Engaging the Truth
In The Situation and the Story, Vivian Gornick proposes many ideas about what makes a writing worthy of reading. Writing is one of the most subjective forms of art that exists today. What makes a piece of writing well written might make it poorly written to someone else. A filter has to be held up to the writing to determine whether or not the author is telling the truth. Gornick’s ideas will be the filter that the essays “Under the Influence” by Scott Russell Sanders and “Hashish in Marseilles” by Walter Benjamin, will be viewed through. In these essays, the authors’ personas, sympathy, and detachment keep the reader engaged and tell the story’s truths. When I think of persona, I think of Tony Robbins. That strong personality, great presence and someone that everyone wants to be around, except for the people that think he’s a complete fool (in the case of Al Bundy, just skip straight to the fool). So when Gornick writes, “The unsurrogated narrator has the monumental task of transforming low-level self-interest into the kind of detached empathy required of a piece of writing that is to be of value to the disinterested reader” , the reader has to question themselves (Gornick 7). What makes a writing worth reading? Quite often it is the persona of the author. The way they write, how they write it, how they say it, that is what keeps the reader interested. Sanders, hooks the reader from the beginning when he writes, “My father drank. He drank as a gut-punched boxer gasps for breath, as a starving dog gobbles food—compulsively, secretly, in pain and trembling” (Sanders 734). From the first line Sanders’ persona grabs you and forces you to read on. He writes a sad sentence that speaks truth and draws the reader in to explore what Sanders is saying about his Dad and alcohol.
Benjamin takes on a different persona all together. His essay slowly takes the reader on a journey through Marseilles, France while he is trips on hashish. He writes, “In this city of hundreds of thousands where no one knows me, of not being disturbed, I lie on my bed. And yet I am disturbed, by a little child crying. I think three-quarters of an hour have passed. But it is only twenty minutes…So I lie on the bed, reading and smoking” (Benjamin 371). Where Sanders’ pacing is quick and deliberate Benjamin takes things slow, repetitive and expansive. Benjamin wants to experience Marseilles the only way he could, by himself. In a city where no one knows him, isolation is sought but unattainable. He wants a do not disturb sign on his life but the maid keeps knocking.
Both Sanders and Benjamin use a specific, orchestrated persona to open the eyes of the reader and keep them from closing. Benjamin is effective because he creates a dreamlike state. The reader is allowed to experience Marseilles in a trance with him. Sanders’ persona is one of detail, quickness, and scene painting. Each piece of imagery so precise that every one of his emotions is felt.
Sympathy for who or what an author is writing about helps make the author believable and worthy of reading. Gornick writes, “Where the narrator is presented as an innocent and the subject as a monster—the work fails because the situation remains static. For the drama to deepen, we must see the loneliness of the monster and the cunning of the innocent” (Gornick 35). No one wants to read an author complain about how horrible life is. Sanders shows sympathy for his father when he writes, “He would not hide the green bottles in his tool box, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect” (Sanders 734). While unhealthy, Sanders looks inside to see if there is anything he could have done to prevent his Dad from being an alcoholic. At then end of his essay, Sanders is looking at his relationship with his children and sees that he has replaced his father’s drinking with his overworking. He writes, “I write, therefore, to drag into the light what eats at me—the fear, the guilt, the shame—so that my own children may be spared” (Sanders 744). Sanders wants nothing more than the sins of his father not to be passed down to his children, but man is a creature of redundancy. Sanders has replaced alcohol with a different god.
Where Sanders’ substance is the cause of all that is wrong, Benjamin’s substance is the cause of all that is good. He writes in the final paragraph, “And when I recall this state I should like to believe that hashish persuades nature to permit us—for less egoistic purposes—that squandering of our own existence that we know in love” (Benjamin 375). Benjamin’s subject isn’t a person but rather the hashish itself. He is grateful to the hashish and that it makes less of him and more of love. The hashish frees him to experience not only Marseilles in a different way but also love itself. The hashish has given Benjamin the ability to see more in every situation and go deeper into his experience, deeper than the typical stoner could go. Benjamin’s sympathy not only helps him enjoy his night in Marseilles but it helps the reader go along with him. Benjamin does this all without preaching. He isn’t trying to convince the reader that illicit drugs will make life amazing. He shows that hashish gave him an amazing experience and shows his gratitude by showing sympathy towards it.
Detachment from the situation that the author is writing about helps provide perspective and do more than just tell a story. Gornick rehashes an assignment she once had in Cairo, Egypt where she struggled to write the story. She writes, ”On the one hand, the prose is an amazement of energy, crowded with description and response. On the other, the sentences are often rhetorical, the tone ejaculatory, the syntax overloaded” (Gornick 12). She couldn’t sit down and write what she wanted because she got too involved, she wasn’t able to pick out the story from inside the situation.
Sanders gets detachment not only from the time it took to grow up, but also by seeing that he is what he never wanted; just like his Dad. He writes about his relationship with his son, “He tells me that when I am gripped by sadness he feels responsible; he feels there must be something he can do to spring me from depression, to fix my life. And that crushing sense of responsibility is exactly what I felt at the age of ten in the face of my father’s drinking” (Sanders 744). Sanders’ detachment allows him to take a step back and look at what his life has been. When he looks at his life by writing the story, he feels the crushing weight of who he has become and what he has modeled for his children. Without detachment Sanders would be looking to blame his father instead of taking responsibility for what his children have become.
Benjamin’s detachment comes by his ability to look through his night in Marseilles as more than a drug fueled visit but rather an enlightened journey. He writes, “We go forward; but in so doing we not only discover the twists and turns of the cave, but also enjoy this pleasure of discovery against the background of the other, rhythmical bliss of unwinding the thread” (Benjamin 373). Existential thoughts don’t happen without reflection. Benjamin’s detachment helps him see something bigger than a mere hashish trip. He learned things about himself and the world around him. It is this that tells us the truth.
Almost Famous is a autobiographical film about director, Cameron Crowe’s teenage years, growing up fast as a rock journalist. In it, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character Lester Bangs, an acclaimed music critic is pleading with Crowe’s character. He says, ”You cannot make friends with the rock stars. That’s what’s important, if you’re a rock journalist…You have to make your reputation on being honest and unmerciful.” Like critics, authors have to be detached from their subjects in order to tell the truth. A critic can’t be in bed with the rock stars and tell them how terrible their music is. An author too must be completely honest and unmerciful even if it means implicating themselves in the blood bath.
The goal of every author is to reach the reader. Authors can do this in different ways, but authors must have persona, sympathy and detachment to reach the reader and keep the reader. Scott Russell Sanders’ and Walter Benjamin’s personas are often at opposite ends of the spectrum and still hook the reader through the thought and emotions in their words. The sympathy they have for their subjects causes them to read as insightful and contemplative instead of preachy and judging. The detachment that comes through soul searching, and looking at the big picture allows the reader to believe them and the truth they are expressing. These aspects of the authors’ writings show them as both engaging and honest reads.
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