Ah, my first review! And many of you out there who deign to read my natterings here, might just be asking, “What a strange little volume for someone to lose their GoodReads virginity by? Somewhere in the mind of some reader and blogger is the question, “Why didn’t he review his favorite book?” for his first foray. Well, I am reminded of my dear Russian literature professor and tutor from my college years. Having read one of my first scribblings, he handed me a Xeroxed copy of Boris Tomashevsky’s Formalist essay, Thematics entombed in this handy little volume. Standing before an open door, I took the bright bit of Formalist thought into my naïve hands while my dear professor Mark Davidov offered me a wise grin roughly translatable into, “Alright punk, let’s see if you dare run this bit of tense floss through the tight, moist catacombs encased in that skull of yours!”
I accepted the gleaming, refractory and enlightened little volume of essays and crossed the threshold of becoming a serious and contemplative reader and writer. Unbeknownst to myself, I was not entering a hallway, but a labyrinth. So, into the dripping corridors I plunged, holding this illuminating volume before me, shining brightly upon the once hidden mechanisms and tools of the mad writer, toiling behind the walls like some lonely Daedulus manically gluing and hammering on the wings in order to defy the truculent laws of physics. And while my journey of reader and writer wound through all sorts of false passages, doors opening up to brick walls, startled by skeletons hanging by manacles and chains with obvious teeth marks on bones, and though many inerrant steps led me down to dead ends, this little volume of essays helped set me right and guided me to the many entertaining corridors, leading to gleaming chambers replete with gears and gizmos spinning wildly, sent whirring, throbbing, humming and, sometimes clanking(by lesser writers) by those daring souls who challenged their talents, sat down(had an ass for it) and wrote stories and novels.
And what a bodacious lamp these essays were for my searching mind, glowing upon the details and entrails of novels and stories. Reading Tomashevsky’s dissection of the robust and still living body of Gogol’s The Overcoat was a shocking revelation equal to seeing the heartbeats pulsing through the carefully exposed intestines in an operating theater.
Tomashevsky’s essay reveals the themes, motifs (dynamic vs. static), images, story vs. plot and the relationship of the hero to all those devices that create the robust bones of stories and novels. Written masterfully, the essay throws light upon the jewels in the robust and rich anterooms that provide the super structure of plot, allowing readers to tramp about the tunnels of novels and stories to reach the next elegantly appointed chamber and shout, “Aha! That’s brilliant!” Or not.
My father once tried to hammer the point into the confused webbing of my teenage mind on a fine spring day, complete with twittering birds and cheek warming sunshine. On the back patio of my boyhood home, he was hunkered down over his fruit salad, empty spoon hovering impressively over the dish as he paraphrased the romantic composer Johannes Brahms who once, intoned, I suspect with a righteous and stentorian attitude, something on the order of, “Structure gives you freedom!” Well, dad, you were right and it took a slew of dead Russian Formalist Critics to reinforce the point along with countless drips of subliminal references encountered in my daily mundane adventures, splashing upon my writers forehead like Chinese water until I finally acquiesced to the torture and shouted, “Okay, I admit it, you’re right! Structure gives you freedom!”
And here the Russian Formalists of the first third of the 20th century charged into the fetid colon of literary criticism, cleansed the stale aromatics and detritus of primitive historicism from the twisting Augean corridors with ample blasts of purgative common sense that Harvey Kellogg would appreciate and provided an ample pile of techniques to root about in until, the happy smiling writer lifted up a raw diamond and polished it until it gleamed clear and clean as a usable tool. With Boris Tomashevsky, Boris Eichenbaum and Victor Shklovsky applying the full purifying power of their analysis, Formalism emerged as a great tool not only for critics but burgeoning novelists regarding writing as an actual structured craft rather than a mystical hobby for muddling through by gut instinct alone.
Shklovsky’s Art as Technique, deals with the literary device of defamiliarization, a technique of taking a familiar object and describing it as if the writer is encountering it for the first time. Or, in laymen’s terms, ye olde fish out of water technique of story telling, a method used in countless books and films, including the seminal movie of displacement, Splash! Shklovsky simply and elegantly “lays bare” the device and offers up the sacrificial example of a flogging described in Tolstoy’s story Shame, where, “to strip people who have broken the law, to hurl them to the floor and rap on their bottoms with switches” and, “to lash about on the naked buttocks,” illuminates the technique thoroughly. Tolstoy could have just written, “The thief was flogged,” and everyone would have understood, but he didn’t and Shklovsky is there to read and decipher the entrails like some long scarfed gypsy with a crystal ball beside her just in case the translation of signs and wonders of the past needs further enhancement by predictions of the future.
In Shklovksy’s stylistic commentary on Tristram Shandy, a digressional, dense, multi-techniqued, labyrinthine (eerily post-Modern) masterpiece meant never to be finished by the writer(narrator) and by extension the reader (Can anyone tell me how many people have started this 18th century masterpiece and actually finished it?! It makes ones head hurt! And is sometimes infinitely boring.), he argues elegantly, through 32 pages, replete with intestinal shaped squiggles representing plot structure, the idea that Tristram Shandy is “the most typical novel in world literature.”
Boris Eichenbaum’s The Theory of the “Formal Method” is an apt defense against the attacks of Stalinists. Though his passionate plea was delivered admirably, the movement was squashed by the debased Soviets. Yet the Formalists lucid theory has out lasted the reprehensible communist government and its kitschy designs to create a new artistic order upon the soft malodorous edifice of Socialist Realism.
For writers not wishing to rely on, albeit valuable, gut instinct alone, the Tomashevsky and Shklovsky essays are a rich and fertile soil for rooting about to find the fine truffles of technique. By denuding the methodically applied tools of writers and thus revealing the limbs, boughs and twigs behind the brilliant foliage, the formalists helped remove the beguiling mystique of the writer as part shaman, part demigod. For the observant reader, their “laying bare” of the veins and sap routes feeding the leafy façade do not destroy the seemingly organic magic of the beautifully pruned work, but allows the thorough reader to enjoy the architectural aspects of the entrancing creations of the greatest authors.