In prose the punctuation, the extension of periods, the chaining of paragraphs; in poetry, besides punctuation, the distribution of tonics, the extension of verses and their relationships: these are the markers of the rhythm of the letters. As for the rhythm: sandy, treacherous terrain; indomitable beast; marvelous and irresolvable enigma; visible perfection but distant, very distant…
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The goal of every great artist should be to erect, in the long run, a complex and multifaceted monument. That is why minor artists are the ones who, annoyingly, only repeat the same processes. To do so, to seek emphasis on the same idea, the same impression or the evocation of the same feeling, is not, as some suppose, a demonstration of style, but evidence of a limited creative horizon. Style is expressiveness, power, conciseness, rhythm… Style is abundance of expressive resources, exactly the opposite of the artist’s capacity to repeat to exhaustion the same processes.
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I read somewhere, a few years ago, a psychologist said that Bertrand Russell used an interesting process when he was involved in complex problems. It would be more or less as follows: Russell thought, with maximum concentration and strength of mind, on the particular problem; he outlined the possible solutions, dismembered them into minor issues, formulated various hypotheses and tried to find, in all, the possible flaws. The question occupied him entirely for hours, sometimes days, and then, when he felt exhausted, he did not publish, nor executed the final wording of his conclusions: he abandoned the problem and let him rest, occupying his mind with anything else. Then, after a few days, weeks or months, suddenly the mind pointed the solution, which came as a violent avalanche, and so Russell sat down to write. What would that be, inspiration? If that is the word, then it is necessary to add that there is nothing divine, fantastic, or superhuman about it. What is there is method, conscious brain stimulation. And if the brain, therefore, sometimes does not deliver an immediate response, it does not mean that it does not work, or that it is not working. In the same way, when it decides to boil at an inopportune moment, it is not doing any kind of magic or exhibiting supernatural powers…
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I flip through some writing manuals, read articles by scholars of letters, and perceive a certain obsession with short clauses as style formers. I do not deny: short clauses, in fact, add dynamism to any text. But style is a mixture between expressiveness, concision and rhythm, and if we can say that short clauses dynamize, the long ones, in turn, deepen. Let’s see: Nelson Rodrigues. This master, especially in his fictional narratives, made use of the short clauses with extreme expertise. Meanwhile, we have to think: how are Rodriguian novels? Soon we will see that Nelson purposely imprinted dynamism to the narratives, since the plots are developed in accelerated progression, generating apprehension and expectation. It is a technique, instigates the reader. But Nelson knew, like few, to print rhythm to his texts, and the clauses in which the master wanders, extends, diluting the germinated tension in previous clauses are not rare. Now let’s look at the other side: I think of Dostoevsky, Thomas Mann, Hermann Broch. What would these authors be without their long clauses? Or rather: how to print depth in the narrative without using robust paragraphs and long constructions? Is it possible? Evident… but it is undeniable that this is an accurate technique. It is all a question of asking ourselves: what do we want to write? An objective narration? Describe the sequence of an action? Or sink a character in a reflection? Evoke reverie in the reader? They are different goals. And if, as I have read more than once, long clauses may suggest affectation, provoke boredom, stir up futile details, no doubt a narrative developed exclusively in short clauses will sound like shallow, broken and banal.
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