NB: In this post I describe types of fiction I like, and dislike. But in no way, do I suggest that one style is better than another. It’s purely a matter of personal preference.
Today whilst in Waterstones, I may have I hit upon the answer to a puzzle that has long been perplexing me. Why do I dislike the vast majority of modern fiction? I think the answer has to do with synaesthesia.
I love reading very much. I adore books. I know a lot of people say that, and for most people, that’s true in a very broad sense. They love all kinds of books within a particular genre say, and even when a book isn’t what they might have hoped, they’ll persevere and get some kind of enjoyment out of it. This is usually only true for me of ‘old’ books, for example I’m a huge fan of Gothic horror fiction and ghost stories from the 19th to mid-20th century. Books which delight in long sentences, with thousands of commas, and a million twists and turns in every sentence. I have a real aversion to modern writing, and it’s upset me quite a bit over the years as I try, and fail to enjoy books within my favourite genres which everyone tells me I should love, but which I not only dislike, but feel a strong repulsion for.
Usually I will pick up a book, written in the last thirty years, start reading, and within a minute I begin to feel nauseous. I always hope that the feeling won’t be there, and that instead I’ll be intrigued enough to keep reading, but 9 times out of 10 that’s how I’ll feel. The colours of the words all blur into jarring pink and green acidic neons, the flow is jerky, and makes me feel like I’m on a carousel. This sensation doesn’t happen to me when I read 19th century fiction, or certain authors, particularly the classic Magic Realists such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or Italo Calvino, and so I love their work.
Today, as I picked up a modern fiction book and experienced the familiar neon nausea, I had a revelation. I think it has to do with how modern authors construct sentences that play havoc with my synaesthetic cross-over of words with colours, patterns and tastes. What I’m talking about, is the modern vogue (especially in horror, science fiction, and some fantasy) for short, punchy sentences such as the (albeit badly written) one below which I’ve just composed off the top of my head.
“The corridor was sickly, sweat-laden. Staggering forward, Brown headed for the door. He brushed his forehead. The heat was too much, even for him.”
Granted this is a really corny sentence, but this type of staccato writing is quite common nowadays. Reading this sentence back, I feel queasy. As I read it, I hear the sound of the words in my head and they create patterns. The jilted flow sends pointed yellow edges flying round my field of vision, and the last line makes me feel as if I’ve landed hard on my feet – it’s jarring. To re-write this in a way which soothes me, I would do this:
“Brown staggered down the corridor which smelled sickly-sweet. Sweat accumulated on the walls he lunged past, and on his forehead, which he wiped nervously on his way to the door. Even though he was well accustomed to the compound’s rancid humidity, still he wretched and longed to feel fresh air on his face again”
My re-written version would probably be seen as being too cumbersome by modern standards. The second version adds only a little more detail to the story, but uses a lot more words which, I suppose, an editor would balk at. Also it perhaps hinders the feeling of immediacy; the jerky flow of the first version mirrors Brown’s stumbling down the corridor. The second version is more sedate. But I prefer it, because it looks, and tastes better. It has an undulating rhythm which creates lovely rolling waves or hills of gentle blue and green in my mind. The phrase ends wistfully, with less drama. Now, I have no problem with dramatic phrase conclusion, but I liked to be walked into them, not dropped, headlong.
Also, it’s not necessarily always the length of the sentence that upsets me. Short sentences can be okay, as long as they flow on from one another in a lilting way, like so:
“Brown paced. The corridor stretched out like a snake. Winding this way and that it turned uncertainly. He wiped his eyes. The corridor re-aligned itself as if it had always been so.”
This looks fine to me, even though the sentences are very abrupt, because it has a calm, logical flow to it (as least to me). It all tastes the same. It has a minty flavour – the words are sharp and insistent, and (I think) still contain uneasyness without being overly dramatic or cliché. It might be that the combination of short sentences without alliteration, and without obvious drama, makes me feel less queasy. Those techniques, whilst very effective, unsettle me too much.
In my academic writing I have a bad tendency to write overly long sentences with far too many points packed into them, and too much punctuation. I’m trying to streamline my writing to make it more concise. I think perhaps this desire to write such cumbersome sentences has at least some basis in my synaesthesia. When writing, as well as reading, I want a lazy cruise down the river, not a helter-skelter. I do realise however, that I’m unusual in this. I see the obvious merit in highly-acclaimed authors like Stephen King for example, but I can’t read his novels because I find his sentence construction too brutal. For me, the most horrifying thing about The Shining, was his syntax. Again, he’s a best selling author, I get why people love him, but I can no more enjoy King, than I can eat mushroom soup which looks and smells to me like death in a bowl.
Incidents like this remind me that synaesthesia plays a massive role in my life in a variety of ways which I’m not always aware of. I like my favourite foods, and smells and books, and music primarily because they agree with my synaesthesia – they create soothing patterns, sounds, tastes or colours. The opposite is also true. Perhaps if I woke up tomorrow without synaesthesia I’d suddenly be able to appreciate more modern fiction, not to mention a thousand other things I’m picky about.
But I would never, ever, wish that upon myself.
Everyday Synaesthesia 