I appreciate your views on this, but have to disagree to some extent. Both minimalist and maximalist writing can be beautiful - it depends on the execution. You highlight Ernaux - I read one of her books in French, and while I did like her prose, I did find the whole work banal. I disagree with the basic premise that autofiction can yield deep insights into „the human condition“. It doesn’t. While I was reading Ernaux, I wished more than once that she had utilised her talent for actual fiction. Oh well. One can always dream.
Of course..it’s a matter of taste and execution. I am on the minimalist camp although I talk too much `I am told…I had a monicker ‘shutup di express’ a pun on our then fastest train in India Shatabdi Express. Anyway, I was asked to write defending minimalism. Both are tough to do well though. I’m sad you thought Ernaux was banal. I ‘ve worshipped her since I discovered her and felt mighty chuffed when she got the N. But again, books are a matter of taste….it’s fine if you didn’t like her. I can’t stand a lot of writers the world likes… I think autofiction is her talent but oh well…we’ll never know will we. When she deviates from autofiction to write about images and photography, I don’t like those as much….she’s no Berger when she writes on those matters.
Maximalist in intent, minimalist in execution. That's the way to precision for me—language has dense meaning embedded and you can only sculpt it so far before it crumbles. Your execution always already gets narrowed by the embedded meaning inside the linguistic material, too, so you must have an excess of intent behind every syllable to balance what you want to mean with what the system of language chances you into meaning. People lean one way or the other still, I just think you can see elements of minimalism even in maximal writers and vice versa. Hemingway's sparse, factual prose has a maximal amount of character subtext; Faulkner's maximal use of figurative language has a minimum of plot. I don't think having minimal intention and maximal execution produces as much great literature, but there are books more chance based, like This is Not a Novel by Markson or A Void by Perec, that are successful.
I love both (or how many there are there). Maybe slightly inclined to minimal, but. a good story is a good story. Even folk, which tends to be more minimal. There are very, let's say, laconic fairy tales -and very detailed ones. Why should I chose. I read what I love.
Also, if I'll wait until my mind is not foggy, I'll stop talking at all. Maybe I did that already. Maybe it's disheartening. Maybe somebody waits until I tell this foggy story. Maybe I'm dead, and the story died with me. Maybe many great stories are foggy. Maybe I love stumbling in the fog. Maybe the best case for clarity-as made here too, per my understanding-is we can stumble in the fog that brilliant clarity still carries.
You simply must read Peter Handke’s “A Sorrow Beyond Dreams.” It is, in my opinion, the ur text for Ernaux and other writers of autofiction. I assume you won’t like the term autofiction but its objective is exactly what you’re describing.
Agreed with the sentiment, found the piece - ironically - far too wordy. Also, Florence Nightingale was not 'nice': she was eccentric and determined and very annoying to the British Army authorities, who resisted all the way her attempts to improve the horrendous conditions for wounded soldiers.
One minor quibble: I would say Didion’s prose is also fairly “plain.” She modeled her style on Hemingway, perhaps the original minimalist.
Example: In her account of being “embedded” with the druggies and runaways of Haight-Ashbury, Didion at one point writes “I notice that I am the only person in the room with shoes on.” This simple observation signals a lot: not only a certain propriety, her squareness, and maybe a lack of sympathy, but also, I think, her vulnerability.
Plain but more dramatic. I did think about it for a while before I put that sentence down. I can only say it’s a slightly a subject taste/ choice thing
Well said, and surely no coincidental (pace the dick-swinging on this topic yesterday at this very eclectic publication) that you have female authors as your best examples. However, that is also not the real story, as I remember realizing the lesson you describe when reading The Emigrants by W.G. Sebald, and realizing that the very particular silences were there very deliberately, to loom, to menace, and to sink in the knife of grief.
A great article. I read it to the end, which I don't do with a lot of good articles.
The part about abortion reminded me of the beautiful Romanian movie, "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days"
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1032846/
I appreciate your views on this, but have to disagree to some extent. Both minimalist and maximalist writing can be beautiful - it depends on the execution. You highlight Ernaux - I read one of her books in French, and while I did like her prose, I did find the whole work banal. I disagree with the basic premise that autofiction can yield deep insights into „the human condition“. It doesn’t. While I was reading Ernaux, I wished more than once that she had utilised her talent for actual fiction. Oh well. One can always dream.
Of course..it’s a matter of taste and execution. I am on the minimalist camp although I talk too much `I am told…I had a monicker ‘shutup di express’ a pun on our then fastest train in India Shatabdi Express. Anyway, I was asked to write defending minimalism. Both are tough to do well though. I’m sad you thought Ernaux was banal. I ‘ve worshipped her since I discovered her and felt mighty chuffed when she got the N. But again, books are a matter of taste….it’s fine if you didn’t like her. I can’t stand a lot of writers the world likes… I think autofiction is her talent but oh well…we’ll never know will we. When she deviates from autofiction to write about images and photography, I don’t like those as much….she’s no Berger when she writes on those matters.
Lovely.
Maximalist in intent, minimalist in execution. That's the way to precision for me—language has dense meaning embedded and you can only sculpt it so far before it crumbles. Your execution always already gets narrowed by the embedded meaning inside the linguistic material, too, so you must have an excess of intent behind every syllable to balance what you want to mean with what the system of language chances you into meaning. People lean one way or the other still, I just think you can see elements of minimalism even in maximal writers and vice versa. Hemingway's sparse, factual prose has a maximal amount of character subtext; Faulkner's maximal use of figurative language has a minimum of plot. I don't think having minimal intention and maximal execution produces as much great literature, but there are books more chance based, like This is Not a Novel by Markson or A Void by Perec, that are successful.
I love both (or how many there are there). Maybe slightly inclined to minimal, but. a good story is a good story. Even folk, which tends to be more minimal. There are very, let's say, laconic fairy tales -and very detailed ones. Why should I chose. I read what I love.
Also, if I'll wait until my mind is not foggy, I'll stop talking at all. Maybe I did that already. Maybe it's disheartening. Maybe somebody waits until I tell this foggy story. Maybe I'm dead, and the story died with me. Maybe many great stories are foggy. Maybe I love stumbling in the fog. Maybe the best case for clarity-as made here too, per my understanding-is we can stumble in the fog that brilliant clarity still carries.
Loved this essay- thank you, Buku, and ROL
Yeah. Minimalism for the win for sure.
You simply must read Peter Handke’s “A Sorrow Beyond Dreams.” It is, in my opinion, the ur text for Ernaux and other writers of autofiction. I assume you won’t like the term autofiction but its objective is exactly what you’re describing.
Agreed with the sentiment, found the piece - ironically - far too wordy. Also, Florence Nightingale was not 'nice': she was eccentric and determined and very annoying to the British Army authorities, who resisted all the way her attempts to improve the horrendous conditions for wounded soldiers.
One minor quibble: I would say Didion’s prose is also fairly “plain.” She modeled her style on Hemingway, perhaps the original minimalist.
Example: In her account of being “embedded” with the druggies and runaways of Haight-Ashbury, Didion at one point writes “I notice that I am the only person in the room with shoes on.” This simple observation signals a lot: not only a certain propriety, her squareness, and maybe a lack of sympathy, but also, I think, her vulnerability.
Plain but more dramatic. I did think about it for a while before I put that sentence down. I can only say it’s a slightly a subject taste/ choice thing
Well said, and surely no coincidental (pace the dick-swinging on this topic yesterday at this very eclectic publication) that you have female authors as your best examples. However, that is also not the real story, as I remember realizing the lesson you describe when reading The Emigrants by W.G. Sebald, and realizing that the very particular silences were there very deliberately, to loom, to menace, and to sink in the knife of grief.