A friend was telling me about a book she was having trouble reading and enjoying. She (a well-educated woman) said the “writing is over the top; I have to stop now and then to look up word. Why can’t authors simplify their writing? Why do they have to make it so complicated?” He husband added, “There seems to be a trend for authors to try to position themselves above their readers, and to win the admiration of critics.” I agreed with both points, and I said that, “It seems to me that writers who are aiming for big prizes use extraordinary language to express themselves: not only in vocabulary, but in sentence structure, grammar and imagery. Prose is becoming poetry for the benefit of the critics.”
As evidence of this trend, there are three passages below. The first is from Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. The second is how I think I would have tried to write the same passage, and the third is in ordinary English.
After the news of his death in the plane crash reached her, she had tormented herself by inventing him: by speculating, that is to say, about her lost lover. He had been the first man she had slept with in more than five years: no small figure in her life. She had turned away from her sexuality, her instincts having warned her that to do otherwise might be to be absorbed by it; that it was for her, would always be, a big subject, a whole dark continent to map and she wasn’t prepared to go that way, be that explorer, chart those shores: not any more, or, maybe, not yet. But she’d never shaken off the feeling of being damaged by her ignorance of love, of what it might be like to be wholly possessed by that archetypal, capitalised jinn, the yearning towards, the blurring of the boundaries of the self, the unbuttoning, until you were open from your adam’s apple to your crotch: just words, because she didn’t know the thing. Suppose he had come to me, she dreamed. I could have learned him, step by step, climbed him to the very summit. Denied mountains by my weak-boned feet, I’d have looked for the mountain in him: establishing base camp, sussing out routes, negotiating ice-falls, crevasses, overhangs. I’d have assaulted the peak and seen the angels dance. O, but he’s dead and at the bottom of the sea.
When she learned of his death in the plane crash, she agonised over day dreams of her perished lover. As the first man she had slept with in over five years, he represented a kind of icon. In his absence, she had repressed her sexuality out of a fear that to live and examine it would somehow frighten and diminish her. Her ignorance of the bright spectrum of love, was a source of insecurity, and sometimes she longed to know the feeling – whatever it was – of merging one’s consciousness with that of a lover. But, if her lover had been there she would have eschewed any leap into the heavens of love; rather she would establish a safe and slow process to advance into the heights until, in her glory, she saw the angels dance. But, alas, her lover lay at the bottom of the sea, dead.
Ever since the news of his death reached her, she thought of him, the first man – remarkably – she had slept with in five years. She set aside her interest in sex out of fear of stepping into the unknown. Nonetheless, her ignorance of love bothered her, and she wondered what it would be like to experience true and selfless love. If her lover had been present, she would not have thrown herself into an unlimited relationship; she would have approached the situation gradually, learning and advancing slowly so that eventually she would have found true bliss. But, of course, her lover was dead.
I’m not, by any means, suggesting that my text is in any way better that Rushdie’s. I rather like his use of off-the-wall phrases like ‘archetypal, capitalised jinn’, but I would never think of it; and I like some of his images, which border on the poetic. However, one has to be pretty well educated to read Rushdie. So who is he writing for? Critics and academics, or Mrs Smith, book reader?