Art and Craft (2) William Golding

I wasn't a great fan of William Golding, I have to admit. I studied
"Lord of the Flies" when I was 13 and found it too painful for words. But I have recently been converted to his writing on the back of having to write an essay about "Darkness Visible". I wanted the essay to reflect my response to the immediacy of the first few pages,which are extraordinary, so I deliberately didn't read beyond them at the time. And I managed to miss that "Darkness Visible" is a line from Milton's "Paradise Lost". This means some of my guesses don't quite hold up. Still, I think this piece does point out a few of the techniques he uses very effectively, and I learnt a lot about writing from reading this novel. And the rest of the book is terrific too.

I'm posting it today, because I happened to be in the Oxfordshire Records Office yesterday (they are very nice people, have a cafe and it's close to my children's school). They currently have an exhibition celebrating 500 years of Brasenose College, complete with Golding's Nobel Prize award, which was a sight to see on an otherwise uneventful afternoon.

Reading "Darkness Visible" prompted me to return to the "Lord of the Flies" which I enjoyed a lot more this time round. So I hope this whets your appetite enough to give Golding a try...

Illuminating the Darkness - An analysis of the opening of “Darkness Visible” by William Golding (pp 9-14)

The beginning of “Darkness Visible” is deceptively simple – a group of fire-fighters watch a blaze in the Blitz. World War Two has been in shown in literature and film so often, a scene like this can seem quite trite. However, Golding is not a common-place writer: in his hands, it becomes something quite extraordinary.

The novel opens in the Isle of Dogs, in London’s Docklands. The word “evacuated” indicates that we are probably in war-time, which is confirmed by the presence of barrage balloons, bombs and searchlights. This setting is so familiar to us it could be a cliché. However, Golding’s take on it seems slightly unusual. A less skilled writer would have shown us a German Dornier bombing ordinary houses, resulting in casualties being pulled from dusty rubble. Here, the bombers aren’t mentioned till they depart, the bombs seem to appear “mysteriously” in the sky. So we see the devastation of war, not in the physical effects it has on people, but in the poignancy of their absence,

“there had been as many languages spoken as families that lived there. But just now, not much was being said.” (p9)

The second comment is slightly humorous, but it is humour tinged with sadness, a subtle effect that piques our curiosity. We are drawn in further by the film-like technique that moves from a broad sweep of the landscape to concentrate on particular details. We start with a description of the streets, before focussing on the fire, then the “men” watching, and finally on three particular crewmen: the musician, the bookseller and their leader, the captain. We are given no physical descriptions of these people, but we are allowed to eavesdrop into their thoughts. The little hints Golding gives us about them - the musician has learnt to understand the sounds of war, the leader seems to be struggling with his emotions - help us develop sympathy with them, and bring us into their story.

There’s enough in this opening to attract our interest as a reader, but what else is Golding doing to maintain our involvement? He uses a very effective technique by placing two vital facts early on. One is that the area has been “evacuated officially”. The other, that the crew are waiting for the “delayed action” of the unexploded bomb. The first is there to emphasize how unlikely it is that there could be anyone in the fire. The second shows that, even when the bombers leave, the danger is far from over. Having laid these narrative seeds, Golding then proceeds to tell his tale, which he paces well using a second technique – interweaving a vivid description of the fire with the thoughts and emotions of the crew watching.
For the majority of the passage, the men are motionless, held still by their impotence in the face of a blaze which is “out of control”. In fact, it is the fire that seems to be the central character here. It is a “great fire” - only natural windbreaks created by burnt buildings can hinder its path. It is a “furnace”. Its light is so strong it illuminates the whole street. It consumes everything. It seems “permanent”. It is vibrant - a “red curtain” with a “white heart” that makes a “roaring” noise. It is so powerful that even the “least combustible materials” are melting. The author wants us to understand that nothing can possibly live in these flames. However, he counterpoints this by showing the crew-men remembering improbable escapes, such as the bookseller living through a wall crashing on him. This helps create a seeming contradiction in the reader’s mind: it is impossible to survive such a conflagration, yet people survive the impossible. This sets up the idea that such a miracle might be about to happen here.

There is a shift in emphasis on page twelve, as Golding slowly builds up the dramatic tension. First the musician stops listening for bombs and starts “attending to the fire with his eyes”. The bookseller notices and swings round, to see what the musician and crew are looking at,

“where now, humanly speaking, the street was no longer part of the habitable world…. something moved.” (p12)

The bookseller and the others look away, perhaps because they can’t quite believe it, perhaps because they are frightened of what they might find. It is only then that the captain sees what they see. Simultaneously, the bombers leave, suggesting that the men might now be safe. This is a moment where another writer might reveal what they have seen, but Golding continues to build up the tension by delaying the revelation, creating uncertainty in the reader’s mind. Like the firemen, we are not sure what to believe, until the captain says “look again”, and we are finally told, “what had seemed impossible” is true, a “figure” has appeared in the glare. But still it is “impossibly small”, because Golding reminds us (bringing us neatly back to our starting point) the place has been evacuated - there should be no children there. This is quickly followed by the second narrative seed coming to fruition. As the men finally move into action, the bomb goes off. The passage ends in a climax that is doubly dramatic, the men are in danger, and the impossible has happened - a child is emerging from the flames. The reader is left with two important questions that will drive the story forward - how did the child get there and what happens next?

Golding uses language in many interesting ways in this piece, but there is insufficient space to account for them all, except in relation to the narrative tone, which is particularly interesting. The opening pages are packed with long words, such as “lambent”, “diminution”, “augmentation”,
“perception”, “interpretation”. This has a rather distancing effect and can be off-putting for the reader. Distance is also created by the fact that no-one is referred to by name, and the events themselves are at arms-length – the bombers are invisible, the sounds of explosions are far away, even the fire is down the street. I think Golding might have two reasons for doing this. One is that war has a numbing effect. Even though the events we see are dramatic, they have lost their power to shock - illustrated by fact that the fountain of water from the bombed pump doesn’t draw a crowd, as it would have in peace-time.

A second reason is more subtle. The language may be deliberately formal and distant to invoke a spirit of the times – the avoidance of showing feelings known as the ‘stiff upper lip’. This is built on by the use of understated dialogue such as, “I’m not happy”, and “chaps”. Golding deliberately undermines this tone through his sarcastic comment, “Indeed none of the chaps was happy” – how can they be in these conditions? The description of the captain does this further. He is literally trying keep his lips stiff, they “were set so firmly together” that “the front of his chin trembled”. His men seem almost embarrassed by this, yet it is the captain who acts when they see the child, the captain who rushes on, despite the bomb. Golding seems to be suggesting here that showing emotion does not necessarily make a man weak.

The narrative is thus structured very effectively, both to build dramatic tension and draw us into the story, and the ambiguous tone is intriguing. But what is Golding’s artistic vision, and how does he achieve it? I think it is obvious from the title, “Darkness Visible”, that the author is after something complex - after all making darkness visible is a contradiction in terms. I would suggest the “darkness” Golding is trying to illuminate is illustrated by two key passages.

“whereas Pompeii had been blinded by dust here there was if anything, too much clarity, too much shameful, inhuman light where the street ended. Tomorrow all might be dark, dreary, dirty, broken walls, blind windows; but
just now there was so much light that the very stones seemed semi-precious, a version of the infernal city. “ (p11)

I think Golding is suggesting by this, that, whilst Pompeii was a terrible tragedy, it was a natural disaster. Here, the destruction is being done by man, and the light of the flame, makes the “darkness” of man’s ability to kill momentarily visible. Further on, he returns to the same idea by describing the child’s face. One side is bright, but this is not an effect of the light, “The burn was even more visible on the left side of his head”. Just as the fire makes the damage to homes and communities evident, the burn on the child’s face shows the true darkness that bombing does, it harms and mutilates children.

The striking use of biblical imagery in this section, suggests to me that Golding is also writing an allegory. The fire is described early on as “a burning bush”, which immediately brings to mind the story of God speaking to Moses, the implication that God is making some kind of announcement through the blaze. This is further suggested for me by the use of “white” lights that look like “tents” in the sky. This reminds me of the transfiguration scene in the New Testament, when Jesus is revealed as the Messiah, bathed in white light and attended by the prophets Elijah and Moses. His apostles propose that they build tents on the mountain for them. It is a story that also has parallels with the moment Jesus is baptised in the river. A white dove appears in the sky, telling everyone that he is the son of God. I think it is possible that Golding is using these images to suggest that the fire is announcing something special. The child who walks out of the flames is a representation of an important Christian idea - the sacrificial victim who could be the salvation of the world. There is a little bit of ambiguity about this though. It is easy to assume the child is good because it is a victim, but the description of it “condensing” from the smoke and flames does feel a little sinister. It is possible Golding is playing with the idea of good and evil through the physical features of the child, half damaged, half pure. Presumably this question will be answered as the novel progresses.

The fire seems to me to stand for the whole world, and indeed, Golding tells us this more than once. The “very substance of the world” is burning. The fire seems to be “permanent”, the “world” has become an “open stove”, “the world was being consumed”. Like the flames in the Book of Revelations, this is an apocalyptic blaze that seems to suggest the end of everything. It may also represent the need for the world to be cleansed of its inhumanity, before it can start anew.

The use of the phrase “infernal city” seems to reference the city of Dis, in the hell of Dante’s Inferno. This is important for two reasons. Firstly, Dante’s poem is also allegorical, and deals with the themes of good, evil and the possibility of salvation. Second it provides us with an allegorical purpose for the presence of the bookseller and the musician. I would suggest, like Virgil in the Inferno, they are there to remind us that art helps us to face up to sin and evil, and to transcend it.
The captain also seems to be there on purpose. He is the first to act when he sees the child, and he shows immense courage when the bomb goes off. I would suggest he symbolises the importance of compassion and bravery in the face of unbelievable horrors.

Golding is using his initially ordinary looking story to address several important themes: the nature of good and evil, the futility of war, the possibilities for human survival, the need for salvation. He adds weight to this by clearly placing his novel within the literary tradition. References to Pompeii and Artemis, remind us of the classical world, whilst Dante provides us with a link to modern literature. The fire, river and the title seem reminiscent of Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness”. The subject matter and allegorical aspects are similar to Thomas’ poem, “A Refusal to Mourn the Death of a Child by Fire in London”, whilst the fire reminds me in places of Eliot’s poem “The Wasteland.”

The novel was published in 1979, but like any good historical novel it says as much about its own time as it does about the period in which it is set. Golding is writing from a post- nuclear world, which seems reflected in the description of the white heart of a red flame - exactly what a nuclear explosion looks like. The horror of the Holocaust seems to be referenced in the idea of the world collapsing, which was how many felt at the time. Golding is also writing a few years after the end of the Vietnam War, which was considered particularly horrific because of its effects on civilians. A famous image from that war is the picture of a burnt naked child running to safety. Surely Golding had this in mind when he wrote this passage?

For a novel to work, it has to engage the reader from the outset. Does Golding’s opening achieve this? I think this might be a matter of taste. The rather distant tone at the beginning could be off-putting to some, and they might be deterred from reading further. I did have that initial reaction, but a second glance drew me into the narrative. I became hooked by Golding’s development of dramatic tension, his complexity of thought, and juggling of contradictions. As a writer, I feel I have been presented with a master-class in writing that will stand me in good stead. More importantly, as a reader, I am desperate to read on, which seems to me the ultimate mark of success.

Copyright c Virginia Moffatt 2009

Not quite plug of the month...

...because I've already done my lovely twin, Julia Williams once. But thought it worth mentioning that she is author of the month at ChicklitBlog this month. Hurrah.

The weird way writing works.

I'm one of those writers who takes a very long time to get anywhere. I had the first thought about my current work-in-progress way back in 2003. I didn't put a pen to paper till 2007 and 2 years down the line, have still only managed to get half of what's in my head, out. In my defence, I have been busy with other things - child-raising, working, and latterly studying for my Creative Writing Diploma - but I had hoped to have at least finished the outline draft by now.

Ah well, it didn't happen, so I decided I'd go for it in the summer. Last summer was particularly productive and I thought, in my naivety, it would be the same again. Except...it wasn't. My trusty Moleskine was not completely empty by the end of our time in Tenby, but all I managed was a bit of a chapter. And every time I tried to sit and write, I just couldn't. In fact, any time I tried to do anything at all, I just couldn't. So in the end, I decided that it was nature's way of telling me to take a break.

So, I have. And though I've gradually started picking up on my other commitments, my lack of writing has gone on, and on, and on. Every time I've thought about my 1943 characters I just haven't been able to progress their story. Even though I know the general arc, I can't seem to get down to particulars. Finally, a week ago, I typed up and edited that pathetic remnant of a chapter, pretty crap but at least it's something. Yesterday, I forced myself to finish that and start another one. Most of it was even worse quality, but suddenly, just before bed-time, out of nowhere, I started putting down some dialogue that felt like it might, perhaps, be worth preserving.

And then in the wee small hours my brain started whirring, and I began to think - if she does that, he'll do this, and that's why that person is saying such and such, and the other one is behaving in that way...And, suddenly, I feel I might just be getting started again. So, if I can just finish this section, and then one more, I've nearly completed the whole thing... Well, the first terrible draft that no-one will see.

That's when the real work begins.

Little poem

Not a poet really, but poems are easy to blog. This came out of another of Jenny Lewis's wonderful poetry classes. A response to a picture (I leave you to guess what of)

CD collection.

This is all that is left –
half the names gone, the hard edges
blurred by the white light of the lamp.

Our music has left the room.
Elvis has left the room.
You have left the room.

All I have are hard edges,
a carved up half-life.
Nothing worth saving is left

Nothing more thrilling...

...than walking into Blackwell's and finding my sister's poems in the very prominently displayed Rialto. A very fine poetry magazine it is too, and greatly enjoyed reading Joanna's sonnets over a capuccino. Also available from Borders!

Plug of the Month

Joanna Clark (aka my big sister) has the first half of a series of sonnets in this month's Rialto Magazine (67). Very exciting. Please check them out!

Art and Craft (1) Graham Greene.

A life long love.

I have loved Graham Greene ever since I was a teenager when I used to pull his slim volumes off our crowded bookshelves. Studying The Power and the Glory for “A” level gave me an opportunity to reflect on his writing in more depth and confirmed for me what a wonderful writer he is.

Greene novels are easy to read: his prose is clear and elegant, his books often quite short. However, his subject matter is always complex - his characters struggle with their flaws and their consciences, making the wrong choices for the right reasons. They live in dangerous and desperate worlds in colonial Africa, South America, Asia. Even when they are in England they are not safe. Greene is brilliant at evoking time and place, people struggling with events in landscapes that are often alien to them. The other great strength of his writing is the undercurrent of politics, faith (religious or otherwise), who we are in the world, and the effects of what we do. His novels are brilliantly crafted and always stay with you long after they are finished.

Green is often described as a Catholic writer, and several of his novels do reflect his understanding of his religious beliefs. He, however, felt he was a writer who happened to be a Catholic, and although some of his greatest works have Catholic preoccupations (The Power and the Glory, The Heart of the Matter, Brighton Rock), others seem to me to be focussing on his interests in the political questions of his day (The Confidential Agent, A Gun for Sale, The Quiet American, The Human Factor).

Greene was prolific, as well as his main novels, he wrote and adapted screenplays (some of his own work). He was a fine travel writer (one of the reasons that his landscapes are so well drawn), and though he is best known for his serious fiction, he could show a light comic touch. Our Man in Havana is a hilarious account of a local diplomat creating a fictional plot to keep the intelligence services happy, only for it to run completely out of control. (And like a number of his political novels, seems quite prescient). In my view he is one of the finest twentieth century English writers, and I hope, if you haven’t already read him, you will discover it for yourself soon. In the meantime, let’s take a brief look at how he went about it.

A master at work.

You could pick up almost any Graham Greene novel and find evidence of his fine craftsmanship. I am going to concentrate on the openings of two of my particular favourites, The Heart of the Matter, and The Quiet American, which are great examples of his skill.

Introducing the main character through others– Both novels start with a technique that Green often uses. The scene opens as a broad canvas, only to narrow down to particular information and to the person who matters most. Thus,
in the Heart of the Matter, we begin with a character Wilson sitting in a West African hotel, observing first the street below, then interacting with a fellow guest, Harris who draws our attention to Scobie, the novel’s hero, walking down the road. The Quiet American also starts with a street scene (this time in South Vietnam) as the narrator Fielding, waits for his friend, Pyle, who is late. When Pyle doesn’t come, Fielding goes downstairs, where he sees a girl, Phuong. Over the next few pages we discover details about Pyle through their conversation until the police pick them up and take them to the police station. Pyle’s absence hangs over them, but it is only as we near the end of the chapter that Fielding works out why - Pyle has been murdered.

In both introductions, Greene cleverly builds up our sense of the importance of Scobie and Pyle by letting his other characters tell us about them. In Scobie’s case it is Harris who gives us the local view of the man – he “loves” the natives so much, “he sleeps with them”, he has an intellectual, unpopular wife, he probably takes bribes from the Syrians. In Pyle’s case, we have Fielding’s view of him through the prism of his encounter with Phuong – she has changed her hair because of Pyle, he is usually punctual, he doesn’t smoke. Later on Fielding tells the policeman that Pyle was a “quiet American”, he remembers him as being serious, a great reader. As he wanders back to the flat with Phuong, Fielding reveals a last shocking truth – before he died, Pyle was responsible for the deaths of at least fifty people. In both cases, we feel we are not being given the full picture, and that is hook enough for us to want to read more and find out the truth of who Scobie and Pyle are and why their stories matter.

Scene setting – Greene is a very effective scene setter. He uses the tiniest of details to show us where his characters are. Thus in The Heart of the Matter we are told the negresses going to matins are trying to “wave their wirespring hair” – immediately telling us that we are not in England. He tells us we are by the sea, Wilson has recently “emerged” from the port, there are black clerks and their wives, an Indian on the balcony, the rooves are “tin” and “corrugated iron”. The arrival of a “black boy” bringing gin, confirms for us that we are somewhere in colonial Africa. In The Quiet American, Greene is similarly economical. The “old women in black trousers” are squatting, it is February, but “too hot” for them to be in bed at midnight. A trishaw passes, and the lights burn in the distance where American planes are disembarking. This is obviously south Asia, again confirmed by the description of Phuong, with her “white silk trousers” and “long flowered robe.”

Character development – I have mentioned how both openings give us information about the central characters, but they are also very good at building up detail about the subsidiary characters too. The opening paragraph of “The Heart of the Matter” give us some very clear clues about Wilson. With his “bald pink knees”, a “very young moustache” we immediately sense his youthfulness and inexperience. In the next paragraphs we learn that “his pallor showed how recently he had emerged” from the port, that he “had no car” and is “intolerably lonely”. This marks him out as a newcomer to the country and one who doesn’t appear to make friends easily. He likes romantic poetry but keeps this secret. He wants passionately to be “indistinguishable” from the other men, to be more masculine, but his “eyes betrayed him”. They are mournful like a dog's – showing that he is a man of feelings. When Harris mentions Scobie’s intellectual wife, we know Greene is giving us a clue that Wilson will be naturally drawn to her.

The beginning of The Quiet American is most revealing about the character of Fielding. Throughout the chapter, he insists he is anxious about Pyle's whereabouts. Yet this is counterposed with the knowledge that Phuong used to wait for Fielding, that she has left him for Pyle. Though Fielding has the sensitivity not to hurt her by making cruel comments about their new situation, he thinks about bedding her if Pyle doesn’t show up. He says the opium stops his desire, yet he still wishes out loud that he were Pyle. Immediately we are not sure about his motives. When the police come knocking at his door he remembers the stories of people who have disappeared, and reveals he is a journalist. That knowledge and his response to the policeman’s insistence they come, show us he is a seasoned ex-pat who knows the dangers and pitfalls of the country, unlike the naïve and uninitiated Pyle. (An interesting reversal of the Heart of the Matter, where Scobie is the old hand and Wilson the newcomer). The encounter with the policeman Vigot, is even more revealing. On the one hand, Fielding claims innocence of Pyle’s death, he has an alibi. Yet his throw away comments suggest otherwise. “ ‘Not guilty,’ I said. I told myself it was true.”, “I told myself I was innocent.” The chapter ends with Fielding asking “Am I the only one who cared about Pyle?” and we are left wondering if this is true.

Foreshadowing – Graham is a master of foreshadowing. He lets us know early on in both novels that we are looking at tragedy. From the moment we see the vulture in The Heart of the Matter, we know this will not be a happy story. Scobie’s first appearance is a lonely walk down the street, and the minute he is mentioned the vulture flaps his wings. Though Wilson doesn’t think this moment is important at the time, Green very economically tells us that it is, ”He couldn’t tell that this was one of those occasions a man never forgets…
…a wound that would ache whenever certain things combined – the taste of gin at mid-day, the smell of flowers under a balcony, the clang of corrugated iron, an ugly bird”. As he walks out of sight Harris says “Poor old Scobie” and we know he is doomed.

Similarly in The Quiet American, we know the moment Fielding goes down to the street, that Pyle is not coming back. Throughout the conversation with Phuong, we sense something bad has happened. Phuong’s comment that he won’t be long, is intended “to comfort” Fielding, Fielding finds excuses for his absence. The whole scene feels muted and melancholy.When they arrive at the police station, Fielding picks up the sadness in Vigot’s tone, and we know before we are told that Pyle is dead. Whilst this is tragedy enough, the ambiguities that Greene shows us in Fielding’s character hint that there is more to this murder than meets the eye. We are left at the end of the chapter knowing that there is more sadness to come.

I could say more about Greene’s dialogue, his cinematic approach to his writing, the delicacy with which he weaves the personal and the political, but I’ll leave it there I think. If you've read these wonderful books and have anything to add, (or critique me for!) please do comment. If you haven't, I hope I've whetted your appetite for a fine, fine author, at the peak of his skills.