Behind the words, between the lines.

In my post last week on beautiful writing, I said I’d go on to talk about the spaces between words. Now I’m wondering if that was pretentious! However, spaces are the glue that holds words together and deserve attention. We wouldn’t know what cold felt like had we never been warm; we wouldn’t experience joy if we didn’t know sadness: for the contrast between words and spaces it’s likewise. I apologise if this post seems muddled – silence is hard to grasp. But here are some points to consider. (A pause for thought.)

fermata (a musical pause, over a note or a silence).

The English language is full of references to the spaces in language, and to the silence they offer among the usual blather. Think of expressions like: “between the lines” “behind the words”, “words left unspoken”, “the subtext”, “hidden meanings”, “understatement”, “less is more”, “silence is golden” and “the calm before the storm”.

Is there a parallel with music? In quiet, reflective music such as a Chopin Noctune, or a Satie Gymopédie, each single note is precious. If it was part of a chord, or backed by an orchestra, it would have a different effect on the listener. (If you’re not familiar with these you can look them up on YouTube, where you’ll probably find you do recognize them from meaningful moments in the cinema.) Or from different musical genres, think of syncopation, or  tango. Without that tiny pause before the upbeat, the message would be entirely different. Personally, I don’t like rap music or poetry much, although they’re very clever. I think it’s because there aren’t enough spaces in which my brain can process what I’ve heard, so I feel rather battered. (I could just be too old.)

fermata 2
notation for musical rests

Think how, in music of any genre, the pauses (over notes or silences) and silent beats are written in. It’s no coincidence they’re called “rests”. They have concrete form so musicians can locate and acknowledge them, and the symbols themselves are beautiful calligraphy.

Somewhere between music and prose lies poetry. Here are some lines, as printed, from   “[in Just-]” by e. e. cummings:

e.e.cummings, 73 Poems, Faber 1961


balloonMan          whistles

I rest my case.

But now, prose. I remember from my teaching days how infant children just learning to write usually don’t leave spaces between their words. (They don’t pause between words when they’re first learning to read, either.) One method of teaching them is to have them put their finger at the end of the word they’ve just written and start the next word on the other side of it – a physical “finger space”. Some pick it up quickly and the fingers are no longer needed. Others take a couple of years.

Unless they have a specific learning difficulty or have been abused or neglected, children learn to use separate words orally in a phenomenal number of different combinations according to need, by the time they start school. Yet they don’t naturally “hear” the spaces on the page without being taught. They understand individual words have meaning (we know this because they ask, “What does that word mean?”) but not, it seems, that groups of words without spaces have none. If you ask a child to read back their unspaced writing, they can’t, and if you allow them to continue reading a printed story without stopping for spaces and punctuation (as apparently fluent young readers do naturally), they can’t tell you what happened in it.

ValerieAs we grow up, we grasp all this. However, there are still many adults who don’t paragraph, which is related. And I’m shocked at the moment, as I wade through Fay Weldon’s “Death of A She-Devil“, to  find the dialogue neither indented nor spaced horizontally. Presumably this was an editorial – or the author’s – decision, but, as an aging visually challenged she devil myself, it makes it very hard to tell who’s saying what or to want to continue reading much longer (other factors may be at work there too). Goodness knows how it appears on Kindle. Speaking of which, there is now evidence that readers (adult and child) retain less of what they read on screens than in print and paper books, and it’s thought that may be partly to do with left/right eye movements across the page (or the opposite in certain scripts), and with physical positioning and layout on the page. Anyone who has tried scrolling back through an ebook for something they could easily have located in the print version will support that theory.

My post seems to have turned into one about punctuation or formatting, rather than the airier theme I started with. But I think they are related. As an author, I read aloud what I’ve written to see how it sounds, and I care deeply about how it presents on the page, because that’s part of the composition. There’s a certain kind of florid, vocabulary strewn writing that done well can be wonderful (think Dickens, Balzac) but those of us with a lesser grasp of our craft are rightly advised to aim for economy, clean, clear prose, no wasted words, tautology or irrelevance, plain punctuation and sentence structure. Stage writing, which has to get its point across immediately, without a second chance, each speech leading on from the one before and clearing the way for what will follow, is often a good model, and you can see the spaces more clearly: they’re when a character turns round, paces up and down, pours a drink, or makes a face.

Chekhov was a master. When I was about 10 I asked my parents what they’d seen at the theatre while we had the indignity of a “babysitter”, and I remember our dialogue, perhaps because it was so spare.

143513“We saw a play about three sisters who live in the country,”  my mother said.

“What happens to them?”

“Not very much. They want to go to Moscow.”

“Do they get there?”


 I understood why this non situation made The Three Sisters (first published 1900) great drama on seeing it when I was older. Through spare statements  and laconic answers, a simple drawing room staging and quiet costumes and gestures, Chekhov transmits social history, universal emotions of love and grief and boredom and disappointment, the position of women and that of the impoverished landed gentry in a Russia that was about to explode. His plays still command full houses around the world.

41qfuzbgl-l-_sx325_bo1204203200_A comment last week suggested Dorothy Parker as a source of beautiful prose. Her satire is clipped, funny, and not a word longer than necessary, but it’s a more serious  short story that I’m unable to forget. In “Soldiers of the Republic”, she’s in a Spanish cafe with a group of friends when they get talking with some soldiers who are fighting in the Civil War. They discuss hardship, poverty, violence, tragedy, and how the men miss their families. When they get up to leave after a long session in the cafe, they signal the waiter for the bill. “He came, but he only shook his head and his hand, and moved away.” The last line, stark in its own paragraph, reads simply: “The soldiers had paid for our drinks.

The 1965 novel “Stoner” was rediscovered in 2006 and fêted for its spare prose. It simply tells a story, a simple story of a man to whom very little happens beyond the ordinary setbacks and irritations of everyday middle class, middle income life. (Greetings, Chekhov). I couldn’t put it down. Some reviewers see quietness as a lack of intensity and think at first they can take it or leave it, until the subtleties intrigue them and they’re hooked: see this recent blog post on the work of Olivia Manning. I must return to her…and I must also return to a metaphorical exploration in a more exciting story: the Rose Tremain novel of 2001,”Music and Silence“. Yet how laden with verbosity this brilliant novel is, compared to her masterpiece of last year, The Gustav Sonata.

Erich would like to teach history – to get to the truth of things.” Tremain tells us nothing more about how, why, when Erich would like to teach history. She just tells us he thinks it will lead to the truth of things. She knows, and we know, in post-truth 2017, it will only at best lead to the subjective truth of whoever has chosen or been coerced into recording and interpreting history, and because we know that, we also know that it’s a misguided wish made by a person who won’t have the knowledge or the means to achieve it. All that can be read into the spaces between and the silence behind the simple, clear words.

So as well as the words themselves, space, and silence – the spaces between words, the silence between the notes – are what make these works so special. The principle applies whatever the medium: The Crown (Netflix) was such a success not in spite of but because of its slowness, the unfashionably long duration of its scenes, allowing the watcher to appreciate the quality of the acting and digest and react to what was happening (providing time for wonder too: it’s got to be good acting if I can sympathise with Prince Philip and want the series to continue so I can “see what happens next” even though, of course, I know). Recently I re-watched the 1960s BBC Forsyte Saga on DVD: as a colleague commented, “It was so slow you could hear Irene’s dress rustling when she turned around.” And that gave you time to reflect on what had brought Irene to the scene and to anticipate what might follow. Nowadays all the thinking work is done for you, by the directors, the stylists, the camera crew. The 2002 version with Gina McKee and Damian Lewis wasn’t bad. If they remake it this decade it will probably be interactive. But will the dress rustle as Irene keeps her counsel?

I was fortunate last month to see Madame Butterfly at Covent Garden, with Ermenela Jaho. Forget Callas, she was too feisty. Jaho sings Butterfly so quietly, with such care. Even the highest notes are discreet, as though she’s already left us, but perfect. The rapt audience drinks in every resigned gesture accompanying the pure sound. The recording included in the link above doesn’t do Jaho justice: you needed to be in a huge, fully booked theatre craning forward in communal silence to witness her subdued desperation. It takes years of technique to make so little noise so perfectly, and I would say the same of O’Brien’s writing and that of Ishiguro, Kate Atkinson, Hilary Mantel and the other writers I’ve cited above. Turn off social media, close the curtains, and immerse yourself. When you have fully rested, please let me know what you chose.

 ©Jessica Norrie 2017

20 thoughts on “Behind the words, between the lines.

  1. Great post.

    I liked the expressions you have chosen at the beginning. They certainly entail a “spacial” scope…
    As a Spanish Speaker, who uses English on a regular basis (blogging, reading, social media, etc), I have always noted that (perhaps the effects strikes me more as English is my secodn language): when we say “waving at you”: it clearly reminds me of the waves of the sea, coming and going backwards. In English we might say “the space between”, we could say interval but the space between has a deeper meaning, both literally and figuratively speaking.
    The adjective overrrated or underrated work in the same sense as “understatement”, I am thinking.

    The excerpt in which you refer to silences in music is excellent. And with that part in mind, I think you might appreciate this poem by Octavio Paz (American writer who won the Nobel Prize):
    “Between What I See and What I Say”:

    I found you via the Bloggers Bash video, by the way…. 😉 Sending best wishes!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. So many excellent points you make, thank you for your detailed response! I like the spelling “spacial” – a mix of “spatial” and “special” – what a wonderful concept. You are in good company with your waves, too, used by Virginia Woolf as the title of one of her most many layered novels. Thank you for the Octavio Paz which I’ll look up too in the original. En un tiempo anterior he leido unos historias espanoles para amejorar mi espanol: un escritor quien me ha gustado mucho fue Fernando Trias de Bes, “El coleccionista de sonidos” me parece igualmente “spaciale”. I hardly speak Spanish now but am currently reading the French translation of my novel, and it’s fascinating to see my own sentences in another language’s words. …Must watch the Bloggers Bash video – thanks for the heads up! Hasta la proxima!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I will have to check out Trias de Bes ´book… I just read his biography (awards included). Sounds like a great writer, indeed. Oh and Spacial was misspelled word. My bad… But so glad you gave it such a twist 😀 The unintentional blend resulting of spatial & special makes much sense to me!- 😉 … Muy bueno saber que sabes algo de Español!. Octavio Paz might be a good writer for you to read in Spanish, particularly his poems (“Piedra de Sol”/”Sunstone”, a sort of long cyclical poem, is excellent). Thank you for the comemnt back here. Very appreciated 😀 Hasta pronto!

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Thank you for a wonderful post, a time to pause and reflect. A few things come to mind. First, Mozart’s quote, “The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.” Second, no, I don’t think your age has anything to do with not liking rap. I like how you describe what you don’t like about it, “I think it’s because there aren’t enough spaces in which my brain can process what I’ve heard, so I feel rather battered.” What you are describing can be compared with why many people do not like to listen to the atonal music of the 20th century (like Schoenberg). We can tolerate dissonance and tension as long as we can anticipate its resolution. With the style of 20th century music, often there is no resolution, just tension. And finally, your post reflects the sensory experience of reading and writing; “As an author, I read aloud what I’ve written to see how it sounds, and I care deeply about how it presents on the page, because that’s part of the composition.” The sounds and sights “behind the words, between the lines”. Thanks again Jessica Norrie.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Well, in return, I thank you. What a heartwarming set of comments on a post I had worried was rather muddled. Having just returned from the wonderful Hellens chamber music festival near Ledbury, UK, my head is full of sounds and silences and it is lovely to hear from a reader who appreciates what I meant.


  3. Brilliant post Jess. So thought provoking, and as ever, informative about the children you once taught. The only hopefully relevant thought I have had is that sometimes, in music, the most effective pauses are unwritten, but put in by the conductor. As far as I can recall there are no written formatas in the schmaltzy pauses in Strauss Waltzes. But that interpolated Viennese “lift” provides authenticity. Leave it out and you could have Sousa not Strauss. Enjoy the festival.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Reblogged this on Smorgasbord – Variety is the spice of life and commented:
    Jessica Norrie in her weekly post, writes about the spaces between words.. in essence that pause when you are reading where you see all that is going on behind the sentence you have just read before you move on to the next part of the prose. Jessica uses music as an analogy with the pauses in a piece that bring dramatic effect or a moment of expectation.. #recommended

    Liked by 1 person

  5. This was great! There’s something else about musical rests if you play a wind instrument or sing: it’s where you breathe! Marvelling at a flute player’s or singer’s long breath and breathing with them as they get to a long-anticipated brief stop is part of the fun

    Liked by 1 person

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