The following passage is adapted from an article that originally appeared in the New York Times (© 2009 by Arthur Krystal).
- That’s Vladimir Nabokov on my
- computer screen, looking both
- dapper and disheveled. He’s
- wearing a suit and a
- multibuttoned vest that
- scrunches the top of his tie.
- Large, lumpish, delicate and
- black-spectacled, he’s perched
- on a couch alongside the sleeker
- Lionel Trilling. Both men are
- fielding questions from a suave
- interlocutor with a B-movie
- mustache. The men are
- discussing Nabokov’s writing.
- “I do not . . . wish to touch
- hearts,” Nabokov says. “I don’t
- even want to affect minds very
- much. What I really want to
- produce is that little sob in
- the spine of the artist-reader.”
- Not bad, I think. In fact, a
- pretty good line to come up
- with off the cuff. But wait!
- What’s that Nabokov’s doing
- with his hands? He’s turning
- over index cards. He’s
- glancing at notes. He’s
- reading. Fluent in three
- languages, he relies on
- prefabricated responses to
- talk about his work. Am I
- disappointed? I am at first,
- but then I think: writers
- don’t have to be brilliant
- conversationalists; it’s not
- their job to be smart except,
- of course, when they write.
- Hazlitt remarked that he
- did not see why an author
- “is bound to talk, any more
- than he is bound to dance or
- ride better than other people.
- Reading, study, silence,
- thought are a bad
- introduction to loquacity.”
- Sounds right to me. Like
- most writers, I seem to be
- smarter in print than in
- person. In fact, I am smarter
- when I’m writing. I don’t
- claim this merely because
- there is usually no one
- around to observe the false
- starts and groan-inducing
- sentences that make a
- mockery of my presumed
- intelligence, but because
- when the work is going well,
- I’m expressing opinions that
- I’ve never uttered in
- conversation and that
- otherwise might never occur
- to me. Nor am I the first to
- have this thought, which,
- naturally, occurred to me
- while composing. According
- to Edgar Allan Poe, “Some
- Frenchman says: ‘People talk
- about thinking, but for my
- part I never think except
- when I sit down to write.” I
- agree with the thought,
- whoever might have formed
- it. And it’s not because writing
- helps me to organize my ideas,
- but because it actually creates
- thought or, at least supplies a
- Petri dish for its genesis.
- The Harvard psychologist
- Steven Pinker, however, isn’t
- so sure. Pinker sensibly points
- out that thinking precedes
- writing and that the reason
- we sound smarter when
- writing is because we
- deliberately set out to be clear
- and precise, a luxury not usually
- afforded us in conversation.
- When people who write for a
- living sit down to earn their
- pay they make demands on
- themselves that require a higher
- degree of skill than that
- summoned by conversation.
- Pinker likens this to
- mathematicians thinking
- differently when proving
- theorems than when counting
- change, or to quarterbacks
- throwing a pass during a game
- as opposed to tossing a ball
- around in their backyards.
- He does concede, however,
- that since writing allows time
- for reveries and ruminations,
- it probably engages larger
- swaths of the brain.
- Along these lines, it seems
- composers sometimes pick up
- different instruments when
- trying to solve musical
- problems. It’s not that a violin
- offers up secrets the piano
- withholds, but that the mind
- starts thinking differently
- when we play different
- instruments. Or maybe it’s
- just that the flow of thought
- alters when we write, which,
- in turn, releases sentences
- hidden along the banks of
- consciousness. There seems
- to be a rhythm to writing that
- catches notes that ordinarily
- stay out of earshot. At some
- point between formulating a
- thought and writing it down
- falls a nanosecond when the
- thought becomes a sentence
- that would, in all likelihood,
- have a different shape if we
- were to speak it. This rhythm,
- not so much heard as felt,
- occurs only when one is
- composing; it can’t be
- simulated in speech, since
- speaking takes place in real
- time and depends in part on
- the person or persons we’re
- speaking to. Wonderful
- writers might therefore turn
- out to be only so-so
- conversationalists, and people
- capable of telling great stories
- waddle like ducks out of water
- when they attempt to write.
- So the next time you hear a
- writer on the radio or catch him
- on the tube or watch him on
- the monitor or find yourself
- sitting next to him at dinner,
- remember he isn’t the author
- of the books you admire; he’s
- just someone visiting the world
- outside his study or office or
- wherever he writes. Don’t
- expect him to know the customs
- of the country, and try to forgive
- his trespasses when they occur.