He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense.
– Joseph Conrad
Strange – how we discount sound in stories. No one engages with tiny black marks on a white leaf of paper. We long to glide into a world we experience – hear the crackle of the glass, the rhythm of a fetal heartbeat, the blare of a taxi horn, the rustle of scarlet silk. Seduced by the power and poetry of language, we hunger for the jolt of odd juxtapositions, to find out what happens next. But without musicality and metaphor you might as well devour a manual on how to change a tire. Words perform the magic of a wand, the precision of a scalpel, the viscosity of paint. You can hear the tinkle of the chimes, the roll of the rhymes, the chill of the drill. Without children’s laughter and sirens in the night, the warning of the wind and the click of a lock, we simply ingest facts.
No matter how wonderful the story, it has to move on something, and that is language. The words that I use, the pace, the rhythm and cadences all need to be there. If they’re not there, the story is like a boat that just sits there and doesn’t move on the ocean.
– Tim O’Brien
And on the matter of fact checking, don’t underestimate the impotence of turning up the volume. Even if you’re a reality TV presidential candidate bathed in hyperbole, shouting will not import substance to a hollow message. Even multiple applications of the word “very” (as in very, very, very…) serve only to dilute grandiose claims and questionable truth.
And on the subject of truth, while I love to listen for the glisten, I often encounter a version bordering on delusion. This week, two days apart I listened to an explanation for a missing brown velvet jacket conveyed by two involved parties. I sensed a rancid quality to the syrupy delivery of the first one. A little white lie slipped in with the stealth of a jaguar. The second version delivered in a humble tone, eye to eye, offered a straight up take-responsibility-for-the-truth statement, “sorry but I’ll make it right.” A tale you could forgive.
And in the realm of forgiveness, you can hear the rhythm, the cadence, the logic, but if you listen for the omission you often uncover an obsession – obsession for confession or a guilty pleasure (I’ll let you supply), a pattern of behavior, or collection of inventions. A secret longing – or a long standing secret. Regret, fear(s) or perhaps desire. You can hear what someone really means when you listen for the missing.
Intermittently she caught the gist of his sentences and supplied the rest from her subconscious, as one picks up the striking of a clock in the middle with only the rhythm of the first uncounted strokes lingering in the mind.
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
So now you’re wondering how to listen for the glisten. I can’t say you’ll find it in a silent movie, the slow drip of a tap, the discordant clash of trashcans, the cacophony of drunks or a gnarly growl. You might gain sparkle in a whisper or a snippet of conversation, a distant echo, thundering hooves – a soft moan, or the primal beat of drums. You can hear it by the seaside and in the poet’s hand, you can be rewarded by musicians (seldom by politicians), lulled by violins and chants, thrilled by the trill of a nightingale, intrigued by the high pitched call of a cheetah in the dark, or put on high alert by footsteps in the hall.
Language in fiction is made up of equal parts meaning and music. The sentences should have rhythm and cadence, they should engage and delight the inner ear.
– Michael Cunningham
But if it’s music infused with meaning you’re after or meaning infused with music, then run forever in the sand or fly with wings across the finish in Chariots of Fire (instrumental tune by Vangelis). Listen to the opening theme from Out of Africa (by John Barry) and soar across the veldt. Let Ennio Morricone’s sound track for The Mission sweep you high above Iguacu Falls. Propel your fears and watch your back with music noir (by Bernard Hermann) in Psycho and Vertigo. Hold court with The Godfather Marlon Brando (enhanced by Nino Rota’s score) or strut with the younger Brando On The Waterfront (music by Leonard Bernstein).
No, I don’t pretend to be an expert on classic films and soundtracks but I love to immerse myself in film. Since conceiving this post I realize what filmmakers have long understood. It’s not the sound effects that matter (the ping of the inbox, the click of the keyboard, the whoosh of the sent) but the subliminal effects of sound. I know when music stirs me or amplifies my mood. I can’t help but listen for the missing, yet I love to listen for the glisten. Can you hear the urge, can you hear the surge – can you hear the soothing crash of waves?
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
– Matsuo Basho
always so satisfying to read your posts . . .
So true! Sounds add that extra dimension we often don't think about in our daily life. My awareness has just been heightened to the whoosh of the dishwasher, the murmurs of the television coming from two rooms away, the click of the dogs' nails on the wood floor as they come in to pay me a visit. Sounds give the story depth and bring it to life. Time to do some editing. Thanks Martha.
Not only can I hear the surge and the soothing crash of waves, I feel the salt spray on my face and the sea mist in my nose. My steps are light along the wet sand and my stride takes on a new momentum. The sea reminds me of childhood trips from Danbury to Long Island Sound; to Sherwood Island in Westport or to Norwalk area beaches, always a thrill to taste salt water. The roar of waves during a hurricane was our favorite, so dynamic was the ocean. We kids loved being in the middle of the rough sea. Sea air is invigorating, energizing and even though it is all in my mind right at this minute, I feel it.
I like to have soft music playing in the background. When I was a young bride, I put on Dixieland Jazz to do my housework, truly helped to make it more enjoyable. Where I live now, I can hear boat horns, and alas, sirens from paramedics rushing some endangered soul to the hospital, and the thunder of Pacific Coast Highway. Wrote a poem once about a motorcycle breakinga moment in a grief episode. Thanks, Martha for reminding us to listen for the glisten
Such a beautiful and captivating post, Martha. It is funny how coincidental many of your posts are with my life. Very relatable. I have been experimenting in various medias of art lately, and my entire mission is to create a sensory experience for my viewers, so your words completely resonate with me. Love it. Thank you.
Edit. Re-write. Edit. Re-write
Crash. Boom. BANG!
OY!