What
do Borges, Bowen, Kawabata, and Nabokov have in common? They are acclaimed writers, all four born in
1899. And what do Shakespeare and
Cervantes have in common? Both are
undisputed literary giants who passed away in the same year, 1616. Certainly, we may be awed by the amazing alignment
of the stars. But astrology aside, the
single most striking feature that they all share is their distinct voice. Faulkner, Hemingway, Woolf, Hesse, Chekhov,
Cortázar, and Capote had it, and so did Mallea, Breton, Poe, Baudelaire, and Mansfield. We recognize it when we hear it with our
mind’s ear, and miss it when a work lacks it.
But, what is the writer’s voice?
I
take four books from my bookcase and read aloud:
“Vi en el reloj de la pequeña estación que eran las
once de la noche pasadas. Fui caminando
hasta el hotel. Sentí, como otras veces,
la resignación y el alivio que nos infunden los lugares muy conocidos. El ancho portón estaba abierto; la quinta, a
oscuras. Entré en el vestíbulo, cuyos
espejos pálidos repetían las plantas del salón.
Curiosamente el dueño no me reconoció y me tendió el registro. Tomé la pluma que estaba sujeta al pupitre,
la mojé en el tintero de bronce y al inclinarme sobre el libro abierto, ocurrió
la primera sorpresa de las muchas que me depararía esa noche. Mi nombre, Jorge Luis Borges, ya estaba
escrito, y la tinta, todavía fresca.” —J. L. Borges (excerpt from “Agosto 25,
1983”)
“She dropped the
letter onto the bedsprings, then picked it up to see the writing again—her
lips, beneath the remains of lipstick, beginning to go white. She felt so much
the change in her own face that she went to the mirror, polished a clear patch
in it, and looked at once urgently and stealthily in. She was confronted by a
woman of forty-four, with eyes starting out under a hat brim that had been
rather carelessly pulled down. She had not put on any more powder since she
left the shop where she ate her solitary tea. The pearls her husband had given
her on their marriage hung loose round her now rather thinner throat, slipping
in the V of the pink wool jumper her sister knitted last autumn as they sat
round the fire. Mrs. Drover’s most normal expression was one of controlled
worry, but of assent. Since the birth of the third of her little boys, attended
by a quite serious illness, she had had an intermittent muscular flicker to the
left of her mouth, but in spite of this she could always sustain a manner that
was at once energetic and calm. ” —Elizabeth Bowen (excerpt from “The Demon Lover”)
“He had the
illusion that the Inamura girl was walking in the shade of the trees, the pink
kerchief and its thousand white cranes under her arm. He could see the cranes and the kerchief
vividly. He sensed something fresh and
clean. His chest rose—the girl might
even now be arriving at his door.” —Yasunari Kawabata (excerpt from Thousand Cranes)
“I was, and still
am, despite mes malheours, an
exceptionally handsome male; slow-moving, tall, with soft dark hair and a
gloomy but all the more seductive cast of demeanor. Exceptional virility often reflects in the
subject’s displayable features a sullen and congested something that pertains
to what he has to conceal.” —Vladimir Nabokov (excerpt from Lolita)
Without
a doubt these authors have—aside from a fecund imagination—a remarkable command
of the language. In fact, proficiency in
the use of language helps to free the writer’s voice. Language is used as an instrument for conveying
ideas, while setting the proper tone. Readers
are enthralled by these writers’ display of simplicity, mystery, irony, alluring
descriptions, or even pedantry. Nevertheless,
the voice goes far beyond the author’s ideas, word choice, syntax, and literary
tricks; it is, indeed, the timbre of a speaking voice, a total human presence. The persona in a novel or poem is part and
parcel of the work and comes alive during the course of the creation.
No
aspiring writer can deny that finding his true voice is a hard task. The reason is simple: the writers’ raw
materials are words. By contrast,
painters use brushstrokes on canvas, each of them unique. Just a cursory glance at the following
paintings will show you how apparent Van Gogh’s, Monet’s, Turner’s, and Quinquela’s
styles are:
Keelman Heaving in Coals by Moonlight, Turner
Sunrise, Monet
Starry Night, Van Gogh
Los barcos, Quinquela Martín
Again,
these painters show dexterity with the materials at hand, just as notable authors
do with words.
Now,
let’s consider the realm of music and ballet.
Composers’ and choreographers’ styles can be as distinct as
painters’. Think about Tchaikovsky,
Beethoven, Falla, Bach, Liszt, Chopin, and Prokofiev as well as Petipa, Béjart, and
Balanchine, to name just a few. Their compositions
and choreographies carry a hallmark, easily identifiable by those who are well
versed in classical music and dance.
Nonetheless, when it comes to identifying interpreters’ renditions of
their works, the difference may not be so evident on occasion. Naturally, the
trained ear and the trained eye will recognize a myriad of nuances in every
single case, as can be appreciated in the following pieces:
Cesar
Franck’s Violin Sonata in A Major, 1st Movement, by Yehudi Menuhin:
Cesar
Franck’s Violin Sonata in A Major, 1st Movement, by Jascha Heifetz:
Sergei Rachmaninov’s Spring Waters, Choreography: Messerer, Dancers: Bylova and Nikonov
Sergei
Rachmaninov’s Spring Waters, Choreography:
Messerer, Dancers: Tikhomirova and Merkuriev
I
sip my tea and think some more about a writer’s most distinct feature: his
voice. Put simply, style is the manner
of a piece of writing; voice is its soul, what sets an author’s writing apart
from others. It serves a specific
purpose in each work because it is directly related to the narrator or the persona
of the piece. The same author may
sometimes produce a vibrant, overpowering voice; while his voice may turn
gloomy or dismal under different circumstances.
Just as actors embody a different character in each film, a good writer
is supple enough to adjust his voice to the character who is speaking in his
work.
A
convincing voice is honest, as opposed to fake.
The work is fictional, but the experience must be authentic. Developing a voice demands courage, intelligence, and
self-knowledge. For a writer to discover
his true voice is to discover himself.
