERIENCE 

In the first place, you command a working knowledge of the English language. You began the process of learning that language when you were an infant, and the process has been a continuous one ever since. Books have helped you and they can be made to help you even more. They can broaden your vocabulary, and can give you a sense of the subtleties and shadings of words. But already books aside you are the master of very considerable resources in your native tongue.

A CAPACITY FOR STRAIGHT THINKING

In the second place, your experience has given you a great range of subjects, and a capacity for thinking logically about them. As for the subjects, almost any event of your day, any sport or craft which you understand, any skill or technique which you possess, any scene which you have witnessed, any book or article which you have read, any person whom you know all these are potential subjects. And any one of them can become interesting in so far as it is actually important to you and in so far as you can think straight about it. As for logical thinking, demands for the exercise of this faculty are made on you every day. You are constantly under the necessity of adjusting means to ends, of correcting errors in your calculations, of planning in terms of cause and effect, of estimating possibilities. To manage your simplest affairs you must have some capacity for straight thinking. When you come to the business of writing, you need merely to apply this capacity to the subject in hand to see what is important about it for your interests and purposes, to stick to your point, to make one sentence follow from the previous sentence and lead to the next, to make one paragraph follow from the previous paragraph and lead to the next, to make one idea follow from another, to state the relations between things in terms of time, space, or causality, to emphasize the important item and subordinate the unimportant, to proportion your discourse so that it will have an introduction, a development, and a conclusion. All of these problems of analysis and organization are problems which you may have to confront when you start any piece of writing, but you confront them with the aid of all the straight thinking that you have ever done.

A BROAD SOCIAL EXPERIENCE 

In the third place, all of your experiences with other people in the past have provided a training that will help you adjust yourself to your intended reader. Your social experience, from your early childhood, has given you a training in tact, in grasping the truth about a human relationship, in adjusting your manner to the mood or prejudice of another person in order to convince, persuade, entertain, or instruct him. Every child is aware that, when he wants something from his mother or father, there is a right way to go about asking for it and a wrong way. And he knows that what is the right way for asking the mother may very well be the wrong way for asking the father. No doubt, the child never puts it to himself in these terms, but he acts on the truth behind these terms when he actually deals with mother or father. He develops early a sense of the occasion and a sensitivity to what we shall call problems of tone.

The discussion in this section comes to this : All of your experience in the past can be said, without too much wrenching of fact, to be a training for the writing which you wish to do. Your problem is, in part, to learn to use the resources which you already possess. For unless you learn to use those resources, you will not be able to acquire new resources.


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Writing Books Index

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Caroline Gordon Advice on Fiction Writing to Flannery O’Connor

CAROLINE GORDON, A TEACHER and fiction writer, advised Flannery O’Connor through the mail. O’Connor, in her letters, collected by Sally Fitzgerald in The Habit of Being (1979) advised other young writers. Some of that advice, paraphrased here, may help young creative writers as they think about the creative process.

  • Ignore criticism that doesn't make sense. 
  • Make the reader see the characters at every minute, but do this unobtrusively. 
  • An omniscient narrator using the same language as the characters lowers the tone of the work. 

Never do writing exercises. Forget plot; start with a character or anything else you can make come alive. Discover, rather than impose meaning. You may discover a good deal more by not being too clear when you start. You sometimes find a story by messing around with this or that. Once you have finished a first draft, see how you can better bring out what it says.  Read The Craft of Fiction by Percy Lubbock and Understanding Fiction by Robert Penn Warren and Cleanth Brooks.

  • If there is no possibility for change in a character (i.e., a character is hopelessly insane) then there is little reader interest in that character. If heroes were stable, there wouldn't be any story--all good stories are about a character's changing. Sin is interesting; evil is not. Sin grows out of free choice; evil is something else. Characters need to behave as themselves as people, not as abstract representations of some idea or principle which is dear to the writer. Be careful about a tendency to be too omniscient and not let things come through the characters. 
  • Add a character to make another character "come out." 
  • You can write convincingly about a homesick New Yorker if you have never been to New York but have been homesick. A character must behave out of his or her motivations, not the author's. Don't try to be subtle . . . or write for a subtle reader. 
  • Write two hours a day, same time, sitting at the same place, without a view-- either write or just sit. Follow your nose. To get a story you might have to approach a vague notion from one direction and then another, until you get an entrance. Sit at your machine. 
  • In a short story, write for a single effect and end on what is most important. At the end of a story gain some altitude and get a larger view. You shouldn't appear to be making a point. The meaning of a story must be in its muscle. 
  • Use dialect lightly--suggest. Get the person right."
  • A word stands for something else and is used for a purpose and if you play around with them irrespective of what they are supposed to do, your writing will become literary in the worse sense." 
  • A novel or short story says something that can be said in no other way. A summary or an abstraction will not give you the same thing."
  • The less self-conscious you are about what you are about, the better in a way, that is to say technically. You have to get it in the blood, not in the head." 
  • "My business is to write and not talk about it." 
  • Writers seeking the secrets to good writing, might keep in mind O'Connor's statement from Mystery and Manners (1969): "My own approach to literary problems is very like the one Dr. Johnson's blind housekeeper used when she poured tea--she put her finger inside the cup." 


One final--delicate-yet-crucial--requirement for writing fiction: "Perhaps you [a correspondent] are able to see things in these stories that I can't see because if I did see I would be too frightened to write them. I have always insisted that there is a fine grain of stupidity required in the fiction writer." 

See also Sally Fitzgerald, ed., Georgia Review, vol. XXXIII, no. 4, letter from Caroline Gordon to Flannery O’Connor (1979); E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (1927); Rust Hills, Writing in General and the Short Story in Particular (1987); Andre Marquois, The Art of Writing (1962); Louis Rubin, The Teller in the Tale, (1967); Eudora Welty, The Eye of the Story (1978)

Exercises


1. WRITE A PARAGRAPH DESCRIBING SOMEONE you dislike. Now write a paragraph from that person’s point of view about anything. Next write a short fictional scene (omniscient point of view) about a fictional character based on the real person you dislike. Now write the same scene from the character’s point of view. Discuss what you have learned about writing from the point of view of an unlikable character.

2. Observe couples eating in a restaurant. Decide which couples are married and which are not. Describe the nonverbal communication, movements, etc. of a married couple and of a not-married couple. Read your description to another person and see if they can guess whether or not the couple being described is married. Discuss how non-verbal communication constitutes action in a story--how it furthers plot, defines relationships between people, etc.

3. Instead of writing 1 - 10 down the left side of a piece of paper, start with the year you were born and under it write the next year--up until the present. Circle the ten or twelve most memorable years. Beside the circled years write down the most memorable event or two in that year. Now decide if you have uncovered material for fiction (or for a character in a story) that you previously had not thought about.

4. Think of any event that happened to you before you were ten years old. Write a sentence describing that event. Now write the following, "What if:" Under "What if:" write fifteen possible plot lines that would follow the event. See if you have new material for a new or old story.

5. Think of your last argument with a loved one. Find and describe the fear which lay beneath your anger. Write from the point of view of the other person (s) in the argument. Switch from real life to fiction and have the "other character" (originally you) say out loud the fear which you wrote down above. See if you can get a story or a scene in a story out of what you are doing.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

Analyzing a story's plot: Freytag's Pyramid

Gustav Freytag was a Nineteenth Century German novelist who saw common patterns in the plots of stories and novels and developed a diagram to analyze them. He diagrammed a story's plot using a pyramid like the one shown here:



Freytag's Pyramid
1. Exposition: setting the scene. The writer introduces the characters and setting, providing description and background.
2. Inciting Incident: something happens to begin the action. A single event usually signals the beginning of the main conflict. The inciting incident is sometimes called 'the complication'.
3. Rising Action: the story builds and gets more exciting.
4. Climax: the moment of greatest tension in a story. This is often the most exciting event. It is the event that the rising action builds up to and that the falling action follows.
5. Falling Action: events happen as a result of the climax and we know that the story will soon end.
6. Resolution: the character solves the main problem/conflict or someone solves it for him or her.
7. Dénouement: (a French term, pronounced: day-noo-moh) the ending. At this point, any remaining secrets, questions or mysteries which remain after the resolution are solved by the characters or explained by the author. Sometimes the author leaves us to think about the THEME or future possibilities for the characters.

You can think of the dénouement as the opposite of the exposition : instead of getting ready to tell us the story by introducing the setting and characters, the author is getting ready to end it with a final explanation of what actually happened and how the characters think or feel about it. This can be the most difficult part of the plot to identify, as it is often very closely tied to the resolution.