Lyricism As a Subversive Act

Under the headline, "Good Books Don't Have to be Hard," book critic Lev Grossmann recently declared, "Lyricism is on the wane, and suspense, humor, and pacing are shedding their stigmas and taking their place as the core literary technologies of the 21st century." In his view, since Kafka, the novel has suffered from being verkrampft--increasingly so arduous as to repel readers, except for "a highly trained coterie of professional aesthetic interpreters." The revolution is underway, he announces, and "from a hieratic, hermetic art object, the novel is blooming into something more casual and open: a literature of pleasure."

Yet the literature of pleasure is not a new phenomenon, nor is hurtling through flaming hoops of plot the only way to relish a book. What about savoring a read to such an extent that we're loath for it to end, reluctant to leave a world with which we've grown intimate? Many readers first experience this intense connection to a book in childhood -- and never forget it.

Ultimately, for people who care about books, the discussion about a "literature of pleasure" must extend beyond the novel alone. At a time when readership is dwindling, it is imperative to explore what constitutes a lusty read in any genre. As both a reader and writer, I'm a reckless omnivore. I want to investigate literary "technologies" that engage readers, whether in fiction, or for that matter, science, history, memoir, or poetry. Grossman's statement offers a timely challenge to think about lyricism -- and why it is still worth expecting that writers should love language enough to deliver it.

In particular, peculiar irony exists in the notion that lyricism belongs to a formal, turgid literature, like an intimidating meal with starched linen and heavy silver. When and how did it become elitist to pay attention? Rather than rendering a story remote, well-crafted, alert words make it hard to look away or forget what we've read.

Consider lyricism's potency even in the complete absence of plot. Pablo Neruda's Elemental Odes celebrate aspects of life so ordinary as to go unnoticed: a watch, an onion, a pair of socks, or the act of ironing. Originally intended for a newspaper column, the odes slide down the page in a trickle of words. Instead of narrative, they unfurl with meditative structure: the mind's intuitive journey of association. Under Neruda's inquiring gaze, the mundane becomes luscious. It's like suddenly noticing the curve of an earlobe on a familiar face, and being hit by an unaccustomed thud of awe: This is it -- and s/he's been here all along. Here's the clincher: the closer we get, the more we care. That's how small things pull us to the big questions that matter most in a human life, to love and loss.

In these times, poets should not hold a monopoly on lyricism; it belongs in the tool kit of good writers, regardless of genre. A case in point is British neurologist Oliver Sacks, the bestselling author who writes about arcane disorders of the brain. Named "the poet laureate of medicine" by The New York Times, Sacks has noted: "We are a musical species, no less than a linguistic one." The sheer beauty of language, with its tonality, color, and textures, whets the reader's appetite even when enlisted to describe a rare psychiatric condition -- and in the process, it beckons us to contemplate what otherwise might have seemed too dry or daunting to approach.

Diane Ackerman's 1990 classic, A Natural History of the Senses is another example of irresistibly lyrical, non-fiction prose. With its sober title and encyclopedic compendium of facts about the senses, Ackerman's book still continues to be one of the sexiest reads around -- a summons to rampaging curiosity. It's among some twenty essential books that I unpack immediately after any move, just to feel at home again.

Yes, Lev Grossman: a rollicking, adrenalin-flushed novel is glorious. But absent the intimacy exerted by lyricism, we race through pages, and remain unmoved. Even with pyrotechnic plots, the possibilities exhaust themselves. Story lines repeat in variation, hitched to different settings. Formulaic characters become interchangeable, flat and forgettable. We never get to know them better, but that's not the point: they're secondary to the entertainment of predicting plot outcomes.

Huffington Post Books Editor Amy Hertz has invited writers in this section to think about the role of books as the game changers of civilization. That invitation alone suggests that we hope for more from books than we do from sudoku puzzles on a cross-country flight -- more than brief distraction from the here-and-now.

At this moment in the history of literature and language, readers and writers alike grapple to process an endless stream of disposable, erasable words. We multi-task through the day, while assorted devices compete for our attention -- chirping, buzzing, blinking, and vibrating. To maintain coherence amidst the noise debris of constant digital connection, we eventually learn to filter and shut out. It's as if our cognitive digestion is impaired, and we can only tolerate tiny morsels of text, shrunk to SMS and tweet length.

Perhaps paying attention is the true act of subversion now, the real revolution, the real game changer. Maybe lyricism is one of the essential bulwarks against language atrophy. Lyricism gets up close and whispers in our ear. It speaks in complete sentences. By plundering the rich resources of vocabulary, lyricism reveals a world that is a little larger, more vivid, and intense than we realized. That is a small act of transformation in an ordinary human life -- and a good book still makes it possible.

Writing practice:

Articles in this space aim to provoke, arouse, encourage, and nourish the regular ritual of free-writing. To take part today, look at Neruda's odes (my favorite translation is Stephen Mitchell's Full Women, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon, but you'll find other versions online). Then write about an everyday object or activity that carries emotional heft for you. You might allow yourself to free-associate in the style of Neruda's meditative structure. In the process, try to resist using abstract words that simply name the feeling the thing or action evokes (such as loneliness, grief, or joy).

Share your work with us here; we'll publish excerpts from the results.

Comments

[mkd216]

I so agree about savoring a read. I remember the first time I read Annie Proulx's novel Shipping News. I was in Paris on vacation, a wonderful city for adventure...and yet the words of Proulx's novel kept me absorbed, drawing me back to my hotel each evening anticipating my quiet time with the book. I deliberately read more slowly as I came closer to the end of the novel, not wanting it to end. I still remember that vacation---the food, fashion, sights and meandering walks. But as importantly, I remember my great pleasure in savoring the novel as part of that experience.

[BlackJAC]

And yet Steve Hely's HOW I BECAME A FAMOUS NOVELIST said that "lyrical" means "resembles bad poetry."