The Value of Conflict or In Defense of Opposition

August 12, 2015 / Vito Gulla / 0 Comments

Author’s Note: It seems I’ve fully given in to my philosophical tendencies with today’s post, so I hope you’ll forgive me. While I typically like to keep things here focused on questions about the narrative arts, and writing in particular, I have been reading a lot of the great philosophers as of late, and I guess it was only a matter of time before I felt the need to express some of those ideas divorced from any discussion of art.

So often do we forget the many pleasures life offers us. When we listen to music, whether a rock song or a symphony, we leave it on as background noise, something to cloud the outside world so that it becomes a little less distracting, a little less distinct. We ignore the beauty of a sunrise. We read a book to find meaning rather than to appreciate the charm and magic of the prose. These are simple things, little things, all as valuable as those greater pursuits we strive toward. Yet there is a dark side to anything human. As Aristotle demonstrates in his concept of the golden mean, there are two sides to every coin, an excess and a deficiency. In today’s world, and maybe since philosophers began philosophizing, there is one virtue that seems fundamentally misunderstood: conflict. Any sign of nuance or consideration is tossed aside for unequivocal damnation, especially when it comes to violence and aggression. We act as though, through sheer willpower (and activism) alone, we can frolic in the meadows hand-in-hand, all of us, committed to a peaceful cohabitation. It is a nice ideal to strive for, a utopian paradise, one that is kinder, gentler, and better overall than the world we have and have had in any time before us. That does not mean it will ever happen. And though I’m not fond of shutting down possibilities—it is, after all, theoretically possible—it is very, very unlikely. Such ideals fail to recognize the benefits of conflict and its myriad manifestations.

It typically starts with offense, conflict’s instigator. We are all prone to take offense with some idea or another. Sometimes the offense is benign, a simple statement of preference—I’m a vegan, I’m a creationist, I’m a smoker—which causes the listener to create a conflict. This is probably a matter of projection more than anything, where the very admission makes us question our own assumptions about the way we live our lives. This type of offense mostly stems from misunderstanding more than anything else, and it would be easy to dismiss this as unworthy of our attention. I disagree, however, since such statements make us dwell on our own ideas and offer some kind of defense. This is worthwhile indeed. If we are going to believe in anything, those beliefs should hold up to scrutiny. They shouldn’t, if we believe in them strongly, crumble at the first sign of opposition.

I’ll give you an example. When I was younger, I didn’t think that prostitution should be legal. What my reasons were, I did not know, and if you asked me, I would have probably explained that it just was or some other form of circular reasoning. It wasn’t until, late one night, I saw one of those panel-driven talk shows did I realize how arbitrary my ideas were. The panel was discussing prostitution and its illegality, when one of the comic’s said that she believed that there was no reason for such a legal imposition on women’s choices. She said that if a person wanted to, they should, and that, furthermore, this would afford those people access to basic modern necessities like healthcare. I was, at first, dismayed by her comments, offended even, just because the comic stated her opinion, but when I listened to her reasoning, I quickly changed my position. Her reasoning, to me, was quite sound, and I couldn’t think of any cause to dismiss her. It made me realize that my ideas where based on nothing, that they couldn’t be assumed but must be considered. The conflict here was small, but it’s effects were infinitely enriching. Conflict made me better, smarter, and most of all, more empathetic.

Now there are, of course, willful acts of conflict, times when offense is properly given, when the speaker makes an attack intending to hurt. I know I’ve done it, and I have no doubt that you have done it as well. We say things like “People who eat meat deserve to die” or “I hate such-and-such.” These statements are explicitly designed to judge, to belittle, to exert power or mastery. I would even say that these admissions are not necessarily bad, merely an expression of resentment for some slight, real or imagined. It is a reasonable thing to do, especially when you meet someone who embodies those things you hate. However, it is not necessarily conducive to a productive and stimulating dialogue. It causes the discourse to stall, as name calling begets name calling, but what happens afterward? Sometimes, we entrench ourselves further and confine ourselves to others who subscribe to our beliefs, which allows us to avoid any more conflict. This is, overall, a bad thing as an echo chamber does little to identify solutions, but I don’t think it wholly bespeaks the possibilities. We are going to find points of disagreement, always, even with those inclined to agree. We could go on shutting out others until we are as lonely as can be, alone with ourselves, trapped in our own minds. Few, if any, I would think, would allow things to get so bad. More likely, there will come that epiphany, that visionary moment, when we recognize that our ideas must be tested, that we must fight back on equal footing, not through name calling or other acts of pettiness, but through reason. We can consider those flaws that others point out. Even the pettiness helps us to get better. We set out to find answers to prove the other wrong. Sometimes, we discover that our ideas are arbitrary; other times, we learn how to fix them, to fortify them. That, I would say, is a worthwhile endeavor. We need opposition. We need to suffer. This is what allows us to grow.

But what of violence, what of aggression? How can we rationalize something so irrational? We assume that ideas can only be defended and tested by reason alone, that they must, when brought up against opposition, seek the better way. Why? We assume that everyone can be swayed to rationality, but is everyone so capable? Think about how many times you’ve been in a situation when some tough guy decides you or someone around him has caused him offense. Maybe you spilled a drink on him accidentally. Maybe you bumped into him because the crowd was so thick, and everyone was so rambunctious. Maybe he just didn’t like the way you looked at him. He invariably starts to shout or maybe even push you. What should you do? What do you do? You probably walk away. That’s the right thing to do, after all—isn’t it? You choose to diffuse the situation, robbing him of his victory. You’re the bigger man. Or are you? Aren’t you also submitting to his will? Aren’t also you letting him dictate your actions, however small they may be? Your choice to be non-confrontational is submission, and the balance of power clearly shifts in his favor. He’s allowed to continue along unchecked. But what if you strike back? What if, when he pushes you, you knock him cold? Doesn’t that have a beneficial side effect too? I think it does. He may have to reconsider his own behavior, worried that people exist that are not so quick to fold, or he may shoot up more steroids and hit the gym a little harder. Regardless, of the consequences, he is improved. And if you run into him again, he may be more apologetic, but just as possible, he may return stronger. It is those simple verbal slights, those disagreements we have everyday, made physical.

Now, this isn’t an endorsement to start bar-fights, even if in the name of self-improvement. There are, of course, other factors to consider, especially somewhere crowded: This is collateral damage. We have to recognize when and where to engage as much as what type of engagement is necessary. Of course, collateral damage is unavoidable, especially in today’s mechanized world of assault rifles and nuclear bombs. But each opportunity presented to us should be carefully scrutinized, especially when those horrific side effects can be minimized. These situations dictate our recourse and must be judged from moment to moment. But again, there is a clear benefit. The bully, the tyrant, the asshole comes in many forms, and when we engage them, we are granted a chance for reflection in the aftermath. We can recognize the flaws in our tactics, the people who we hurt by accident, the amount of force applied. Sometimes, this is enormously regrettable, horrible in fact, when we go too far, but sometimes, it is not enough, for we played things too safe and only made matters worse. And on the rarest occasions, we have weighed our options equally and met the threat with that golden mean of conflict. However, the biggest mistake we can make is to avoid the conflict altogether. If you want to change something, you have to resist. Passivity is just as bad as the barroom bully.

It is all a matter of judgement, of what tool is appropriate. Violence isn’t always the answer. That much should be obvious. But we shouldn’t take anything off the table in regards to meeting opposition. Conflict is necessary for progress, however slow and non-linear it may be. We learn through conflict how to conduct ourselves. We discover that golden mean in imposing our own will, in wielding our own power. When the American colonies revolted against Great Britain, they met force with force. When Socrates saw a man in the market claiming this or that, he struck back with reason. These conflicts make us better and worse. Every action has side effects, and it’s nice to think that logos will always win out. Unfortunately, as long as evil exists (and evil people, as rare as they may be), the pathos of violence will always have a place in our repertoire.

What They See is What You Get: Notes on POV (Part 1)

May 10, 2015 / Vito Gulla / 0 Comments

A Note on The Text: Due to the nature of the discussion at hand, I felt it was necessary to give a little more care and organization to this post. This is a little less philosophy and a little more nuts and bolts. Also, this, as the title implies, is a large subject that needed two posts to capture its true complexity. Stay tuned, and expect the second half next Sunday.

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This week’s craft talk is about point of view, which is probably one of the most abused and misunderstood elements of the craft. Some people define it rigidly; others are so careless with it that it seems like it abides by the laws of quantum physics–if it follows any laws at all. While I lean to towards a more rigid definition, those favored by the editors and college literature professors, I think that binaries, in most cases, leave out the necessary naunce that is reality.

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First and foremost, point of view, for the most part, is, like most elements of storytelling, determined by character. It is part of what helps writers create empathy and an essential part of our reading experience: It is the person whose eyes we looking out of. Typically, there are three major categories of point of view:

  1. First Person
  2. Second Person 
  3. Third Person        

However, I would also argue we often forget that tense too informs the point of view. And there, of course, three major categories of tense as well:

  1. Past Tense
  2. Present Tense
  3. Future Tense

Let’s start with past tense.

Past Tense

Strangely, this tends to be the neutral default for most writers, and I’m not sure why. Now don’t get me wrong here: I’m not saying that past tense is no good. But it, like every story, every character, every paragraph, every sentence, and every word, should be a conscious choice. Too often are writers afraid to challenge the orthodoxy of fiction, the rules and conventions that we arbitraily follow. 

Consider Aristotle’s definition of rhetoric: “It is the ability to observe the available means of persuasion.” It is a very fine definition, but there is one change I recommend: “It is the ability to observe the [best] available means of persuasion.” The choice of past tense should inform the text and theme. The writer should decide on it because there are no better options, not because that’s what everyone else is doing.

So why use past tense? 

Let’s take a look at the opening from Carver’s “Neighbors” to find out.

“Bill and Arlene Miller were a happy couple. But now and then they felt they alone among their circle had been passsed by somehow, leaving Bill to attend to his bookkeeping duties and Arlene occupied with secreterial chores. They talked about it sometimes, mostly in comparison with the lives of their neighbors, Harriet and Jim Stone. It seemed to the Millers that the Stones lived a fuller and brighter life.”   

Here, Carver uses past tense because it immediately creates doubt in the reader’s mind. When we read that Bill and Arlene “were a happy couple,” it has an entirely different meaning than if Bill and Arlene are a happy couple. Were suggests that they used to be happy, that there now is a problem. In someways, we don’t even need to look at the following sentence to understand that the couple is in crisis. By choosing past tense over all others, Carver can articulate a longing for the past, that great intangible happiness of memory. 

Past tense should be decided on because it arouses our sense of nostalgia, of what has been. Readers may not be able to articulate this effect explictly, but they feel it. It is invisibly implicit.

Present Tense  

Present tense often gets a bad wrap. People lay down edicts like “Novels should never be written in present tense.” Frankly, I’m not fond of hard and fast rules–especially those proposed without a shred of evidence as to why. I will say present tense can be more difficult to pull off, but just like past tense, if the writer is aware of his or her choice, its rhetorical effect can be alarmingly haunting.

In Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho, he writes almost exclusively in first person, present tense. And though many are quick to label the novel mysogyist and empty, Julian Murphet, the author of the novel’s reader’s guide, gives a compelling analysis of the Ellis’s style that I would be remiss not to mention.

“…American Psycho is a perversely unified text, and the rest of the book…is a carefully considered foil to the violence. Some of the emptiest dialogue ever committed to print; ghastly, endless descriptions of home electronics and men’s grooming products…characters so undefined and interchangable that even they habitually confuse each others’ identities; and a central narrating voice which seems unable and unwilling to raise itself above the literary distinction of an in-flight magazine…. If Ellis wants to bore us, he must have a reason.”     

And I am inclined to agree. One of the most obvious effects of the present tense is an otherworldly sense of boredom that it instills in the reader. Just look at these lines from the novel:

“Back at my place I stand over Bethany’s body, sipping a drink contemplatively, studying its condition. Both eyelids are open halfway and her lower teeth look as if they’re jutting out since her lips have been torn–actually bitten–off. Earlier in the day I had sawed off her left arm, which is what finally killed her, and right now I pick it up, holding it by the bone that protudes from where her hand used to be (I have no idea where it is now: the freezer? the closet?), clenching it in my fist like a pipe….”  

That might be the coldest description of a murdered woman I have ever read. Add in the lack of figurative language and no voice of reason, and it’s easy to see how people can confuse the novel for one that celebrates the very violence it is actually trying to condemn. Bateman, the narrator and protagonist, does not seem the least bit bothered by this horror. At most, he is thoughtfully voyeuristic; at worst, he is heartlessly removed. The latter seems especially appropriate as his mind drifts to where Bethany’s hand may be. But this wouldn’t be so easily achieved had Ellis used another tense. 

Past tense would make it slightly wistful, a serial murderer longing for his glory days (and a form of empathy that I would argue is much more disturbing), but with present tense, it makes the reader question the narrator’s detachment as well as their own. Why should we be so unaffected by such gruesome details? As Murphet puts it, “Bateman’s monologue can…be seen as a ‘corrective’ to literary escapism.” We are given a reality that exists, a reality where brands and pop culture and money are more important and more interesting than the victims that the powerful prey on.    

Some people say present tense gives immediacy to the writing, but as we can see above, that isn’t always the case. Often times, people think that the present has a greater sense of now. Yet the truth is it only does the opposite. Just think of how many bad novels begin with prologues told in present tense, while the rest of the book is written in past tense. We mistake in the moment with in media res, but all we end up doing is putting the reader to sleep. 

Future Tense

Future tense is the most ignored and undervalued of all our options. It is the conditional, the possible, the imagined, and wished for. It creates an effect that can only be achieved through itself. However, its examples in literature are few and far between, because, most likely, writers are either ignorant of its power or afraid of it. One of the tense’s rare masters was Carlos Fuetnes. 

In his novel, The Death of Artemio Cruz, Fuentes uses all the tenses and persons to capture the entirety of the human condition. In the following passage, notice how Fuentes uses future tense to soothe reader and convey an atmosphere of endless possibilities:

“You will close your eyes aware that the lids are not opaque, that though they are folded down, light still reaches your retinas, light of the sun that will remain framed in the open window at the height of your closed eyes that, being closed, blur all details of vision, altering shadow and color without eliminating vision itself; the same light of the brass penny that will spend itself toward the west. You will close your eyes and you will see again, but you will see only what your brain wants you to see: more than the world, yet less: you will close your eyes and the real world will no longer compete with the world of your imagination.”  

Notice that Fuentes uses repetition and winding, lengthy sentences to enhance that effect. We delight, as the protagonist delights, in the what may be: a discovery outside ourselves and inside ourselves. 

Future tense may not be sustainable at great lengths, but when dealing with the possible, it should be a choice closely considered. 

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And so concludes the first half of our discussion on point of view. Even though the tense we use may not seem important at first glance, it is nonetheless an important choice which decides the tenor of our fiction, something so invisible its power goes unnoticed. Next week, we will look at the potential points of view available to us and how and why we should use them. Until next time….