Metaphor
Metaphors make sense. I mean that literally, metaphors make sense. Imagine a page of even the most eloquent book with its text leached of metaphor and you will see a terrible, dry husk. The image that comes to my mind is of a small log after the fire has burnt itself out -- it has the shape of a log, but nothing of the essence; tap it and it will crumble into dust.
If you read language carefully, you see that one metaphor shades into another, almost without break; indeed, there are layers of metaphor in the most mediocre prose. We may read left to right in lines of little symbols, but what we keep in our heads is the gift of metaphor.
You can always tell a poor thinker by the quality of his metaphors. I work in social science publishing, so I see horrible new examples every single day. A writer who does not know the value of words cannot be a good writer, and he cannot be a good thinker. One thinks, after all, in reformulations of the familiar, with a vocabulary of known sites. If not, how would one think at all?
Among the several books I am reading at the moment is one called The Praise Singer, by Mary Renault (1978). It is a historical novel about travelling bards in the world of the ancient Greeks of the Ionian islands. The work of a bard in the ancient world, where few things were written down, was the safeguarding and employment of memory. Just one elderly bard and his disciple could commit to memory and find new ways to tell the history of a hundred years. Then remember the master's master and the disciple's disciple, and hundreds of bards of varying skill. I bet the ancient Greeks learnt about time in such ways. We nowadays have almost no conception of long durations of time. Instead we have the urge to periodise: the Sixties, the Eighties, the Renaissance, the Great Mughals, the Dark Ages.
To my mind, a beautifully-written story about ancient bards by a modern author is ripe ground for rooting around in. Reading this book, I better understand myself through a story about others understanding themselves through song-stories about others understanding themselves and the universe through act and consequence. And now I am writing about it...
If you read language carefully, you see that one metaphor shades into another, almost without break; indeed, there are layers of metaphor in the most mediocre prose. We may read left to right in lines of little symbols, but what we keep in our heads is the gift of metaphor.
You can always tell a poor thinker by the quality of his metaphors. I work in social science publishing, so I see horrible new examples every single day. A writer who does not know the value of words cannot be a good writer, and he cannot be a good thinker. One thinks, after all, in reformulations of the familiar, with a vocabulary of known sites. If not, how would one think at all?
Among the several books I am reading at the moment is one called The Praise Singer, by Mary Renault (1978). It is a historical novel about travelling bards in the world of the ancient Greeks of the Ionian islands. The work of a bard in the ancient world, where few things were written down, was the safeguarding and employment of memory. Just one elderly bard and his disciple could commit to memory and find new ways to tell the history of a hundred years. Then remember the master's master and the disciple's disciple, and hundreds of bards of varying skill. I bet the ancient Greeks learnt about time in such ways. We nowadays have almost no conception of long durations of time. Instead we have the urge to periodise: the Sixties, the Eighties, the Renaissance, the Great Mughals, the Dark Ages.
To my mind, a beautifully-written story about ancient bards by a modern author is ripe ground for rooting around in. Reading this book, I better understand myself through a story about others understanding themselves through song-stories about others understanding themselves and the universe through act and consequence. And now I am writing about it...
posted by frantyck at 12:08 PM
4 Comments:
Hey! Thanks a lot for your comment. I'm highly obliged.
As for the post 'How I Loved', it's totally upto you. I don't really mind. I don't write professionally, so it's not a problem, and I was going to edit that post anyway.
As for those lines by Gary Jules, nope, they are not by Emily Dickinson and I didn't mean it to look that way. Sorry, if that's how it came out. I haven't heard the Gary Jules song, otherwise I'd have mentioned it. I just seemed to recall the lines when I was writing, but I couldn't remember where I'd read/heard them. As they seemed to fit, I used them. Guess I should be more careful in the future.
Thanks a lot again for your effort and for letting me know.
Take care,
Swetank
Thanks for bringing Mary Renault into my radar! Will definitely look out for her - and meanwhile, I'd like to link your blog to mine - that okay with you?
I read The King Must Die ages ago maybe thrice over. Its a beautiful book and explores the Theseus myth in greay detail. Sadly enough I havent read or found anything else by her. Enjoy your read.
sorry - great detail
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