I would love to be a writer and because of that I have been reading. I know that the saying “want to write – learn to read” is old and good advice but it has taken me quite some time to really see what writing is.
In my innocence and early enthusiasm I imagined that the skill of writing was akin to the skill of building a drystone wall. If only I could find the right shaped words and abut them in just the right way I would have a water-tight story that might sway readers hearts and gratify my own.
Of course I had discovered only the foundation for writing. Words do need to fit in to sentences that will build into paragraphs that merge into chapters that meld into a stories. But there is more, isn’t there, and I struggle for the right word that describes that ‘more’. Is it ‘the way’? The way that a writer chooses to tell the story. Some sort of amalgam of plot, tone, point of view, characterisation, etc etc etc. Ah yes! I’m new to all this writing stuff.
Anyway, what tempted me into this embryonic school of naive analysis was the latest book I’ve just finished reading. It is “April in Spain” by the Irish writer John Banville. It is an old style ‘who done it’. Set back in the fifties and shuttling between Ireland and Spain. Two of Banville’s previous characters reappear. The gauche forensic pathologist appropriately called Quirke and a rather remote but effective detective called Strafford although Quirke’s psychiatrist wife Evelyn, and his daughter Phoebe, play more active roles than either of the two men. And there is Terry, a lower class criminal, who brings muscle and foolishly wise ponderings to the action. The men are ‘on the spectrum’ for some sort of oddness, eccentricity or personal failing. The women are secular saints, but Banville is Irish.
The story starts with a political scandal and two deaths but only one body. Quirke happens to be holidaying in Donostia-San Sebastian when part of the political scandal and two deaths reappears. Without revealing the complex but interesting plot, the curious aspect for me was the way that Banville tells the story. Most ‘who done it’ stories devote a substantial number of words to the action. The action of the investigation, the action of the crime and the action of the denouement. Banville seems not to do that. The action is summarised quite deftly but the description of place and person is where he lingers with both pleasure and skill. He is very good at ‘showing’, as all novice writers like me, who love ‘telling’, are painfully aware.
This more descriptive way of revealing the story makes for a more leisurely read and a deeper impression of the characters. It was, for me, surprisingly reminiscent of watching a stage-play unfold where action takes back seat to dialogue.
Don’t get me wrong, this is not an earth shattering book destined for block-busting but it is a satisfying and enjoyable read.
At the End of the Day 