The Longer
by Andrew Kenneally
The longer this goes on the worse it gets. What I mean is, if it isn't immediately obvious, that the greater the mass of words that stretches out ahead of the aspiring reader the more inclined is this reader's attentiveness to wander; your eyes — for any reader can only inescapably be you, whichever you you happen to be . . . your eyes, I was saying — the repetition necessary, of your eyes I mean, for it's a bit much to have such a gap in the thread of words, an interpolation, and then go picking back up the original thread as if there were no gap, expecting the reader to jump around like some circus animal, and what's more, elegantly, picking up on loose and semi-abandoned threads as if this were the most natural thing in the word, the writer having awarded himself the strangest liberties with the written word, for of course he couldn't get away with those kind of stuttering liberties with the spoken word. Confusion and irritation is all the kind of stuff his slovenly sentences would produce. The reader though, rather than the listener, tends to be a far more tolerant creature; he accepts the unnatural, maybe even expects it, considers it maybe aesthetic, this language torn loose.
But with all this clarifying I've lost all the seemliness of my thread . . . so as I was saying the greater the mass lying ahead of the reader the more inclined that reader's eyes to skim over the words falsely; falsely that is in that the words are seen but not absorbed, forgotten as soon as passed over; the act of reading a visual progression rather than a soulful or intellectual one, the words not sinking in. And why not sinking in? Inattentiveness. Well yes, but why inattentive? Perhaps a myriad of reasons, but perhaps the main one: that with the volume lying ahead one could afford a lapse or two, there is no urgency to one's attention, there is plenty of time to re-enter the fray as an active pursuer of the truth contained within - if there is any truth contained within, more than likely there isn't - and presumably at a time of greater consequence, for naturally if one's attention is wandering loosely, then one might, rather than look at one's elusive self think this is proof of the lack of urgency of the matter at hand; that it has failed to grasp, to tether oneself to the matter, proof of its inadequacy.
So anyway the longer this goes on the worse it gets - and I couldn't say I'm under the impression it began well - so rather than it getting any worse - and you may think that difficult to achieve - I'll stop here.
A lot of writers I like do something that this is a variation of - expanding the text outwards rather than linearly by insertions or branching. It's an active idea, almost an extension of the adverb. It might be done through parentheses, as with Faulkner or Claude Simon. Or it might be simply a matter of inserting any kind of 'clarifying' clause at almost any location using any number of closed words or phrases as glue logic. D F Wallace takes the idea to extremes, real extremes, in a story called "Host". He has flowchart-like lines connecting up pieces of the text to others elsewhere on the page, pieces which are enclosed in boxes. But whatever method is used, it comes down to a question of the 'seemliness of the thread'.
It's also an organic idea, suited to plotless/characterless structures.
Wandering through the 'naut, it's amazing, really, the sorts of stuff you come across.
I liked the way this forces attention on the act itself, requires you to think what's happening as you are alledgedly
reading the text at hand.