What is your style of writing? That is certainly one of the questions on our minds when we are just beginning to think of ourselves as writers. As we write we will discover what topics are always with us, who are our characters, what is it we wish to say. But suppose we are given a topic, a very mundane, every day situation. A situation that could fit in one sentence. The way we describe this situation will give us a clue as to what our style is.
Raymond Queneau, a French novelist, has done this sort of exercise and published the outcome in a book called "Exercise in Style". He has taken a simple situation of a man getting on the bus, witnessing a brief interaction between two fellow passengers and eventually getting off the bus and spotting one of the passenger in the city two hours later. The passenger he met later on the street is a young man with long neck, and a hat on his head and this young man reproaches another passenger for pushing him. Two hours later he is seen with a friend who points out to him that his coat is missing a button. Queneau has retold this story in 99 very different ways.
Here are three versions of the story written by Queneau. Why not write our own versions, one or more, in the comment to this blog post? It will be fun as much as useful! I hope to read versions from whoever stumbles upon this blog while surfing the net!
Notation
In the S bus, in the rush hour. A chap of about 26, felt hat with a cord instead of a ribbon, neck too long, as if someone's been having a tug-of-war with it. People getting off. The chap in question gets annoyed with one of the men standing next to him. He accuses him of jostling him every time anyone goes past. A sniveling tone which is meant to be aggressive. When he sees a vacant seat he throws himself on it.Two hours later, I meet him in the Cour de Rome, in front of the gare Saint Lazare. He's with a friend who's saying: “You ought to get an extra button on your overcoat”. He shows him where (at the lapels) and why.
DreamI had the impression that everything was misty and nacreous around me, with multifarious and indistinct apparitions, amongst whom however was one figure that stood out fairly clearly which was that of a young man whose too-long neck in itself seemed to proclaim the character at once cowardly and quarrelsome of the individual. The ribbon of his hat had been replaced by a piece of plaited string. Later he was having an argument with a person whom I couldn’t see and then, as if suddenly afraid, he threw himself into the shadow of a corridor.
LitotesSome of us were travelling together. A young man, who didn't look very intelligent, spoke to the man next to him for a few moments, then he went and sat down. Two hours later I met him again; he was with a friend and was talking about clothes.MetaphoricallyIn the centre of the day, tossed among the shoal of travelling sardines in a coleopter with a big white carapace, a chicken with a long, featherless neck suddenly harangued one, a peace abiding one, of their number, and its parlance, moist with protest, was unfolded upon the airs. Then, attracted by a void, the fledging precipitated itself thereunto.In a bleak urban desert, I saw it again that same day, drinking the cup of humiliation offered by a lowly button
Surprised
How tightly packed in we were on that bus platform! And how stupid and ridiculous that young man looked! And what was he doing? Well, if he wasn't actually trying to pick a quarrel with a chap who - so he claimed! the young fop! Kept on pushing him! And than he didn't find anything better to do than to rush off and grab a seat which had become free! Instead of leaving it for a lady!
Two hours after, guess whom I met in front of the gare Saint Lazare! The same fancy pants! Being given some sartorial advice! By a friend!
You'd never believe it!
my version:
ReplyDeleteHe was incredibly tall. It was his neck, actually – strikingly long. It gave him an air of elegance and superiority, even if he only saw it as awkwardness and was often ashamed of it. In the tumultuous years of puberty it was just the thing to push him further into seclusion which he had chosen long ago – since the earliest childhood he had been burdened by self-consciousness, inexplicable guilt and constant loneliness. There were governesses and at times he would even spend an hour or so with his dear soft spoken mother, but his father was no more than a phantom, hardly ever seen but invariably feared by all.
The day I first met him he was wearing a long coat, and carrying with him Thoreau’s Walden. I could not have know that at the time, of course, because it was tucked inside his pocket. Much later still did I discover it was his favourite book which he hardly ever parted from and that he could spend days contemplating a sentence or passage from it. But my first impression was entirely different than all my subsequent ones. He was on the "S" bus, fidgeting and extremely agitated which was clear even from where I was standing –the opposite corner of the bus… it was obvious he was finding it really difficult to control himself as he started coming down absurdly hard on an unsuspecting passenger. It was an older, sheepish little fellow but my future friend loudly ranted about the man stepping on his toes and pushing him on purpose. As I found out later the rage was caused by the anticipation of meeting with T. He knew he should expect scorn, outright contempt and false attempts of covering it up with cordiality. And in fact I did see that too. How curious that I should meet this quizzical chap twice in one day, I remember thinking. I saw him being bullied by T. and patronized at the same time. I could feel the agony he was undergoing while suppressing his resistance… Somehow, I felt as if he was calling out for someone, reaching out with invisible arms…and that is when I first approached him.
The feeling of spoiling my peaceful Sunday grew up more and more when I saw the guy in the packed bus.
ReplyDeleteNormally I don't get on a bus at this time because I knew it would be always crowded. I hate it. Secondly I was already half an hour late for a meeting. Then this guy. Third incident. He was having an argument with another passenger accusing of pushing him all the time when the bus swing right to left, stop and go.
First I thought a kind of young crazy guy was talking to himself because he was tall and had such a long neck like a giraffe. From my sight It looked like a head hanging in the air. His bowler hat was accelerating the spookiness. The head was just standing out from the other passengers' head,and I could not see his opponent because he was a tiny guy , invisible among the crowds. My heart was beating expecting something wrong happen by this crazy guy. So I was relieved when the guy took the seat and became quiet while the opponent went off the bus. At least One bad incident reduced.
Two hours later I saw the guy again. My fear grew up. He was talking with his friend in front of the gare Saint Lazare. The friend was pointing out his coat and saying ' Hey one button is missing here.' The guy started to explain what was happening 2 hours before and suddenly turned his eye on me. His eyes wide open with a slight smirk in his face. He knew I was gazing at him with hatred. That was when I knew my sacred Sunday would be completely spoiled.