The Case of the Disappearing Dialogue
There is a type of passage in contemporary novels that a reader comes across more and more.
There is, say, this man and this woman who meet each other rather by accident in the quiet of a nighttime garden at the back of this fancy villa, while inside the villa a party is going full tilt, and while the party is going full tilt, the big world is going to hell in a handbasket, what with WWII starting to rage and all.
There is intrigue galore in this book, leavened with every sort of skullduggery: several spies on both sides, a murder, a smuggling operation, a resistance group, a corrupt police force, a wealthy Greek shipping magnate, his beautiful but independent-minded wife, several sets of servants who may or may not be in on either the smuggling or the resistance or the murder, this other gal across town who gives every indication of knowing more than she lets on, secret messages, another murder, red herrings, false clues and blind alleys, secret radio signals at midnight, and this other gal on another side of town still who also seems to know more than she is letting on.
It is a lot to keep track of.
Even the most faithful reader at this stage of the game could use a refresher course as to what in the world is going on.
It is for this reason that the hopeful reader has high hopes of this accidental meeting in the garden.
Maybe they’ll have one of those conversations where she fills him on who’s who and what’s what, perhaps alphabetizes these characters so as to help us all keep them straight, gives a passable geography lesson on these Straights and Narrows and Seas and Passes that everyone keeps talking about, and all in all bring this poor man into a state of clarity, with the reader scrambling close behind.
At that point we’re ready to tackle the rest of the novel, rested and well-hydrated from our time on the bench.
Instead, this is what we get, in its entirety.
He (nearly coming to a halt.): You…
She (surprised herself.) You.
He: I didn’t realize…
She: And yet…
He: Yes.
She: Have you….
He: Yes. Yes I have. You?
She: No. (Though she says but the one word, her eyes speak volumes.)
He: I thought as much.
She: Yes. If I had known…
He: Yes, of course. How could you have?
She: You see…
He: No, no, you mustn’t.
She: Yes, perhaps better not.
He: Yes.
She: Well…
He: Still. Still…
She: There’s no help for it now. (She shakes her head.)
He: No, no, of course. There’s no help for it now. (He too shakes his head.)
Having delivered there at the end this comparable torrent of syllables, they part and go their merry ways.
And that’s about that.
Well this is bracing stuff and it really moves the reader along…he’s just not sure where he’s been moved to.
But get used to it would be my advice.
This, my friend, is the new style, this stripped-down bare bones form of writing, where much more is unsaid than is ever said.
It is said to the aspiring writer that, like an iceberg, ninety percent of what’s going on should be invisible, but this is more like the whole damn thing is underwater.
‘Taut’ might be the word, or ‘spare,’ or ‘oblique.’
Words land only glancingly, and you are never quite sure which ones are the important ones and which ones may as well be about the great shrimp platter back there at the party in the villa.
If this is the next big thing, then this is the next big thing. It can’t be too long before this stripped-down style makes its way from the novel to our ordinary lives.
To take an instance.
It is entirely possible to write more checks, or better put, to put your name to more promises for money, that in total add to more money owed than you actually have to pass out. Entirely possible! To lose track of I mean. There is so much going on these days, global warming and what not.
The bank and local merchants frown on this.
You might have always set aside Wednesday night for balancing the checkbook, or was it Thursday, or did you hit upon a scheme whereby each week you would balance it on Wednesday if the date was an even number and on Thursday if the date — back there on Wednesday — was an odd number? Yes, you think that is it, though the details escape you at the moment.
And the dialogue with the woman at the bank, who has taken you through this process before, has that same stripped-down quality that we are, as I have said, starting to see in the finest fiction.
She: (disbelievingly): What…
Me: You see….
She: I think I see all right…
Me: I didn’t realize…
She: Are you telling me…
Me: In a manner of speaking…
She: And yet…
Me: Yes…
She: (shaking her head) I thought as much…
Me: Yes.
She: Well…
Life is beginning to imitate art in this matter, and both elevates the tone of the conversation and empties it of meaning.
Let me, as further illustration, describe the conversation I had with the repairman who came to look at the hot water heater:
Me: You see…
He: Did it…?
Me: Yes, you could say that.
He: And then?
Me: More of the same.
He: We don’t like to see…
Me: I can imagine.
He: And yet…
Me: And yet…
He: Yes…
Well, I’ve had worse conversations with the hot water heater repair guy.
And if I didn’t quite know what he was talking about in this instance as he looked at the damned thing, well, I never quite know what he is talking about.
Everyone seems to be getting in on the act. The last time my car was at the repair place, the mechanic gestured me into the bay where it was up on the rack. He had a flashlight with him and as he spoke, he would point it towards different areas of disrepair.
He: You see…
Me: Yes.
He: I thought as much.
Me: You don’t mean…
He: If I had known…
Me: I blame myself…
He: No, no, you mustn’t….
Me: Have you?...
He: Yes.
Me: There’s no help for it now.
And as I pulled out the checkbook and handed over the first of many payments I didn’t say much more.
But my eyes spoke volumes.
