Summer reading 2024

Though I’m thankful to say that, compared to where I was at the end of the spring, I’ve wrapped up the summer and begun the fall semester feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, my reading has still been unusually fiction-heavy. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—all work and no play, after all—but I do mean to restore some balance. I look forward to it.

“Summer,” for the purposes of this post, runs from approximately the first week or two of summer classes to today, Labor Day. Since there’s a lot more fiction and non-fiction this time around, I mean to lead off with the smattering of non-fiction reading that I enjoyed. And so, my favorites, presented as usual in no particular order:

Favorite non-fiction

While I only read a handful of non-fiction of any kind—history, biography, philosophy, theology, you name it—almost all of them proved worthwhile. They also make an unusually idiosyncratic list, even for me:

An Illustrated History of UFOs, by Adam Allsuch Boardman—A fun, wonderfully illustrated picture book about UFOs and all sorts of UFO-adjacent phenomena. Not deep by any means and only nominally skeptical, this book is surprisingly thorough, with infographic-style tables of dozens of different purported kinds of craft, aliens both cinematic and purportedly real, and brief accounts of some legendary incidents from Kenneth Arnold and the Roswell crash to Betty and Barney Hill’s abduction, Whitley Strieber’s interdimensional communion, and the USS Nimitz’s “flying Tic Tac.” If you grew up terrified to watch “Unsolved Mysteries” but also wouldn’t think of missing it, this should be a fun read. See here for a few sample illustrations.

Histories and Fallacies: Problems Faced in the Writing of History, by Carl Trueman—A concise, sensible, and welcoming guide to some of the pitfalls of historical research and writing. Trueman is especially good on the dangers of historical theories, which naturally incline the historian to distort his evidence the better to fit the theory. There are more thorough or exhaustive books on this topic but this is the one I’d first recommend to a beginning student of history. I mentioned it prominently in my essay on historiography at Miller’s Book Review back in July.

Three Philosophies of Life, by Peter Kreeft—A short, poetic meditation on three Old Testament wisdom books: Ecclesiastes and Job, two of my favorite books of the Bible, and Song of Songs, a book that has puzzled me for years. Kreeft presents them as clear-eyed dramatizations of three worldviews, the first two of which correctly observe that life is vain and full of suffering, with the last supplying the missing element that adds meaning to vanity and redemption to pain: God’s love. An insightful and encouraging short book.

Homer and His Iliad, by Robin Lane Fox—Who was Homer and what can we know about him? Was he even a real person? And what’s so great about his greatest poem? This is a wide-ranging, deeply researched, and well-timed expert examination of the Iliad and its author, thoroughly and convincingly argued. Perhaps the best thing I can say about Lane Fox’s book is that it made me fervently want to reread the Iliad. My favorite non-fiction read of the summer. Full-length review forthcoming.

Always Going On, by Tim Powers—A short autobiographical essay with personal stories, reminiscences of Philip K Dick, nuts and bolts writing advice, aesthetic observations, and philosophical meditations drawing from Chesterton and CS Lewis, among others. An inspiring short read.

The Decline of the Novel, by Joseph Bottum—An excellent set of literary essays on the history of the novel in the English-speaking world; case studies of Sir Walter Scott, Dickens, Thomas Mann (German outlier), and Tom Wolfe; and a closing meditation on popular genre fiction—all of which is only marginally affected by a compellingly argued but unconvincing thesis. I can’t emphasize enough how good those four case study chapters are, though, especially the one on Dickens. Full dual review alongside Joseph Epstein’s The Novel, Who Needs It? on the blog here.

Favorite fiction

Again, this was a fiction-heavy summer in an already fiction-heavy year, which was great for me while reading but should have made picking favorites from the long list of reads more difficult. Fortunately there were clear standouts, any of which I’d recommend:

On Stranger Tides, by Tim Powers—An uncommonly rich historical fantasy set in the early years of the 18th century in the Caribbean, where the unseen forces behind the new world are still strong enough to be felt and, with the right methods, used by new arrivals from Europe. Chief among these is Jack Chandagnac, a former traveling puppeteer who has learned that a dishonest uncle has cheated him and his late father of a Jamaican fortune. After a run-in with seemingly invincible pirates, Jack is inducted into their arcane world as “Jack Shandy” and slowly begins to master their arts—and not just knot-tying and seamanship. A beautiful young woman menaced by her own deranged father, a trip to Florida and the genuinely otherworldly Fountain of Youth, ships crewed by the undead, and Blackbeard himself further complicate the story. I thoroughly enjoyed On Stranger Tides and was recommending it before I was even finished. That I read it during a trip to St Augustine, where there are plenty of little mementos of Spanish exploration and piracy, only enriched my reading.

Journey Into Fear, by Eric Ambler—An unassuming commercial traveler boards a ship in Istanbul and finds himself the target of a German assassination plot. Who is trying to kill him, why, and will he be able to make it to port quickly enough to survive? As much as I loved The Mask of Dimitrios back in the spring, Journey into Fear is leaner, tighter, and more suspenseful. A wonderfully thrilling read.

The Kraken Wakes, by John Wyndham—Another brilliant classic by Wyndham, an alien invasion novel in which we never meet or communicate with the aliens and the human race always feels a step behind. Genuinely thrilling and frightening. Full review on the blog here.

Mexico Set, by Len Deighton—The second installment of Deighton’s Game, Set, Match trilogy after Berlin Game, this novel follows British agent Bernard Samson through an especially tricky mission to Mexico City and back as he tries to “enroll” a disgruntled KGB agent with ties to an important British defector. Along with some good globetrotting—including scenes in Mexico reminiscent of the world of Charles Portis’s Gringos—and a lot of tradecraft and intra-agency squabbling and backstabbing, I especially appreciated the more character-driven elements of this novel, which help make it not only a sequel but a fresh expansion of the story begun in Berlin Game. Looking forward to London Match, which I intend to get to before the end of the year.

LaBrava, by Elmore Leonard—A former Secret Service agent turned Miami photographer finds himself entangled in an elaborate blackmail scheme. The mark: a former Hollywood femme fatale, coincidentally his childhood favorite actress. The blackmailers: a Cuban exile, a Florida cracker the size of a linebacker, and an unknown puppet master. Complications: galore. Smoothly written and intricately plotted, with a vividly evoked big-city setting and some nice surprises in the second half of the book, this is almost the Platonic ideal of a Leonard crime novel, and I’d rank only Rum Punch and the incomparable Freaky Deaky above it.

Night at the Crossroads, by Georges Simenon, trans. Linda Coverdale—Two cars are stolen from French country houses at a lonely crossroads and are returned to the wrong garages. When found, one has a dead diamond smuggler behind the wheel. It’s up to an increasingly frustrated Inspector Maigret to sort through the lies and confusion and figure out what happened. An intricate short mystery that I don’t want to say much more about, as I hesitate to give anything at all away.

Epitaph for a Spy, by Eric Ambler—A stateless man spending some hard-earned cash at a Riviera hotel is, through a simple mix-up, arrested as a German spy. When the French police realize his predicament and his need to fast-track his appeal for citizenship, they decide to use him to flush out the real spy. Well-plotted, suspenseful, and surprising, with a great cast of characters. My favorite Ambler thriller so far this year. There’s also an excellent two-hour BBC radio play based on the book, which Sarah and I enjoyed on our drive back from St Augustine.

The Light of Day, by Eric Ambler—One more by Ambler, which I also enjoyed. Arthur Simpson, a half-English, half-Egyptian smalltime hood involved in everything from conducting tours without a license to smuggling pornography is forced to help a band of suspicious characters drive a car across the Turkish border. He’s caught—and forced to help Turkish military intelligence find out what the group is up to. Published later in Ambler’s long career, The Light of Day is somewhat edgier, but also funnier. It’s more of a romp than a heavy spy thriller, with wonderfully sly narration by Arthur himself. I greatly enjoyed it. Do yourself a favor, though, and read it without looking at any summaries, even the one on the back of the book. My Penguin Modern Classics paperback gave away a major plot revelation. I still enjoyed it, but have to wonder how much more I might have with that important surprise left concealed.

Runner up:

Swamp Story, by Dave Barry—A wacky crime novel involving brothers who own a worthless Everglades bait shop, potheads trying to make their break into the world of reality TV, a disgraced Miami Herald reporter turned birthday party entertainer, a crooked businessman, Russian mobsters, gold-hunting ex-cons, and a put-upon new mom who finds herself trying to survive all of them. Fun and diverting but not especially funny, which some of Barry’s other crime thrillers have managed to be despite going darker, I still enjoyed reading it.

John Buchan June

The third annual John Buchan June included five novels, a short literary biography of one of Buchan’s heroes, and Buchan’s posthumously published memoirs. Here’s a complete list with links to my reviews here on the blog:

• Castle Gay (1930)

• Salute to Adventurers (1915)

• Sir Walter Scott: His Life and Work (1925)

• The Free Fishers (1934)

• The Island of Sheep (1936)

• The House of the Four Winds (1935)

• Memory Hold-the-Door (1940)

Of this selection, my favorite was almost certainly The Free Fishers, a vividly imagined and perfectly paced historical adventure with a nicely drawn and surprising cast of characters. “Rollicking” is the word Ursula Buchan uses to describe it in her biography. An apt word for a wonderfully fun book. A runner up would be Salute to Adventurers, an earlier, Robert Louis Stevenson-style tale set in colonial Virginia.

Rereads

I revisited fewer old favorites this season than previously, but all of those that I did were good. As usual, audiobook “reads” are marked with an asterisk.

• Casino Royale, by Ian Fleming—Subject of this blog post on Fleming’s poetic attention to rhythm.

• The Whipping Boy, by Sid Fleischman—Read aloud to the kids this time. They greatly enjoyed it.

• Masters of Atlantis, by Charles Portis*—Subject of this blog post about the petty indignities that Portis repeatedly inflicts on his characters, what the kids call “cringe humor” nowadays.

Conclusion

I’m looking forward to more good reading this fall, including working more heavy non-fiction back into my lineup as I settle into the semester. I’m also already enjoying a couple of classic rereads: Pride and Prejudice, which I’ve been reading out loud to my wife before bed since early June, and Shadi Bartsch’s new translation of the Aeneid. And, of course, there will be fiction, and plenty of it.

I hope my summer reading provides something good for y’all to read this fall. As always, thanks for reading!

Scruton on style

Last week I revisited the late Sir Roger Scruton’s Beauty: A Very Short Introduction via audiobook on my commute. It’s an excellent precis of much that is fundamental to his thinking and, true to the subtitle, a wide-ranging introduction to many topics that bear further thought. Here’s one.

From a discussion of the role proportion plays in the creation of vernacular architectures by launching the builder on “a path of discovery” to what “fits” and is “suitable” for each detail in relation to the others in Chapter 4, “Everyday Beauty”:

One result of this process of matching is a visual vocabulary: by using identical mouldings in door and window, for example, the visual match becomes easier to recognize and to accept. Another result is what is loosely described as style—the repeated use of shapes, contours, materials and so on, their adaptation to special uses, and the search for a repertoire of visual gestures.

I like the idea of a style as mastery of a discipline’s “repertoire,” the selective, purposeful use of a shared vocabulary. Scruton’s example is architectural, but he also refers throughout the book to painting, sculpture, cinema, and most especially music. My mind naturally suggested literary style, with its literal shared vocabulary and the many effects and fine shades of meaning that a firm control of English can yield.

Scruton himself raises the idea of control as a component of style in the next chapter, “Artistic Beauty”:

“True artists control their subject-matter, in order that our response to it should be their doing, not ours.”

True artists control their subject-matter, in order that our response to it should be their doing, not ours. One way of exerting this control is through style . . . Style is not exhibited only by art: indeed, as I argued in the last chapter, it is natural to us, part of the aesthetics of everyday life, through which we arrange our environment and place it in significant relation to ourselves. Flair in dressing, for example, which is not the same as an insistent originality, consists rather in the ability to turn a shared repertoire in a personal direction, so that a single character is revealed in each of them. That is what we mean by style, and by the ‘stylishness’ that comes about when style over-reaches itself and becomes the dominant factor in a person’s dress.

The tension between originality and a common vocabulary and the need for balance is an important topic and one Scruton returns to later in the book, but he continues by introducing another consideration:

Styles can resemble each other, and contain large overlapping idioms—like the styles of Haydn and Mozart or Coleridge and Wordsworth. Or they might be unique, like the style of Van Gogh, so that anyone who shares the repertoire is seen as a mere copier or pasticheur, and not as an artist with a style of his own. Our tendency to think in this way has something to do with our sense of human integrity: the unique style is one that has identified a unique human being, whose personality is entirely objectified in his work.

This passage in particular offers a lot for the writer to think about. Every writer has heroes and idols and role models, other writers whose control over their work has influenced our own technique, consciously or not. This starts young. It’s been more than twenty years since I read Stephen King’s On Writing, but I still remember and think often about this passage:

You may find yourself adopting a style you find particularly exciting, and there’s nothing wrong with that. When I read Ray Bradbury as a kid, I wrote like Ray Bradbury—everything green and wondrous and seen through a lens smeared with the grease of nostalgia. When I read James M Cain, everything I wrote came out clipped and stripped and hard-boiled. When I read Lovecraft, my prose became luxurious and Byzantine.

All of which is, for King, a crucial developmental stage in the writer’s life, one that should be refined through constant reading and writing, so that eventually one is no longer writing in imitation but in “one’s own style.”

But if you’re aware of what you’re doing and working hard at it, particularly in order to achieve a certain specific effect—so that, per Scruton, the readers’ response will be my doing, not theirs—it’s hard not to become anxious that one is working merely in pastiche or even accidental parody. Have I sacrificed my integrity to sound like someone else? Inconsistency doesn’t help. I’ve worried more about this on some projects than others. Why am I confident that I can use tricks learned from Charles Portis but not those from Cormac McCarthy? Food for thought.

I think, naturally, of John Gardner and his description of “mannered” prose, a term he’d certainly have applied to McCarthy. “Mannered” suggests artificiality or phoniness, the lack of integrity Scruton suggests above, which is how every good writer hopes not to come across. But I also think of Elmore Leonard, another author whom I’ve quoted here many times, and who worked hard to make his style the absence of style. Scruton contends that that is impossible:

Style must be perceivable: there is no such thing as hidden style. It shows itself, even if it does so in artful ways that conceal the effort and sophistication . . . At the same time, it becomes perceivable by virtue of our comparative perceptions: it involves a standing out from norms that must also be subliminally present in our perception if the stylistic idioms and departures are to be noticed. Style enables artists to allude to things that they do not state, to summon comparisons that they do not explicitly make, to place their work and its subject-matter in a context which makes every gesture significant, and so achieve the kind of concentration of meaning that we witness in Britten’s Cello Symphony or Eliot's Four Quartets.

This is exactly right, and Leonard would agree. Leonard’s style, which was precisely designed to “conceal the effort and sophistication” of his writing and make it seem effortless, was immediately recognizable because it was distinct from the “norms” described above in particular ways—something Leonard himself noted. Those “norms” or context are the broader shared vocabulary we began with—which gives shape to one’s work through contrast.

And that final sentence on what a firm, controlled, purposeful, precise style can do, using the power of allusion, implicit comparison, the subtle significance of every detail to “achieve . . . concentration of meaning”—is there a writer who wouldn’t die happy having that said of his work?

Leonard's rules: No. 7, regional dialect

I’ve written here before about Elmore Leonard’s ten rules of writing, and have for some time been mulling a series of occasional posts in which I take each rule and consider it from a few angles, adding glosses and commentary. Here’s the first, inspired by a book I read to my kids every night before bedtime last month: The Tale of Despereaux, by Kate DiCamillo.

Leonard’s seventh rule states:

“Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.”

Leonard adds:

Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apos­trophes, you won't be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavor of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories Close Range.

Leonard provides a further gloss on the rule in a 2002 interview.

Such the disappointment

I have not read any Annie Proulx, but this rule came to mind as I read Despereaux because of DiCamillo’s expertly written dialogue for Despereaux’s mother, Antoinette. Antoinette is a French mouse who has never settled comfortably into life wherever the story takes place. “Disappointment” is her watchword. Here’s Antoinette arguing with her husband Lester about Despereaux’s strangely un-mouselike behavior:

“He cannot, he simply cannot be my son,” Lester said. He clutched his whiskers with his front paws and shook his head from side to side in despair.
“Of course he is your son,” said Antoinette. “What do you mean he is not your son? This is a ridiculous statement. Why must you always make the ridiculous statements.”
“You,” said Lester. “This is your fault. The French blood in him has made him crazy.”
“C’est moi?” said Antoinette. “C’est moi? Why must it always be I who takes the blame? If your son is such the disappointment, it is as much your fault as mine.”
“Something must be done,” said Lester. He pulled on a whisker so hard that it came loose. He waved the whisker over his head. He pointed it at his wife. “He will be the end of us all,” he shouted, “sitting at the foot of a human king. Unbelievable! Unthinkable!”
“Oh, so dramatic,” said Antoinette. She held out one paw and studied her painted nails. “He is a small mouse. How much of the harm can he do?”
“If there is one thing I have learned in this world,” said Lester, “it is that mice must act like mice or else there is bound to be trouble. I will call a special meeting of the Mouse Council. Together, we will decided what must be done.”
“Oh,” said Antoinette, “you and this council of the mouse. It is a waste of the time in my opinion.”

Leonard championed the kind of dialogue that, invisibly styled—he spoke often of the “attitude” or “sound” of his writing—indicates character and action through suggestion. This is partly being able to imagine what the characters are doing—with gestures, body language, and facial expressions. Read a conversation written by Leonard, like the one I sample below, and you can see what the characters are doing just by the way they talk. Likewise with Antoinette and Lester above. The stage directions economically indicate telling gestures, gestures that only underline the attitudes the reader already picks up from the two characters’ spoken words.

The power of suggestion

I think the key word in Leonard’s rule is sparingly. He does not rule out phonetic spellings but using them sparingly means you’ll have to rely on the power of suggestion, which I think is the most important aspect of writing dialect. Reread the passage above and look for what, precisely, indicates Antoinette’s Frenchness in her speech. Here’s what sticks out to me:

• One French phrase, “C’est moi?” spoken in high dudgeon immediately after Lester draws attention to her Frenchness.

• Misplaced or unnecessary definite articles, a part of speech that differs dramatically even within related languages (disappearing entirely in others) and trips up a lot of people. Notice how consistent the misuse is—this is a verbal habit.

• More subtly, the short declarative sentences indicate someone proficient in a second language but probably still thinking in her mother tongue.

All of which suggests Antoinette’s accent and even her tone very precisely without littering her dialogue with phonetic spellings.

Counterexamples

It’s instructive to imagine how else this might have been done. Below are three samples pulled more or less at random from a few other books I’ve read. I’ll reflect on them collectively afterward.

At the time I read Despereaux to my kids I also started an old war adventure, Patrol, by Philip MacDonald, in which a squad of British troopers are ambushed in the desert. The characters are well done but broad types—the old sergeant, the Cockney, the Jew, the Scot—and their dialogue reads like this:

Brown . . . scrubbed at his lips, first with his naked forearm, then, more usefully, with a foul but at least not sand-covered handkerchief. “Thank God!” he said.
“Ah,” Morelli agreed. “An’ a gink can’t even spit. Christ! I’m dry.” . . .
“What about a swig?” Brown spoke doubtfully, feeling with tentative fingers at the string of his water-bottle cork.
“Shouldn’t,” said Morelli.
“‘Spose not.” Brown reluctantly lifted his hand back to the reins again.
Both men, on a common train of thought, turned to look behind them. There, ten yards away, rode Hale. He had no companion, but led a spare horse across whose back was a pack-saddle of curious shape: at each side of this saddle, below other cases, was strapped a long leather case like a bolster.
“We’re windy!” Morelli said.
“Oy!” called Hale. “Wot yer worryin’ abaht? Fink I’ve drunk it all!”

Later in the same chapter, the Sergeant talks to MacKay and Cook, the two Scots in the squad, as they attend to the horses:

MacKay, the nostrils done, slipped the reins of Cook’s black up over his arm, and, with both hands thus free, opened the chestnut’s mouth and scrubbed with the damp sponge at the gums and tongue and roof. . . . The horse pushed its head against the man’s shoulder, then fumbled with caressing lips at his ear.
“Ye great carrl!” said MacKay gently. He turned to Cook. “Matlow,” he said, and held out the sponge. “Ye just gi’ yon a drop out ye’ boatle.”
“Ar,” Cook said. He took the sponge, held it over the neck of the bottle, and shook water on to it.
MacKay repeated his work upon the black. When he had finished, the Sergeant spoke.
“It does brighten ‘em up,” he said.
“Ay.” MacKay took his rifle from Cook’s arm, slung it by its webbing band over his shoulder, and surveyed the two horses. They stood noticeably more alert than their fellows. Their heads hung, but not with such utter dejection. They had not, now, that appearance of being upon the point of lying in the sand. “Ay,” said MacKay again. “‘F there waur ony ither so’jers heere, horrses wud a’ be like yon.” He tilted back his topee and wiped at the sweat on his forehead with his forearm: the action showed the white hair at his temples and the radiating mesh of wrinkles about his bloodshot eyes. He added: “So they wud, too, ‘f Ah waur in charrge.”

American writers have experimented with elaborate phonetic spellings of their characters’ many dialects forever. Here’s a passage pulled at random from Norman Mailer’s 1948 novel The Naked and the Dead, in which rural Southern and urban Yankee soldiers argue:

Ridges . . . had a lively discernment of injustice toward other men and toward himself, and thought it was decidedly unfair for Goldstein and him to work more than the other pair. “Ah done the same work you done,” he would complain. “Ah went up the same river you did, an’ they ain’t no reason ‘tall why Gol’stein and me gotta be doin’ all yore work.”
“Blow it out,” Minetta shouted back.
[Sergeant] Croft had come up behind them. “What’s the matter with you men?” he demanded.
“Ain’t nothin’,” Ridges said after a pause. He gave his horsy guffaw. “Shoot, we jus’ been talkin’.” Although he was displeased with Minetta and Roth, he did not think of complaining to Croft. They were all part of the same team, and Ridges considered it heinous to complain about a man with whom he was working. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong,” he repeated.
“Listen, Minetta,” Croft said with scorn, “if you an’ Roth ain’t the meanest wo’thless shiftless pair of bastards I ever had. You men better get your finger out of your ass.” His voice, cold and perfectly enunciated, switched them like a birch branch.
Minetta, if harried enough, was capable of surprising courage. He threw down his machete, and turned on Croft. “I don’t see you working. It’s pretty goddam easy . . .” He lost all idea of what he wanted to say, and repeated, “I don’t see you working.”

Looking further back, here’s a passage from the 1923 novel Two Little Confederates, by Thomas Nelson Page, who based this story on his childhood in wartime Virginia sixty years before. Here two young white Virginians, scions of the planter class, talk to an elderly slave who has found an intruder in his cabin:

The boys could see that [a man unknown to them] was stretched out on the floor, apparently asleep, and that he was a soldier in uniform. Balla stepped inside.
“Is he dead?” asked both boys as Balla caught him by the arms, lifted him, and let him fall again limp on the floor.
“Nor, he’s dead-drunk,” said Balla picking up an empty flask. “Come on out. Let me see what I gwi’ do wid you?” he said, scratching his head.
“I know what I gwi’ do wid you. I gwi’ lock you up right whar you is.”
“Uncle Balla, s’pose he gets well, won’t he get out?”
“Ain’ I gwi’ lock him up? Dat’s good from you, who was jes’ gwi’ let ‘im out ef me an’ Frank hadn’t come up when we did.”
Willy stepped back abahsed. His heart accused him and told him the charge was true. Still he ventured one more question:
“Hadn’t you better take the hens out?”
“Nor; ‘tain’ no use to teck nuttin’ out dyah. Ef he comes to, he know we got ‘im, an’ he dyahson’ trouble nuttin’.”

Before I examine these samples, note two things: they are all realistic renderings of closely observed dialects and they all come from good books. One could find much, much more badly handled dialect elsewhere. And yet they illustrate abundantly the danger Leonard’s rule is meant to help us avoid.

So what’s the problem?

There are two basic problems with the samples above.

The first is that, as Leonard implies, dialogue written this way is next to impossible to read, especially when the dialect in question is something as foreign to the reader as a early 20th century Scots packhorse wrangler or an elderly 19th century American slave. The meaning, even the thread of the story or the import of the conversation, becomes lost as the reader puzzles out what the characters are saying.

In the case of MacDonald’s characters, perhaps the bit of dialect that works best is the simple line “What about a swig?” This is regionally distinct—an American would probably say “How about a swig” or even “You want a swig?”—but rendered directly and simply, making it easy both to read and understand. The rest of the passage overdoes it.

In the case of Page’s Uncle Balla, without getting into the politics of this kind of writing—which was immensely popular in the late 19th century but has a bad rap nowadays—even where Uncle Balla’s dialogue is an accurate representation of antebellum black dialect it is almost impenetrable, especially in that final line. How long did it take you to figure out that Uncle Balla’s dyahson’ is the word doesn’t? Page is being very careful to capture precisely how Uncle Balla speaks and—as with MacDonald’s various Brits—it kills the rhythm of the scene dead. More about rhythm later.

But that care brings me to the second, closely related problem. Look again at the passage from The Naked and the Dead. Mailer doesn’t go as far as either other writer in terms of phonetic spellings or apostrophes, but look at all the stage direction surrounding and glossing each line of dialogue. This bespeaks either a lack of confidence in the reader to perceive what is happening or a control freak concern to describe it as exactly as possible. (This is also part of the problem with over-specific dialogue tags and adverbs generally, a topic for the future.) It feels worked at, overproduced. It smells of the lamp. This is especially the case when things that have been made clear—Croft’s fury, Minetta’s sudden courage and just as sudden collapse—are elaborated upon in the narration. And there’s the further danger of contradiction: note that what I certainly read as an angry and obscene harangue from Croft is then described as “cold and perfectly enunciated,” despite including words like an’ and ain’t and wo’thless.

Whatever the reason behind it for each author, it’s this concern with absolute precision—capturing exactly how someone speaks down to the last dropped g—that all three samples have in common. As Leonard hints in his rule, the danger for writers is fussiness or overindulgence or getting lost in the effort to capture dialect this way. It can prove an inescapable trap. The danger for readers is giving up on the story.

Speech tunes

As I mentioned above, DiCamillo nails this in The Tale of Despereaux. A lot of that has to do with her skill in looking past mere accent to the rhythm of a character’s speech. Here, in his Mercer University Lamar Memorial Lectures published in 1985 as The Language of the American South, Cleanth Brooks describes how much more there is to a person’s speech than accent:

“Of course pronunciation is only one aspect of a language. Its vocabulary, its characteristic figurative expressions and sayings, its idioms and locutions, its rhythms and ‘speech tune’ are very important. They are particularly important to the writer of fiction, poetry, or plays.”

— Cleanth Brooks, The Language of the American South

“Speech tune” is apt; there is a musical quality to speech that we neglect to our peril. Look again at Brooks’s examples of elements that harmonize to create these tunes:

• Pronunciation—This is only the most noticeable and superficial aspect of a character’s speech, and is also highly variable. For some characters—like those moving between cultures—pronunciation and accent can change depending on the situation.

• Vocabulary—Here we go a layer deeper. How do a character’s words reflect their background, education, and age? What words does a character commonly use (or misuse)? How deftly do they use their words? Where did they learn them and how? How much jargon do they use? How much and what kind of slang? How much—to return to our topic—specifically regional argot?

• Characteristic figurative expressions and sayings—Going yet deeper into the foggy cultural side of a character’s speech to the shared body of proverbs, cliches, and mental pictures that characterize how or from what direction a group approaches thought and expression.

• Idioms and locutions—Here we get into style, the often unpredictable particulars of the way people use all of the previous elements together.

• Rhythms—This is the overall sound of a person’s speech and how it flows movement by movement, slowing or quicking and especially responding to the introduction of other people’s speech.

Here are a few other examples of dialect done well: three short ones to show how economical the use of suggestion can be, and three longer passages to look at how a sparing use of dialect, trusting instead to the rhythms of regional speech, can play a character’s speech tune to good effect.

Getting it right—the short version

Here’s a very short example—not even dialogue, really. In The Magician’s Nephew, by CS Lewis, the main character’s haughty Uncle Andrew, a dabbler in the black arts, meets the evil witch Jadis and is overwhelmed with her. Smitten. Here Uncle Andrew talks to himself after their encounter:

Children have one kind of silliness, as you know, and grown-ups have another kind. At this moment Uncle Andrew was beginning to be silly in a very grown-up way. Not that the Witch was no longer in the same room with him he was quickly forgetting how she had frightened him and thinking more and more of her wonderful beauty. He kept on saying to himself, “A dem fine woman, sir, a dem fine woman. A superb creature.” He had also somehow managed to forget that it was the children who had got hold of this “superb creature”: he felt as if he himself by his Magic had called her out of unknown worlds.
“Andrew my boy,” he said to himself as he looked in the glass, “you’re a devilish well preserved fellow for your age. A distinguished-looking man, sir.”

Two things I want to point out: First, note how well this passage illustrates the sparing aspect of Leonard’s advice. We have one very precisely selected phonetic spelling—how long did it take you as a kid to realize Uncle Andrew was saying damn fine woman?—that not only tells us how Uncle Andrew talks but even a little bit about his attitude. It’s not just dialogue, it’s characterization.

Further, almost as a bonus, dem fine even gives us Uncle Andrew’s oral posture—say it out loud and you’ll find yourself flaring your nostrils, pursing your lips rather preciously, and perhaps even sticking your nose in the air. You can both see and feel how he speaks, and the whole time you’re learning about the character—and laughing at him.

In this passage from Charles Portis’s Gringos, Jimmy Burns, an American expatriate from Arkansas now living in the Yucatan, talks to a Mexican friend who, though fluent in English, is drunk:

A few minutes later there was more rapping at the door. It was Nardo again. He had to brace himself with both hands against the door jambs. “I forgot to tell you something,” he said. “Did you notice I was feeling low tonight?”
“No, I thought you were in good form.”
“It was off just a little, my natural charm, you know, that everybody talks about. You must have noticed. A touch of opresión. I wanted to explain.”
“I didn’t notice anything.”
“But you already know, don’t you?”
“Know what?”
“Is there any need to explain? I think you can guess why I’m feeling low.”
“No, I can’t.”
“The yanquis took half my country in 1848.”
“They took all of mine in 1865. We can’t keep moping over it.”

Not the difference in expression between Jimmy Burns and Nardo, which clearly distinguishes them without calling attention to itself. Jimmy Burns’s speech is direct, colloquial, and simple. Nardo speaks in considerably more high-flown, periodic style, and while one might assume he has a trace of an accent he uses only two foreign words. The rest is pure suggestion—we hear this conversation accurately in our heads without a lot of phonetic spelling or apostrophes to render it exactamente.

That passage is also, you’ll note, a perfectly structured joke. One of Portis’s many skills.

Here’s another model of economy, one that I’ve shared before in reflecting on creating distinct and memorable minor characters, from Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men:

[Anton Chigurh, the novel’s main antagonist] drove down and parked in front of the [trailer park] office and went in. Yessir, the woman said.
I’m looking for Llewelyn Moss.
She studied him. Did you go up to his trailer?
Yes I did.
Well I’d say he’s at work. Did you want to leave a message?
Where does he work?
Sir I aint at liberty to give out no information about our residents.
Chigurh looked around at the little plywood office. He looked at the woman.
Where does he work.
Sir?
I said where does he work.
Did you not hear me? We cant give out no information.
A toilet flushed somewhere. A doorlatch clicked. Chigurh looked at the woman again. Then he went out and got in the Ramcharger and left.

I’ll note briefly what I noted in that previous post. We don’t get much information about Chigurh but his directness is unsettling. The lady working in the trailer park office, whom we only “see” in this passage, is economically but vividly drawn. And while McCarthy draws no attention to her dialect, we perceive it with one aint, one yessir, and careful attention to her syntax and “speech tune.” I especially admire her recognizable blend of informality and officiousness. McCarthy’s writing is full of dialect like this.

An aside on italicizing foreign words

Here’s a more minute mechanical note: Something else I picked up from McCarthy was his refusal to italicize words or speech in foreign languages. (Portis also does not italicize or otherwise draw attention to Nardo’s opresión or yanquis.) In No Country for Old Men and other novels, English and Spanish are exchanged with no typographic indication to indicate the difference.

This is matter of pure preference, I think, but I really like that. I think it more accurately depicts the way we hear each other, and I’ve also grown increasingly distrustful of any writing that is dependent on typography to be comprehensible. I haven’t gone the whole hog and given up even quotation marks yet, but I have stopped italicizing foreign speech in my own writing. For example, depending on the viewpoint character in a given passage, the German characters in Dark Full of Enemies speak untranslated and unitalicized German.

Getting it right—letting the rhythms play out

Now for the deep dive. I include these three longer samples to show how a skilled writer can bring out the rhythms of regional speech and let them play out across a scene, creating new rhythms of their own as they harmonize with the speech of other characters.

In this passage from from Chapter IV of The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald presents us with two Midwesterners—one of whom is putting on airs—and a New York Jew having a conversation over lunch:

Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.
“Highballs?” asked the head waiter.
“This is a nice restaurant here,”’ said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the Presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!”
“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.”
“Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.”
“What place is that?” I asked.
“The old Metropole.”
“The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair.
“‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’
“It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.”
“Did he go?” I asked innocently.
“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.”
“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.
“Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”
The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me:
“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, ‘‘this isn’t the man.”
“No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.
“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.”
A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table.
“Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.”
There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.
“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?”
“Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.”
Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table.
“He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.”
“Yes.”
“He’s an Oggsford man.”
“Oh!”
“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”
“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired.
“Several years,” he answered in a gratified way.

Notice how Fitzgerald makes each man’s dialect distinct enough that he doesn’t have to rely on dialogue tags to tell us who’s speaking. Carraway and Gatsby, the two Midwesterners, speak very similarly, despite Gatsby’s pretensions. Wolfshiem’s speech is the most obviously regional. (I pause here to note the usual arrogant Midwestern assumption that their English is normal English.) Fitzgerald uses more phonetic spellings here than the other writers we’ll look at, but by doing so he gives us a distinct sense of the overall tone of Wolfshiem’s speech. We intuit that his voice is deeper and throatier than Gatsby or Carraway’s. And while no one would characterize his English as broken, some of the rhythms of his speech are foreign—“It was six of us at the table” is how you would phrase that idea in German or Yiddish, not English—and this slightly more florid idiom, especially the grandiloquent circumlocutions in his remembrance of “the old Metropole,” give us a good sense of his character. This is the speech tune in action.

In this early passage from Flannery O’Connor’s short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” a family on a roadtrip stops at the Tower, a barbeque joint run by a man named Red Sammy Butts, for lunch:

“Ain’t she cute?” Red Sam’s wife said, leaning over the counter. “Would you like to come be my little girl?”
“No I certainly wouldn’t,” June Star said. “I wouldn’t live in a broken-down place like this for a minion bucks!” and she ran back to the table.
“Ain’t she cute?” the woman repeated, stretching her mouth politely.
“Arn’t you ashamed?” hissed the grandmother.
Red Sam came in and told his wife to quit lounging on the counter and hurry up with these people’s order. His khaki trousers reached just to his hip bones and his stomach hung over them like a sack of meal swaying under his shirt. He came over and sat down at a table nearby and let out a combination sigh and yodel. “You can’t win,” he said. “You can’t win,” and he wiped his sweating red face off with a gray handkerchief. “These days you don’t know who to trust,” he said. “Ain’t that the truth?”
“People are certainly not nice like they used to be,” said the grandmother.
“Two fellers come in here last week,” Red Sammy said, “driving a Chrysler. It was a old beat-up car but it was a good one and these boys looked all right to me. Said they worked at the mill and you know I let them fellers charge the gas they bought? Now why did I do that?”
“Because you’re a good man!” the grandmother said at once.
“Yes’m, I suppose so,” Red Sam said as if he were struck with this answer.
His wife brought the orders, carrying the five plates all at once without a tray, two in each hand and one balanced on her arm. “It isn’t a soul in this green world of God’s that you can trust,” she said. “And I don’t count nobody out of that, not nobody,” she repeated, looking at Red Sammy.
“Did you read about that criminal, The Misfit, that’s escaped?” asked the grandmother.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t attact this place right here,” said the woman. “If he hears about it being here, I wouldn’t be none surprised to see him. If he hears it’s two cent in the cash register, I wouldn’t be a tall surprised if he . . .”
“That’ll do,” Red Sam said. “Go bring these people their Co’-Colas,” and the woman went off to get the rest of the order.
“A good man is hard to find,” Red Sammy said. “Everything is getting terrible. I remember the day you could go off and leave your screen door unlatched. Not no more.”
He and the grandmother discussed better times.

O’Connor’s dialect is always good, and here we see her introducing multiple layers of character—class most obviously but generation throughout—through the way each character speaks. Everyone in this scene is “a Southerner,” but notice how different each is, how vividly we can picture all of them, and how clearly we can hear. This in spite of O’Connor’s very spare use of a few dialect words—Co’-Cola, attact, fellers. This is owing to her attention to the differing rhythms of each character’s speech. Look back at Red Sammy’s wife’s dialogue in particular, and compare it to the prim and proper eluction of the grandmother.

You can listen to O’Connor herself read this story here. Listen to the whole thing, and pay close attention to how natural the dialogue sounds as O’Connor—whose accent reminds me a great deal of my late grandmother, an Athens native—reads it.

Finally, it would be bad form to work through some examples of this rule in action without looking at what Leonard himself does with it. Here’s a longish chunk from the opening chapter of his crime novel Freaky Deaky. Members of the Detroit PD bomb squad have been called to the home of Booker, a lowlife gangster, who has been told there is a bomb in his armchair that will explode if he stands up. (Language warning for those concerned.)

Chris said most of the squad was out on a run, picking up illegal fireworks, but there was another guy coming, Jerry Baker. Chris said, “You know what today is?” And waited for the guy from Narcotics to say no, what? “It’s my last day on the Bomb Squad. Next week I get transferred out.” He waited again.
The guy from Narcotics said, “Yeah, is that right?”
He didn’t get it.
“It’s the last time I’ll ever have to handle a bomb, if that’s what we have, and hope to Christ I don’t make a mistake.”
The guy still didn’t get it. He said, “Well, that’s what Booker says it is. He gets up, it blows up. What kind of bomb is that?”
“I won’t know till I look at it,” Chris said.
“Booker says it’s the fucking Italians,” the guy from Narcotics said, “trying to tell him something. It makes sense, otherwise why not shoot the fucker? Like we know Booker’s done guys we find out at Metro in long-term parking. Guy’s in the trunk of his car, two in the back of the head. Booker’s a bad fucking dude, man. If there was such a thing as justice in the world we’d leave his ass sitting there, let him work it out.”
Chris said, “Get your people out of the house. When my partner gets here, don’t stop and chat, okay? I’ll let you know if we need Fire or EMS, or if we have to evacuate the houses next door. Now where’s Booker?”
The guy from Narcotics took Chris down the hall toward the back of the house, saying, “Wait’ll you see what [Booker] did to the library. Looks like a fucking tent.”
It did. Green-and-white striped parachute cloth was draped on four sides from the center point of the high ceiling to the top of the walls. The Jacuzzi bubbled in the middle of the room, a border of green tile around it. Booker sat beyond the sunken bath in his green leather wingback. He was holding on to the round arms, clutching them, his fingers spread open. Behind him, French doors opened onto a backyard patio.
“I been waiting,” Booker said. “You know how long I been waiting on your? I don’t know where anybody’s at, I been calling—you see Juicy Mouth?”
“Who’s Juicy Mouth?”
“Suppose to be guarding my body. Man, I got to go the toilet.”
Chris walked up to him, looking at the base of the chair. “Tell me what the woman said on the phone.”
“Was the bitch suppose to be in love with me.”
“What’d she tell you?”
“Say I get up I’m blown up.”
“That’s all?”
“Is that all? Man, that’s final, that’s all there is all, nothing else.”
Chris said, “Yeah, but do you believe it?”
“Asshole, you expect me to stand up and find out?”
Chris was wearing a beige tweed sportcoat, an old one with sagging pockets. He brought a Mini-Mag flashlight out of the left side pocket, went down flat on the floor and played the light beam into the four-inch clearance beneath the chair. The space was empty. He came to his knees, placed the Mini-Mag on the floor, brought a stainless Spyder-Co lockback pocketknife from the right side pocket and flicked open the short blade with one hand in a quick, practiced motion.
Booker said, “Hey,” pushing back in the chair.
“Cover yourself,” Chris said. “I don’t want to cut anything off by mistake.”
“Man, be careful there,” Booker said, bringing his hands off the chair arms to bunch the skirts of the robe between his bare legs, up tight against his crotch.
“You feel anything under you?”
“When I sat down it felt… like, different.”
Chris slit open the facing of the seat cushion, held the edges apart and looked in. He said, “Hmmmmm.”
Booker said, “What you mean hmmmmm? Don’t give me no hmmmmm shit. What’s in there?”
Chris looked up at Booker and said, “Ten sticks of dynamite.”
Booker was clutching the chair arms again, his body upright, stiff, telling Chris, “Get that shit out from under me, man. Get it out, get it out of there!”
Chris said, “Somebody doesn’t like you, Booker. Two sticks would’ve been plenty.”

There are only three characters here but each has an utterly distinct attitude, even “the guy from Narcotics” who we won’t see again. As with the sample from O’Connor above, there’s a lot going on here—with the added layers of race and whether or not one is on the right side of the law, Chris being a white cop and Booker being a black gangster—and though Leonard tells us one or two of these things we really get to know them through the dialogue. Notice how little actual narration or exposition or even dialogue tags there are, and yet we understand these characters and can even hear them.

You can see Leonard himself read the whole first chapter here.

What all three of the above excerpts have in common:

• Minimal and precisely applied phonetic spelling.

• Careful attention to syntax and rhythm.

• Use of dialogue not only for characterization but for action

Building on Leonard’s rule

As I’ve said before, one of the things I appreciate about Leonard’s ten rules is his frequent emphasis that they are his rules and may not work for others. In fact, there are several that I take exception to. In the original article in which he published his ten rules he even provides examples of writers who “break” some of his rules but do so with excellent results—but not this one.

This is perhaps the one of the ten that I agree with most strongly. Having thought a lot about dialect in fictional speech, both before and after discovering Leonard’s rules, let me offer my elaborations or glosses on this one:

• Use dialect-specific words judiciously, selecting them for maximum impact rather than sprinkling them in randomly.

• Ditto foreign words used in English. Don’t settle for oui oui or si, Señor or jawohl or nyet! Make meaningful choices about which native words your character will still use—especially if they slip into them when emotional.

• Use context to make regionalisms or dialect words clear. Even if a given word or expression is unknown to the reader, he should be able to infer the meaning from the context.

• Keep phonetic spelling to a minimum, using it always to suggest a broader pattern that you don’t render.

• Pay more attention to syntax and rhythm than accent. Render the “speech tune” properly with standard spelling and the reader’s imagination will supply the accent.

And, finally, for the sake of flexibility and adaptability:

• However you choose to render regional speech, be consistent.

Suggested exercises

Here are two possible exercises for working out the mechanics of regional dialect and finding your own best way to render it.

• Watch a movie with strong regional dialect and transcribe the dialogue twice. First, do it as exactly as possible, with phonetic spellings, apostrophes for dropped letters—the works. Then, transcribe it using those features as sparingly as possible while still preserving what Brooks calls the “speech tune” or Leonard calls the “flavor” of the dialect. I’d suggest any of the Coen brothers’ movies, but perhaps start with Raising Arizona, Fargo, O Brother, Where Art Thou? or The Big Lebowski, all of which have very specific and very carefully observed regional speech. An alternative might be any of the slew of Boston-based crime movies of the last fifteen years.

• A second possible exercise, and probably the better of the two, is field work. Wherever you live, go to the places the locals—that is, people who have always lived there—hang out. Restaurants, especially non-chain restaurants serving regional cooking (see Red Sam’s barbeque joint above), are your best bet. Talk to people, but most especially listen. Listen to your waitress, to the kitchen staff (in a real local dive you’ll certainly hear them), and especially to the other customers. But don’t just listen for accent, listen through the accent for the components of each individual’s speech tune as described by Brooks above. Later try to write as much of what you heard as you can remember (being able to hear and remember dialect is a key part of developing an ear for it) without using phonetic spellings.

Conclusion

It should be obvious by this point that dialect is a topic I care a lot about. Perhaps too much. But if you’ve stuck with me this far, I hope you’ve found this deep dive into the topic helpful. Dialect is a powerful tool for fiction writers and getting it right will strengthen your characters, your work generally, and your readers’ enjoyment.

If you’d like to see how I’ve tried to practice what I’m preaching here, I’ve written two novels set in the modern era. The aforementioned Dark Full of Enemies is my earliest serious experiment with some of what I set out here, and my Civil War novel Griswoldville is the book I worked hardest on in this regard. I hope you’ll check them out, and certainly you should check out the books I’ve sampled above. There’s more good writing where those came from.

Thanks for reading!