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The inner ear. I thought of calling it the third eye, but that image is too
disturbing. Let’s just say that readers use a special sort of hearing when they
process information, whether said information comes from print or film or
whatever. If you simply read the text of the pirate movie, you see, what? Boots,
sand, a bit of water. You have to bring your own data to the part. That Morricone
soundtrack certainly helps, but only if you’ve heard some of his other work.
Gore Verbinski, the director, assumes we have, but there are no guarantees. But
even before the melody registers, we can sense where this scene is heading. By
step two, the Leone echo is rolling; the musical cues merely reinforce something
we’re already hearing. Verbinski’s reference is arch and fairly obvious, but it
would be “audible” even if delivered with greater subtlety. And that subtlety is
why we need to open ourselves to nuance. Looking too intently at a text can
overwhelm our other senses, can make us miss the echo, the sympathetic chimes
in a work.
The Law of Universal Connectedness: Every novel grows out of other
novels. So, you ask, does this mean everything’s derivative? On one level, yes.
Writers can’t avoid being influenced by works they’ve read, stories they’ve
heard, movies they’ve seen. If you see that influence as derivative, then it is. Yet
that’s not the whole story. There is also the influence on us. We may hear things
that weren’t available to the novelist at the time or writing, or that she wasn’t
aware of—even that hadn’t yet existed. The echoes we hear need not run in only
one direction. Words change meaning over time. The same’s true of novels: they
change meaning over time. The words stay the same, naturally, but their
meanings can change, although that’s not the major force. The world changes
around the novels. We change. Are we the same today as Americans in Twain’s
lifetime or as subjects of the queen in Dickens’s? Hardly. Society has gone
through great upheavals in the last century or so; Comet Halley has come and
gone in its seventy-six-year cycle since its visitation at the time of Twain’s death.
Both countries have experienced multiple wars, recessions and depressions,
alterations in the racial and ethnic landscape, and internationalism undreamt of
in the nineteenth century. How can their work possibly remain static?
More importantly, other writers have engaged them in conversation. W. H.
Auden said in his elegy for William Butler Yeats that, in dying, the great man
“became his admirers.” That phrase can have a lot of different meanings, among
them, it reflected well on people that they did admire such a poet. One meaning,
though, must be that, to the extent Yeats would live on, he would do it through
those admirers. True enough, I’m sure, but not one of them was him, and each of
them would contain a Yeats colored by the possessor. My Yeats is very personal
and, I’m equally sure, very distinct from Auden’s. One important distinction: I’m
not a poet. When Auden makes use of Yeats’s verse in his own, as he does in the
elegy (where, among others, “Under Ben Bulben,” Yeats’s own poem about his
death and burial, is engaged in conversation), it forces readers to reconsider not
merely the man being memorialized but the poetry as well. So, too, with novels.
As I write this, a book called Finn has recently been published. In an audacious
move for a first (or any) novelist, Jon Clinch purports to tell the story of Pap
Finn, Huck’s violent, drunken, and doomed father. In doing so he brings in
numerous details of the original, and we recall many more. Clinch could have
told a story of any violent sod living along the Mississippi in antebellum
Missouri, but he decided to tell this one, so there must have been some reason.
Just as Twain sought to tell a tale of what he saw as the real America, setting it in
opposition to earlier novels and stories by James Fenimore Cooper and
Washington Irving, among others, that greatly romanticized frontier or rural life.
There are things Twain couldn’t have said about life in his time, things he might
not have noticed, even things that have become true that maybe once weren’t.
Clinch can say them. In the process, he alters how we think about the book
Hemingway claims fathered all of American writing.