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April 23, 2008

Comments

Matt

You know, not to be picky, but there's a lack of poetry in there:

"Hot, garlicky, juices fired into his mouth as he bit into it"

The juices fired into in his mouth? Really? From a meat juice cannon, just like in a commercial for hot dogs? And when they fired, was it a steady steam? Or was it packetized like photons of juice light? Or was it really just an unnecessary analogy/anthropomorphism/metaphowhatever?

kebabguy

must beg to differ matt - have had many a kebab just like the one described and the description is dead on. the sensation when the pressure of your bite releases the juices really is "firing" ... making me hungry thinking about it!

EG

Is this supposed to be an example of an elegant variation?

"that pink tender flesh in the middle give up its structure to a delicious mulch."

Shya

I've got to agree with Matt. The passage does nothing for me. "Delicious" and "extraordinary" are exactly the kind of empty adjectives it's vital to avoid when describing a sensual experience, and "aromatic delight" simply isn't grammatically correct. The delight isn't aromatic, the meat is. I can usually forgive these kind of false notes if a passage has other things going for it, but here there are too many in too small a space to ignore. Though maybe I just like kebabs too much to let such treatment pass.

Grant

Jesus. Can someone explain this current obsession with precise documentation of the mundane? I'd take one intelligent, brilliantly maddening, yet overwrought story by Borges over twenty by an author who can vividly evoke the experience of noshing on a kebab.

Also, I think EG's comment with regard to the grammatically incorrect phrase "aromatic delight" is the perfect example of the worst sort of criticism, the kind rampant in workshops.

Regardless of how frustrated I am with value placed on empty evocation, I do think the passage quoted is decent. Who in the world (apart from robotic copy editors) reads anything so closely that the aesthetic value of a passage is marred by a slight grammatical error?

Kill yourself.

jh

One might call it the Nabokovian obsession/accumulation of detail, minus the Nabokovian genius behind it.

EG

Hey, "aromatic delight" wasn't my comment. No workshopping for me.

Shya

When did proper English grammar become the (disparaged) domain of workshop criticism? Yikes.

Grant

Sorry, EG! That's my mistake.

Shya, please kill yourself.

Thanks.

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TEV DEFINED


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."

SECOND LOOK

  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

    Bs

    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe

    Rider_4

    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."