Seeing and Being

A guest post by Anthony Grooms

Ernest Hemingway, known for bluster, wrote that the experience of war was a great advantage to a writer and that writers who had not been to war and who belittled the subject of war were “always very jealous” for not having had “something quite irreplaceable that they had missed.” The passage is found in The Green Hills of Africa and is little more than a passing comment on the work of Tolstoy. It has always raised a distasteful envy in me, as I was one who escaped the Vietnam War draft by just a year or two and joined in with the Peaceniks, but felt—because of Hemingway’s passage—that some crucial honing of my writing had been missed. To be sure, I have never belittled the subject of war, and even as one who has never seen it, I portray it in several of my works, published (and unpublished).

Hemingway saw more than a fair share of war, but never as a soldier. Famously, he was wounded while handing out candy bars on the front lines near the Piave River in Italy as a volunteer ambulance driver in World War I.  A mortar shell exploded near him, riddling him with hundreds of shards. “I died, then,” he would later say. “I felt my soul or something coming right out of my body, like you’d pull a silk handkerchief out of a pocket by one corner.” As a correspondent, he reported from the front lines of the Spanish Civil War and World War II. He even took his yacht out on patrols to look for German subs off of the Florida coast.

I suspect, though, it was his skill as an empathetic observer more than his experiences, per se, that gave him the “something quite irreplaceable” that allowed him to write convincingly about men and women at war, and the healing they sought after the war.

Many extraordinary war novels have been written by those who experienced it directly: Erich Maria Remarque, Kurt Vonnegut, Tim O’Brien—just to name three. But convincing war novels have also been written by authors who have had no direct experience with war: Stephen Crane, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Aleksander Hemon for example. These writers have not observed battle, though Adichie’s and Hemon’s families were gravely affected by war.

Experience and observation are important for writers, but these alone are not enough to write convincingly. The crucial “something quite irreplaceable” for writers of any subject is a sensitive and sensible use of the imagination. “Imagination is more important than knowledge,” Albert Einstein is quoted as saying in a 1929 The Saturday Evening Post article. The full quote is even more inspiring, for the great scientist connects science and art: “I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination encircles the world.”

Though he may have been wrong about quantum entanglement, calling it “spooky action at a distance,” Einstein is right in emphasizing the use of imagination in the creation of anything— scientific, literary, social or personal. But even here I insist on subtitles. The use of the imagination by itself, without the tempering complements of knowledge and empathy, is what leads to conspiracy theories, demagogueries, inequities and other insanities. Experience, observation, imagination and empathy are all critical skills for writers. And now I bluster: No significant art or science is made without the complement of all of these, and to paraphrase First Corinthians, the greatest of these is empathy.

Among the easiest skills for writers to learn are the technical and critical ones. These are usually taught in workshops and are developed through practice. Like physique building or sports training, the practice must be continual. Life-long. Observation, to some degree, is a teachable skill, but imagination and empathy are more difficult to teach. Yet they can be learned. They are learned from the inside out—and they are honed by technical, critical and observation skills. As the elements of good writing are interrelated and synergetic, so are the skills of a good writer; and like the hard skills of technique, the soft sills of observation, imagination and empathy must be practiced.

One of my favorite writing texts is not about writing at all, but travel. It is The Art of Travel by the philosopher Alain de Botton. Among the chapters about anticipation, exoticism, and curiosity as they relate to travel, are discussions on observation, beauty and the use of imagination. In particular, De Botton introduces a satirical travelogue called  A Journey around My Bedroom written by the Eighteenth century aristocrat Xavier de Maistre.  De Button proposes the exercise of "traveling” around one’s bedroom as an experiment designed to revitalize observation. “Home…finds us more settled in our expectations,” De Botton reminds us. Travel on the other hand, is receptive. “We approach new places with humility. We carry with us no rigid ideas about what is or is not interesting.” Carrying this receptive mind-set into a familiar setting, then, defamiliarizes the setting and allows refreshed engagement with the details of the setting and the emotions that come with them. De Botton recounts that de Maistre rediscovered the qualities of his sofa, and “remembers the pleasant hours he spent cradled in its cushions, dreaming of love.”

I enjoy this exercise because it practices the use of imagination while sharpening the powers of observation. I often uncover details in the room—typically not my bedroom—that I wouldn’t have noticed in my daily bustle. The guise of the traveler allows me to imagine things of my ordinary experience as exotic, the way I might see the green cross of a European pharmacy, or hear the sing-song of a French ambulance. Sometimes, I take on an alien persona, pretending I am an ET exploring Earth culture, or perhaps I am a historical figure—I like Ben Franklin—suddenly transported to the future.

Whatever the persona, the exercise is to observe, to look closely and to discover. Such observation is done with all the senses—smell, taste, sound—are as important as touch and sight. Also try a synesthetic approach—imagine the color of the sound of the air conditioner, or a taste for the softness of a pillow. Have fun.

Crucial to this exercise is that sixth sense—that is emotion. Consider how you feel about the details you encounter. Likely the feelings are associated with memories, as de Maistre remembered the dreams of love he had on the couch. For the sensitive writer, observation is always entangled with emotion. Whether or not the emotion makes it to the page depends on the purpose and focus of the writing. Good editing is paramount.

As de Botton discovered, he needed more space than just his bedroom. Without seeming too crazy, you might take this exercise to the street, imagining that you are seeing your town as a visitor. You might also extend the exercise to one of empathy, and imagine how the people you pass as you stroll along might see you. Imagine how their day might be going, whether they slept well or are well fed.

The selective rendering of details and its emotional coloring enriches the setting. Believe me, a little goes a long way. I have just read a novel set in the streets near my house. It simply name drops the streets without details or coloring. In this novel Decatur Street in Atlanta, could also be Decatur Street in New Orleans, or Brooklyn. In effect, the “something quite irreplaceable” is missing because there is no engagement with a rendering of imagination through observed detail and emotional coloring.

Tony Grooms is pleased to announced that New York-based Anita Lo is the winner of the inaugural Anthony Grooms Short Fiction Prize for her story “52 Pick-Up.” The Prize is sponsored by The Headlight Review. For more information, visit theheadlightreview.com. More about Grooms can be found at AnthonyGrooms.com.