Paper Houses by Noble Dust
Picture this: Old Man Gunta but hes a boy. He gets off his shift at the paper mill at 8. Walks home in the heat and waits for his mother at their shanty. She comes home at 10. Dirty, covered in grime.
Where does she work? Sylvie asks.
I dont know, a factory or something. So little man Gunta is waiting for his dinner, and all the while hes making little paper houses from the scraps he smuggles home in his crotch. Simple houses you know; he cant choose the colors because he cant sit around deciding which colors of paper to steal. He has to snag them quick. So the houses are all a tapestry of colors and textures.
So how come he doesnt make them like that now? Im too old for your stories!
Shut up and listen, Im almost done. So he builds the houses while mom cooks, and then they eat, and once theyre done eating he takes the scraps, the bread crusts and the fish bones, and makes little dinners that he sets on little paper tables in the paper houses. But there arent any paper people to sit and eat dinner. So he just sits and watches and imagines them being there, and imagines them eating their dinner.
What a sad life. Sylvie frowns.
Why sad if its all he knows? Maybe it makes him happy.
Sounds lonely.
Stevies eyes drop down and she passes her hand through her hair.
I guess so.
Her eyes wander over to the old man across the brick lane. He sits in his usual spot, yards away from the docks. The stone table and chair seem like trees grown out of the modern asphalt. The paper house hes building is a gorgeous shade of mauve. The edges of each wall are expertly pinched into little crimps that cause the walls to gently puff out, giving the illusion of having been built from the large, rough stone of the surrounding houses in the village. Next to the purple house is a shed made from roughly ripped strips of lime green parchment. The way theyre patched together gives the appearance of coarse, unsanded cypress wood, a splinter hazard to imagined hands. The contrast of Old Man Guntas skilled realism and his flamboyant color choices hits Stevie with more force than usual. She feels like crying and she doesnt know why.
Stevie, you look lonely too. Sylvies pubescent voice pitches more loudly than she intends, and she snickers with embarrassment. Stevie looks at her. She finds herself stumbling through the cellar of her feelings like a drunk.
Its summer, she mutters. The heat makes me sleepy and all the men are at sea all day. Im bored.
You dream one of them will kiss you on the pier. With fishy-tasting lips. Sylvies amber eyes flash with rehearsed gravitas.
What would you know about that? Stevie snaps. Youre just a child. Sylvie grins in triumph.
Whats his name again? Guranto? What kind of a name is that? her teenaged laughter becomes an unhinged cackle. Stevie turns and walks away, away from her teasing sister and away from Old Man Gunta and away from his paper house across the brick lane.
Gabor, clean up this mess you made at the table, the girls will be home for dinner any minute.
Styna stirs soup. The pristine reek of the days catch in the pot fills the little white house. Gabor slowly wanders from the back room, pulling up a fresh pair of pants. He walks to the kitchen sink and begins cleaning the remaining fish grime from his hands. Styna smacks his wrist with the ladle.
Now youll make me wash the dishes twice! She rasps.
Gabor shrugs and pulls a jug of white wine from the ice box by the side door. He pours it into a stone jar and sits at the stone table in the middle of the kitchen. The jar sits on the table like the lone leaf of a dying tree. The table sprouts up from the barren soil of the red clay kitchen floor. He drains half the jar. His hands stray to the cherry stems and pits strewn across the table and he begins arranging them into patterns.
Gado said no fish today. Other than this, and a little for the market.
Gabor says nothing. He puts two pits at the base of one stem.
Sun is shining. Too much wind? She asks.
Mmm. Maybe. He drinks deeply from the jar. The afternoon breeze billows through the open windows of the stone house. The rosemary plant above the sink waves back and forth and Styna picks some extra and tosses it in the soup. The wooden ladle scrapes against the stone pot. The sound is sharp in Gabors ears and he drinks again. Styna looks at him and the jug on the table.
When will the girls be back to school? Two weeks, isnt it? Her voice pitches higher. Gabor grunts. His eyes wander to her figure. Her earthy shape seems softened in the glow of white wine. He manages to catch her eye and smiles sleepily. She looks away.
Get some bowls and spoons, Gabor. And theres bread in the pantry. Her voice is crystalline. She uses his name. He stares at her a moment more and then resigns to the task. Styna looks out the window above the sink and sees Stevie walking towards the house, and Sylvie running not far behind. She waves her hand almost desperately.
Gabor half-finishes setting the table and calls Sylvie over to him. He slowly sits down on the stone chair and pulls her onto his lap. The sweet smell of wine mixes with hints of fish guts still clinging to his person. She feels the heat of his stoney legs underneath hers.
Did I ever tell you the story of how your grandpap built this house?
She smiles at him nervously. No, papi.
No, eh? Your sister loves it. Its the story that made her love stories, it did.
He holds the wine jar to her lips. She sips timidly. He pulls it back dramatically and gives her a look of mock horror. She giggles and he grins.
Your grandpap liked wine too. He used to say to me what his grandpap said to him. They say the wine from our island tastes like sunlight. Its golden like the sun, aye. See? He pours some wine on the stone tabletop as if to show its color. It dribbles to the floor. Styna hears the sound but remains hovering over the stovetop.
Now. Old Goleize your grandpapi, he built this house from the stone of the giants. In ancient times they cut the old land up into pieces like your mother cutting garlic. They made the islands. Then they lived on those islands and cut em up more into little bits like your ol papi cleaning a fish, see. Little bits of the island carved out like flesh of an olive scooped off from the pit. His hand traces down her spine to her thigh. So your old grandpapi, he found the stones in the quarry, stones the old giants made. An he made this house from the stones. The same ones. The giants shaped em perfectly, crimped off the edges so they all fit together just nice. Did all the work for him. And he built the house. Just so. He sweeps his hand across the dingy kitchen as if its an amphitheater. Sylvies eyes are wide and shes held in the spell of the story, momentarily a girl again. But not quite a woman yet either. Gabor smiles, gently grabs her buttocks and shoves her off his lap. She grins sheepishly.
I didnt know that story papi. Shes a different person with papi than with anyone else.
Its an important story.
Yes, and now I know it. She runs to the back room where her sister is finishing cleaning herself up. Stevie has been listening by the door.
At dinner, conversation crescendos with the flow of wine, but Stevies thoughts collapse on themselves and she remains silent, her jar untouched.
Old Man Gunta stares at the days work in front of him. The mauve and green paper form a partial rainbow with the rust and peach of the setting sun. A sea breeze stirs the flaps of the houses roof and the green shed nearly blows away. His chiseled hand slowly reaches out to steady it with the seamless muscle memory of a fisherman pulling a line. The shed remains complete. He stares at his work as the light fades, sitting completely still. He sits there a long time. Dusk settles in. Dusk turns to dark. Still he sits. The rustle of feet stir him, and in a few moments he sees a young woman out of the corner of his left eye. He says nothing. She walks up, her gaze downcast.
Old Man Gunta, Stevie breathes. He smiles faintly but otherwise remains still. He sits there quietly and she stands there quietly. After a while she sits on the ground diagonally across from him to his left. She places her arms around her knees and her gaze remains on the ground.
Old Man Gunta always Ive wondered why you build the paper houses. Theyre so beautiful. He grins and nods gently.
Beautiful, yes. He seems very pleased. He looks down at her calmly. His eyes are the eyes of a child. She meets his gaze and feels an unbridgeable gulf between the two of them. He is missing many teeth, but his smile is stunningly beautiful. She realizes his beauty is the beauty of a painting. The love that swells in her heart for this old man is the same thats always been there, but now it has a name, a form. And yet it feels distant now.
Your houses are beautiful, yes. I like them very much. Each one is so different. His grin widens impossibly.
Different, each one. He nods triumphantly. Stevie feels sobs welling up inside her lungs. Words fall out of her mouth like a drunk falling down stairs.
Id like to live in one of your houses. Her voice cracks. The sound causes Old Man Gunta to stare at her a moment. He leans down as if telling her a secret. I live in them. Each one. Theyre my houses. He smiles at her. He opens the little paper door to the purple house as if to welcome her inside. Stevie covers her face and sobs. Old Man Gunta just sits there. After a while, her sobs die down. They sit together in silence by the sea.
Where does she work? Sylvie asks.
I dont know, a factory or something. So little man Gunta is waiting for his dinner, and all the while hes making little paper houses from the scraps he smuggles home in his crotch. Simple houses you know; he cant choose the colors because he cant sit around deciding which colors of paper to steal. He has to snag them quick. So the houses are all a tapestry of colors and textures.
So how come he doesnt make them like that now? Im too old for your stories!
Shut up and listen, Im almost done. So he builds the houses while mom cooks, and then they eat, and once theyre done eating he takes the scraps, the bread crusts and the fish bones, and makes little dinners that he sets on little paper tables in the paper houses. But there arent any paper people to sit and eat dinner. So he just sits and watches and imagines them being there, and imagines them eating their dinner.
What a sad life. Sylvie frowns.
Why sad if its all he knows? Maybe it makes him happy.
Sounds lonely.
Stevies eyes drop down and she passes her hand through her hair.
I guess so.
Her eyes wander over to the old man across the brick lane. He sits in his usual spot, yards away from the docks. The stone table and chair seem like trees grown out of the modern asphalt. The paper house hes building is a gorgeous shade of mauve. The edges of each wall are expertly pinched into little crimps that cause the walls to gently puff out, giving the illusion of having been built from the large, rough stone of the surrounding houses in the village. Next to the purple house is a shed made from roughly ripped strips of lime green parchment. The way theyre patched together gives the appearance of coarse, unsanded cypress wood, a splinter hazard to imagined hands. The contrast of Old Man Guntas skilled realism and his flamboyant color choices hits Stevie with more force than usual. She feels like crying and she doesnt know why.
Stevie, you look lonely too. Sylvies pubescent voice pitches more loudly than she intends, and she snickers with embarrassment. Stevie looks at her. She finds herself stumbling through the cellar of her feelings like a drunk.
Its summer, she mutters. The heat makes me sleepy and all the men are at sea all day. Im bored.
You dream one of them will kiss you on the pier. With fishy-tasting lips. Sylvies amber eyes flash with rehearsed gravitas.
What would you know about that? Stevie snaps. Youre just a child. Sylvie grins in triumph.
Whats his name again? Guranto? What kind of a name is that? her teenaged laughter becomes an unhinged cackle. Stevie turns and walks away, away from her teasing sister and away from Old Man Gunta and away from his paper house across the brick lane.
Gabor, clean up this mess you made at the table, the girls will be home for dinner any minute.
Styna stirs soup. The pristine reek of the days catch in the pot fills the little white house. Gabor slowly wanders from the back room, pulling up a fresh pair of pants. He walks to the kitchen sink and begins cleaning the remaining fish grime from his hands. Styna smacks his wrist with the ladle.
Now youll make me wash the dishes twice! She rasps.
Gabor shrugs and pulls a jug of white wine from the ice box by the side door. He pours it into a stone jar and sits at the stone table in the middle of the kitchen. The jar sits on the table like the lone leaf of a dying tree. The table sprouts up from the barren soil of the red clay kitchen floor. He drains half the jar. His hands stray to the cherry stems and pits strewn across the table and he begins arranging them into patterns.
Gado said no fish today. Other than this, and a little for the market.
Gabor says nothing. He puts two pits at the base of one stem.
Sun is shining. Too much wind? She asks.
Mmm. Maybe. He drinks deeply from the jar. The afternoon breeze billows through the open windows of the stone house. The rosemary plant above the sink waves back and forth and Styna picks some extra and tosses it in the soup. The wooden ladle scrapes against the stone pot. The sound is sharp in Gabors ears and he drinks again. Styna looks at him and the jug on the table.
When will the girls be back to school? Two weeks, isnt it? Her voice pitches higher. Gabor grunts. His eyes wander to her figure. Her earthy shape seems softened in the glow of white wine. He manages to catch her eye and smiles sleepily. She looks away.
Get some bowls and spoons, Gabor. And theres bread in the pantry. Her voice is crystalline. She uses his name. He stares at her a moment more and then resigns to the task. Styna looks out the window above the sink and sees Stevie walking towards the house, and Sylvie running not far behind. She waves her hand almost desperately.
Gabor half-finishes setting the table and calls Sylvie over to him. He slowly sits down on the stone chair and pulls her onto his lap. The sweet smell of wine mixes with hints of fish guts still clinging to his person. She feels the heat of his stoney legs underneath hers.
Did I ever tell you the story of how your grandpap built this house?
She smiles at him nervously. No, papi.
No, eh? Your sister loves it. Its the story that made her love stories, it did.
He holds the wine jar to her lips. She sips timidly. He pulls it back dramatically and gives her a look of mock horror. She giggles and he grins.
Your grandpap liked wine too. He used to say to me what his grandpap said to him. They say the wine from our island tastes like sunlight. Its golden like the sun, aye. See? He pours some wine on the stone tabletop as if to show its color. It dribbles to the floor. Styna hears the sound but remains hovering over the stovetop.
Now. Old Goleize your grandpapi, he built this house from the stone of the giants. In ancient times they cut the old land up into pieces like your mother cutting garlic. They made the islands. Then they lived on those islands and cut em up more into little bits like your ol papi cleaning a fish, see. Little bits of the island carved out like flesh of an olive scooped off from the pit. His hand traces down her spine to her thigh. So your old grandpapi, he found the stones in the quarry, stones the old giants made. An he made this house from the stones. The same ones. The giants shaped em perfectly, crimped off the edges so they all fit together just nice. Did all the work for him. And he built the house. Just so. He sweeps his hand across the dingy kitchen as if its an amphitheater. Sylvies eyes are wide and shes held in the spell of the story, momentarily a girl again. But not quite a woman yet either. Gabor smiles, gently grabs her buttocks and shoves her off his lap. She grins sheepishly.
I didnt know that story papi. Shes a different person with papi than with anyone else.
Its an important story.
Yes, and now I know it. She runs to the back room where her sister is finishing cleaning herself up. Stevie has been listening by the door.
At dinner, conversation crescendos with the flow of wine, but Stevies thoughts collapse on themselves and she remains silent, her jar untouched.
Old Man Gunta stares at the days work in front of him. The mauve and green paper form a partial rainbow with the rust and peach of the setting sun. A sea breeze stirs the flaps of the houses roof and the green shed nearly blows away. His chiseled hand slowly reaches out to steady it with the seamless muscle memory of a fisherman pulling a line. The shed remains complete. He stares at his work as the light fades, sitting completely still. He sits there a long time. Dusk settles in. Dusk turns to dark. Still he sits. The rustle of feet stir him, and in a few moments he sees a young woman out of the corner of his left eye. He says nothing. She walks up, her gaze downcast.
Old Man Gunta, Stevie breathes. He smiles faintly but otherwise remains still. He sits there quietly and she stands there quietly. After a while she sits on the ground diagonally across from him to his left. She places her arms around her knees and her gaze remains on the ground.
Old Man Gunta always Ive wondered why you build the paper houses. Theyre so beautiful. He grins and nods gently.
Beautiful, yes. He seems very pleased. He looks down at her calmly. His eyes are the eyes of a child. She meets his gaze and feels an unbridgeable gulf between the two of them. He is missing many teeth, but his smile is stunningly beautiful. She realizes his beauty is the beauty of a painting. The love that swells in her heart for this old man is the same thats always been there, but now it has a name, a form. And yet it feels distant now.
Your houses are beautiful, yes. I like them very much. Each one is so different. His grin widens impossibly.
Different, each one. He nods triumphantly. Stevie feels sobs welling up inside her lungs. Words fall out of her mouth like a drunk falling down stairs.
Id like to live in one of your houses. Her voice cracks. The sound causes Old Man Gunta to stare at her a moment. He leans down as if telling her a secret. I live in them. Each one. Theyre my houses. He smiles at her. He opens the little paper door to the purple house as if to welcome her inside. Stevie covers her face and sobs. Old Man Gunta just sits there. After a while, her sobs die down. They sit together in silence by the sea.
Comments (80)
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The first part is actually good. I like when homeless people are also included in a story. Also, the irony of making paper houses but living in the street is a clever move, honestly.
A heartbreaking story. It is sad, but this is not necessarily a negative aspect. It might be the intention of the authorvery clever in developing a great character such as Old Man Gunta and his paper houses. Yet it makes me wonder why the last paper is house is mauve coloured. If you pay attention to the details of this story, there are metaphors and poetic meanings. For example'the wine tastes like the sunlight.' But I can't get why the last house is mauve when at the beginning of the story the narrator claimed that Old Man Gunta didn't have the chance to select colours.
I liked it. Good job, dear author. But I wish your story could have had more spaces...
I read this last night. Twice. And still don't know what to make of it, or where to start.
OK. Paper Houses. Suggests structures easily torn or blown away, real or unreal. Where people or families live, real or unreal. Figments of imagination or showing the temporary nature of any material reality. Life as a story.
The narrator asks the reader and Sylvie to imagine 'Old Man Gunta' (whoever he is) as a boy. A story of the past; a hot, hard and poor life. The boy has put in his shift at the paper mill and waits a couple of hours for his Mum to finish her shift in a 'factory or something'. This is when he makes little paper houses from smuggled bits of paper, a rainbow of colours and textures. He creates a tapestry.
Sylvie is curious and asks why Gunta doesn't make them like that any more. Moans that she is too old to listen to such stories. Told to shut up. The story is not over. We realise that the paper houses must be quite big. They are able to hold food scraps, the dinners set on paper tables for people, existing only in the imagination.
Sylvie thinks this sounds sad and lonely. But perhaps he is happy. Who knows? Ignorance is bliss?
Who is the narrator and what is the relationship? It seems close enough to engage in a little philosophical exchange. Perhaps a grandparent?
It concerns her and: Quoting Noble Dust
She looks over the brick lane to an old man. It seems this is present day, Gunta. The author presents a fascinating description of the setting, 'yards away from the docks'. We are in a village by the sea and yet, everything is hard and stony, industrialised:
Quoting Noble Dust
The Old Man is clever and skilled. And so he should be, with all the decades of practice. But the subject matter is still the same. And he is still watching and imagining the residents. Is this why Sylvie feels like crying. Is she fated to live here until she is old with no growth or development?
A pubescent Sylvie buts in, observing Stevie's loneliness. There is sisterly teasing, Stevie being the elder. About heat and missing the fisher men. Dreaming of future love. With Guranto. A strange name.
Quoting Noble Dust
Interesting, the mention of stumbling like a drunk. Feelings kept in a dark place. Will alcohol play a part in the story. Addiction is often the case for youngsters in villages with nothing to do or see. And also for hard workers at the end of the day. The boredom, loneliness and weary bones need something...
To stimulate or numb the senses. The adolescent sexual frustration is palpable.
End of Part 1.
***
Part 2
Introducing Gabor and Styna. Stevie and Sylvie, their small children. A small family in a 'little white house'. Is this real or imagined? I can't help but think of the paper houses built by Gunta.
Gabor, the father, has an air of sensuality and wickedness about him. A hard drinker. Suggestions of unwanted attention and seductive power:
Quoting Noble Dust
Quoting Noble Dust
Quoting Noble Dust
Addicts to tales and drink. To brighten the days.
And so he tells the stories of the generations. Is this a ruse to have young flesh pressed near?
Quoting Noble Dust
Quoting Noble Dust
Her older sister has been listening. She has heard all this before. Felt the same hands. She is troubled:
Quoting Noble Dust
***
Part 3.
Stevie and Old Man Gunta.
This scene is softer and sad, in a strange way, a meeting of minds. With great descriptions and dialogue of the silent kind. No words necessary. Still and gentle. Talking about the paper houses.
Quoting Noble Dust
There is an appreciation of beauty, love and creativity between them.
Quoting Noble Dust
His eyes and voice are those of child, simple and innocent. A beautiful smile, even with missing teeth.
Stevie wants to escape. To be like that and away from the debased drunken stories.
The author ends with the careful touch of an artist:
Quoting Noble Dust
***
Thank you for making this story. A magical mix of the real and unreal. It took me a while to engage but the characters, setting and senses will stay with me. There is more to this than I have been able to comprehend. I hope to hear what you have to say and how you were inspired. Deeply appreciative :flower: :sparkle:
IMO, and as you can see from my comments, this story is actually fine to read. It just takes time and patience. I also note that this has not required editing by @fdrake as he has done other stories, following discussion re spacing. :sparkle:
https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/comment/954324
https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/comment/954333
This is a very good story. My comment was more related to my own taste. The reading is not impossible, but I still believe that it would be more fluent if the author would have used the paragraphs a bit more.
On the other hand, I think it would be fine if we could leave out the formatting debate. Furthermore, the author of this story would be bothered if we discussed more about paragraphs than the story itself.
somewhere nearby, however, there is or was modern industry ; a paper mill and factories maybe. the young storyteller is so hazy about those things, she may have made them up.
she has imagination. the old man who makes paper houses has imagination. he always did - at least in stevie's story of his life - but he never got off the island. he lives in a self-created fantasy world, where there is more colour, beauty and possibility than his actual surroundings. this sets them apart from the down-to-earth villagers and leaves him very lonely. in stevie, he finds a kindred spirit.
wonderful story, beautifully told.
And I can sense what's behind the words, though the way it's written makes it hard to understand who's who and their relation. We jump straight into dialogue by some unknown speaker in which we are also required to notice one character being called two different things and before we know the ones speaking are two sisters looking out at the old man. This leads to unnecessary decoding that gets in the way of sensing the emotional core of what's going on.
As an example, having the beginning instead be...
...and then we get into the dialogue. That way we get more grounded in the situation before delving into the character of Gunta.
The descriptive parts also become a bit odd.
I understand it's a telling story of giants who created the lands, but the descriptions are so odd for the image of islands as I don't know how cutting the old land corresponds to cutting garlic. There's no apparent visual or emotional correspondence between giants cutting land into islands and cutting garlic. If it were a cake or bread being cut to pieces that's more on point with a large bit being separated into smaller chunks. Why was the image of cutting garlic chosen as the likeness? And then cutting those islands into smaller bits doesn't really correlate with cleaning a fish as what I see is guts and intestines while that likeness is then overruled by both a correlation between the flesh of the fish and an olive in a likeness that still doesn't fully work for describing the mythological idea of giants creating the land and material that are now used for houses.
I sense there's some meaning to these descriptive choices, and maybe there's some cultural significance, but without any other context they end up being a bit nonsensical.
And some even felt unintentionally going in a wrong direction.
and
This might have come down to a translation issue. Describing what's happening, but unintentionally choosing words and actions that makes the actions unnecessarily sexual in an inappropriate way, which I don't think was the point in that scene.
----
Overall, I think there's a good story in there, but it suffers from how its written and makes the notion of "good story well told" not end up with the "well told" part.
Sorry to sound overly negative, but I'm afraid this one didn't work for me, and needed to bring some constructive criticism to the table.
I didn't change the stories that seemed like the paragraph spacing was a strong style choice. Upon a cursory read anyway.
Likewise. This is not a confrontation.
Quoting javi2541997
No intention of discussing format. I responded to your feedback. And that was related to the story.
I'm not opposed to a creative flair of abstract descriptions and choice of language, but I feel a story needs to have a consistent style aesthetic throughout and have some sense of logic to descriptions and abstractions. Otherwise it becomes borderline experimental, without appearing to aim for being experimental. Like, the other story "Nude Descending A Staircase" is very abstract and experimental, but keeps the reader grounded into what is going on so that the abstractions and vivid imagery gets the center stage.
If instead the decoding of the text, because of confusion, gets most attention, then I cannot engage with the creativity underneath since the abstractions and beauty of the intentions get obscured by that roughness.
I understand this most likely is a language barrier of sorts, but even so, the overall structure of how the story is told is confusing in a way that doesn't feel intentional.
I think the setting and characters are interesting, but the craft of how its presented requires a lot of work to get that to the front of the stage.
probably so. i choose to call it quaint.
I agree this part is difficult to follow. I had to re-read this part a few times thinking a mistake had been made in the name. We need to read further on before we see the relationship. Perhaps that is
intentional. Not telling the reader everything at once. To feel the way and discover. I don't mind that. It keeps me alert and questioning.
Quoting Noble Dust [my bolds]
Quoting Christoffer
It didn't get in my way. The emotional experiences are drawn out bit by bit.
Quoting Christoffer
It is a likeness that the children can relate to. It's a simple story being told by a simple man, not a literary giant of an author.
Quoting Christoffer
It might not correlate for you but it is for the eyes of the children. He is almost making a food tableau using what is available to show. To give an idea.
Quoting Christoffer
I see the context as a simple one. It makes sense to the story teller and the children are entertained.
Quoting Christoffer
I think it intentional. And very much to the point. He has sex on his mind. The author hints at it earlier, the pattern he made with the 2 cherry stones at the base of the stem. Also, this:
Quoting Noble Dust
His wife looks away. He has been drinking and is lusty.
Quoting Christoffer
Constructive criticism is fine. And if it didn't work for you, that too is also fine. We interpret the story differently. It's good to discuss - no need to apologise.
Yes. It is funny. The different ways we engage with a story. And what we look for.
I read it comfortably. Any 'roughness' is of the rustic kind. As you say 'charming' and 'quaint' up to a point where, for me, there is an underlying threat, from Gabor. Probably wrong.
The creativity is right there, up front.
Quoting Christoffer
What kind of 'language barrier' are you talking about?
The structure is in 3 parts. The story might confuse you. It did me a little to start with but no great obstacle to my overall enjoyment. I've tried to show that the parts you think unintentional are indeed the very opposite. At least, that is my understanding. I hope the author can enlighten us all :sparkle:
A simple man wouldn't make a likeness description that's more in need of abstract thinking than necessary. I think a simple man would rather do the opposite. If garlic is so important, then cutting garlic doesn't even correlate to cutting large chunks of land, there's no link between the two actions. It would then have been better to maybe describe it as "cut the land into pieces that floated around on the waters like the garlic in your mother's stew". Both the reader and simple men understand that description.
A simple man who's capable of painting a story in descriptive language would still use a logic to how its described. Otherwise people tell stories without descriptions at all, merely telling of the giants cutting the land into pieces "that became the islands".
I've heard real oral stories from simple and poor working class people and the best of them are both vivid and logical in their structure since these simple men have by repetition of trial and error through generations formed the same skills of storytelling as the great writers.
I'm not really buying the explanation of the character being a simple man justifies the odd descriptive language he uses, especially since the story outside his own feature similar odd use of storytelling.
Quoting Amity
And it can be done, as long as it has some logic to it. Like using bread for cutting up the land and instead of gutting the fish talk about the "bendy bones from the fish making up the trees raising from the stone" or something like that. It's not bad to use the food metaphors, but the way its told makes little sense as descriptive language.
The characters status or age doesn't matter for making the prose flow for a reader. It also doesn't matter for making it consistent with their world, it can still do both and should do both.
Like, there's a Swedish writer (Ajvide Lindqvist) who wrote the book that "Let the right one in" was based on. He wrote another novel in which one of ensemble characters was a dog. This dog was written with the context of being a dog, the sentences were shorter and more to the point, it emulated the thought process of an idea of how a dog processed the world and events around him. But they still flowed and were logical for the reader. It wasn't "woof woof woof" just because he was a dog.
The language can be weird and odd, but it needs to flow with some logic for the reader, otherwise it becomes a noise of abstract oddities that gets in the way of actual characterization of the people it's about, getting in the way of the actual story and meaning and heart that's supposed to be at the forefront.
Quoting Amity
If so, then why? Why is the scene portrayed as rather being a "good time" between Gabor and Sylvie? It just comes off as an unresolved disgusting aspect of a scene that seems supposed to rather be about a father telling a mythological story about how the land was formed by giants.
If it was Sylvie who asked Gunta to live in his paper house, then I would understand her wanting to flee away from her current life, but when writing something like It just becomes appalling with no resolution.
Now it's just describing it without anything but dwelling in the implications. What's the point?
Quoting Amity
I'm thinking the author isn't native to English because the use of language seems to have gone through direct translation without a change in meaning of certain sentences.
I also found the descriptions charming.
I dont understand the reason for Stevies sadness. Just loneliness? It isnt clear to me that Old Man Gunta is a pitiable character.
Sylvie doesn't know any better. There are hints of nervousness and sheepishness. She is held in the spell of the story. Her elder sister has been there before and is watchful: Quoting Noble Dust
She will not touch alcohol. Why? Is she pregnant or just disgusted at the idea of being drunk, like her father?
Quoting Christoffer
It is Stevie who wants to escape and we can imagine why.
Sylvie doesn't, as yet, want to flee. She is attracted to her father because he makes her feel special.
We can ask in what way does she act 'different'.
I can imagine a sexual tension - frustration and abuse - in that whole family. Perhaps I am wrong but, for me, it seems obvious. Gabor is not a good man. He is a drunk who can be charming to suit his own ends. That's my take. FWIW. Possibly way off skew...
Do you have an example of such a sentence?
Yes, but the story does not paint things in this manner until basically a one sentence description of Stevie listening in. The entire story is not setting anything of this up in any way, it comes out of the blue with a flair of playfulness making it more disgusting in its portrayal than in the actual story. The prose is clumsy in that way, making the story go in all sorts of directions and all of a sudden there's implications of a father sexually abusing his children, without any reaction from the mother to any of that behavior. She reacts more to the wine splat on the table than the father touching Sylvie in inappropriate ways.
It's not a good portrayal of it and makes for odd character behaviors that feel unnatural. There's more setup for the soup than the sexual abuse and the mother just disappears from the equation.
Quoting Amity
Like reads like an idiom not in the English language. , a very strange sentence overall and use of an oxymoron "pristine reek" that doesn't make sense. what is an earthy shape, maybe it's supposed to be "grounded" or "robust"? How does words fall like a drunk down stairs? What am I supposed to imagine while reading that? doesn't read very well and feels like a direct translation. very choppy flow. for imagined hands? feels more translated than a logical use of repeating dusk.
The sentences largely stem from overly literal descriptions, awkward repetitions, or disjointed phrasing that seems to lack the nuance and fluidity of native English writing. So it feels like they've been written in another language and then translated without the nuance of changing into a proper flow of the English language. Even without being a native English speaker myself, I find these structures odd and lacking in flow. But I can sense that there's some linguistic structural tendencies that seem to fit some other language, but what language, I don't know. I could be wrong, but if so, then the author need to consider serious rewriting of the text to fine tune the flow and sentence structure.
Thank you. I could offer further interpretation to answer questions of behaviour. However, I've spent too much time on this story. I have others to read.
Always valuable to hear another perspective. Best :sparkle:
I think youre right. I must have read it too quickly or something and got the girls confused. I thought it was Stevie on her fathers lap, and her reactions made that part seem innocent, and they were innocent, because Sylvie was still innocent.
Not sure it matters who was on his lap. Having a hard time seeing anything innocent about that situation.
i meant the odd wording. there may be a threat of domestic violence, but i doubt it would be anything remarkable in the circs.
Quoting praxis
not belonging where she is but despair of ever being able to leave. just like the old man. gunta had resigned himself to living by the same dock in his toy houses; stevie's sure that she has nothing more exciting to look forward to than marrying - quite soon; she's the older sister - an uncouth fisherman like their father.
I don't know if you saw my subsequent post and agreement with Amity's take on the probable cause of Stevie's melancholia.
In the end, Stevie tells Old Gunta, Id like to live in one of your houses. I think there's a suggestion that Gunta's houses are fashioned after the houses of the town, which may suggest that she's not displeased with the town and its houses, but that she wants to get away from her house, the house where her father lives.
my impression is that they're nothing like the stone village in which they actually live; they're fantasy houses and her wish is a hopeless desire for escape.
we'll have to wait for the author to tell us.
Stevie and the old man both know the harshness of life on the island -- made even harsher by the 'hard' stone home (that is most likely devoid of fresh air and sun).
The paper houses offer gentleness, beauty, and the breeze and sun shining through.
Quoting Noble Dust
The appreciation of beauty in life can make a person cry. She is at the age where she is beginning to recognize her own desires.
Good job!
[i]The edges of each wall are expertly pinched into little crimps that cause the walls to gently puff out, giving the illusion of having been built from the large, rough stone of the surrounding houses in the village.
this house from the stones. The same ones. The giants shaped em perfectly, crimped off the edges so they all fit together just nice.[/i]
Old Man Guntas houses are more colorful, maybe representing a happier life, a life without poverty or sexual abuse.
It explains Stevie's mood/behavior but she is also still open and vulnerable enough to approach and connect with Gunta, an old toothless man, and appreciate his paper house.
Definitely feels like there is nowhere for Stevie to escape to. She can't live in her own house nor a rainbow colored paper one.
Yes. She has connected with Gunta's spirit and creativity from the beginning. Admiring his paper houses from afar. The final section and sentence of this story moves me every time. [*]
Quoting Nils Loc
It seems like that. She doesn't want to turn to stone and be stuck there forever. To become hard and unfeeling, part of the landscape. The paper houses are beautiful but flimsy and can be blown away.
Perhaps, there will be a middle way. The end being the start of a new chapter...even if only in our imagination...but I'm happy to leave it there...a forever image.
***
[*] As a reminder:
Quoting Noble Dust
This is so special. The connection, the understanding between them. Kindred spirits. As one.
The author shows great sensitivity and a magical touch. I adore this. :sparkle:
I like this take. There is a meditation for us in the two houses, of stone and paper and what they might represent. Gunta's creative art, beautiful though insubstantial, insufficient by the measure of Stevie's needs, paper against stone, may convey an means/art to escape from the uncomfortable reality of poverty, abuse, provincial limitation, boredom, the hard brute stuff we all deal with and can relate to at various levels. Stevie can empathize with figure Gunta, who Sylvie has commented lives a "sad life".
Thanks for your literary sleuthing and enthusiasm for really getting into the work and giving authors respect they deserve for all their hard work. It really helps us to reconsider what we might overlook from impatient/hasty casual readings.
Quoting Nils Loc
Indeed. It seems that art and creativity are often the means by which people escape, physically or mentally, from difficult life conditions. Or in simple everyday life, we can be inspired, lifted by a single idea, word or image.
Quoting Nils Loc
Oh. Thank you. I don't know what to say, except I appreciate this recognition.
Respect for authors is at the heart of why I do this. I wonder at their process and try to figure things out. What they are trying to say. For me, it needs to be done slowly. It is of mutual benefit. A good all round stimulating meditation! :cool:
Stevie will be a writer! :flower:
The whole setting of the house and the meal, very provincial, like some of the stories of life in my home country in during the great depression. There are allusions of inappropriate sexuality, but they seem a part of the whole setting, poor, nothing to do, alcohol as the only friend, a marriage that does not sparkle, fishermen who are gone...
Gunta is of course the pivotal character. It is a story about escape. Stevie wants to. Gunta found a way, but it is a conditional escape, he escapes into his own world into the houses he makes. Stevie feels double about it. She found a kindred spirit in him a deep recognition of his ability to craft the world. Were he a lot younger... they would probably love each other. She has the sensation that is common when you fall in love, you see the beauty in the other, and the flaws become trifles. She sees it in his toothless smile. She realizes they cannot love each other though. She cannot 'make a house/home' with him, he is old, the houses are beautiful, but paper. There is an inseparable gulf. No real escape, but she longs for his world. I was very touched by the story. Thank you dear writer.
As for the interpretation, I like Amity's take on it. My favourite parts were the beginning and the end, but I had trouble finding the significance of the plot in the middle. I do really like the paper houses idea, but I need to stew more on it and maybe reread.
One thing I'm quite sure of is the grabbing the buttocks bit is intentionally disturbing and not, again, an issue of the writer not knowing what they're writing. I see the writer as fully in control throughout and unusual choices of words is a better option stylistically in my book than boring the reader with cliches.
Me neither, it added to the atmosphere of the storytelling and also gave a nice insight into the rather drunk Gabor. Still mulling over the hints of incest and what role they play. The use of papi by the way is very Latin American adding to the mix and mash of worlds I liked so much in the story.
I think the reason it doesnt work for me is because theres no reason for it being a shock revelation. If its indeed written as intended, then I dont think it works as intended. Its not really handled with the care such a beat requires. Stevie witnessing this is the main connection to her ending with the paper houses, but its not given care to tell anything of her reactions other than a single short line of a vague reaction by the end. It needed to be clear that Stevie listened in on the whole thing from the start, more reactions to Gabor telling the story. The paragraph or chapter even starts without a clear geography of where Stevie went. We read that Stevie and Sylvie comes home (outside) and then theres no mention of Stevie, she could be anywhere and we dont even know of shes been listening the whole time or just the end. Its written in isolated chunks that do not really interconnect in order to progress ideas and events between scenes.
So what we get are events with no build-up in which we are unable to have a clear picture of whats going on. An event about a working class father who tells a mythological story to his child all of a sudden turns to tell about sexual abuse out of the blue. His horny behavior towards his wife is not a setup to how he treats Sylvie, and the narrative becomes this disjointed line of events that makes unnecessary U-turns that doesnt fit the characters developed.
What happens then is that the reader is robbed of a sense of understanding about the characters. We lose the ability to trust the narrative to tell us the story as were blocked from seeing enough details to get emotionally in line with whats going on. The scenes become unnecessarily confusing and the sexual abuse gets played out in a way that could be interpreted as something good or innocent rather than what its supposed to be. Theres no reaction from the wife whatsoever, not even a description of discomfort. Is she in on it, is she ok with Gabor behaving like this?
Basically its underwritten to the point the interpretation risk obscuring what the author intended. And a story with such serious aspects and subject matter require better care in its portrayal and structure in order to tell the story thats sensed underneath. Otherwise the scene with Gabor making sexually inappropriate actions against Sylvie comes off as not disgusting within the context of the story, but in the context of sloppy portrayal of such a subject matter.
In the end, that scene stained the entire thing in a way I dont think was intended. There were so many other things that were good in this, but the sexual abuse and the way it was handled took away the enjoyment of the rest. Stevie could easily just have the same will to live in the paper houses if by the sheer volume of the living conditions of this port, with their father merely being a drunk and it would have worked just as good or better. Including the sexual abuse demands better writing of such a scene and plot point, with reactions and reflections surrounding it to be more clear and not just for shock value. The wife needs to be involved more with reactions, we need to know Stevie listenes in from the beginning and get some reactions before we fully understand whats going on.
Its not working in its storytelling if this is the intended structure of events and character behaviors and reactions. I hope that explains my critique better.
I don't think any of the characters consider the father's behaviour abusive or shocking. This is not taking place in our sanitized modern world; it's a very restricted yet less inhibited way of life.
The wife simply turns her back; the older daughter stands by, the younger one enjoys the attention. This is standard procedure in their houshold. Probably in their village. It may go no further than casual grabbing and fondling; the girls don't act frightened or upset.
However, Stevie is acutely aware that she has nothing more to look forward to than a life exactly like her mother's - marriage to a crude fisherman, rough sex, childbearing, drudgery, insignificance.
But the old man who makes the paper houses didn't abuse, or even fondle anybody. He just sits there, doing his solitary art.
If I got it mixed up, it may have been because the lack of spacing made it hard to read. Also, I haven't been sleeping much for the last couple of weeks, which is why I am struggling to read all these stories on my phone. They actually show up as white writing on a black screen, and I don't know how to alter that. I am need to try to limit myself to one story a day in order to concentrate properly...
On a third reading, it seems to me the old man - yes, very possibly child-like - may be the only innocent in this rough village, and that's what draws Stevie to him.
While not crazy about the father's name, I do appreciate that the names seem to be taken randomly from various cultures, so that the national identity of the village is obscure.
Very much in agreement with Vera here, which is part of what made the story so good. There is no hint of 'matter out of place'. It is as it is. Therefore Stevie finds it so empty.
You continue to make great points. About names and identity. It has a weird sense of being everywhere and nowhere. A dream world of imagination.
I agree about the simplicity and gentleness of Gunta.
Quoting Noble Dust
Quoting Noble Dust
Echolalia. His repetition of Stevie's words 'Beautiful' and 'Different'. That is who he is.
Quoting Christoffer
Quoting Baden
Quoting Tobias
The examples offered:
Quoting Christoffer
I find the examples offered do not convince me that the author has any difficulty using words in a most imaginative and creative way. This is poetry. And it is beautifully expressed.
There is no need for a rewrite. Serious, or otherwise. Have you considered that it is not the fault of the author. Perhaps, your ears play a discordant tune. You are not in harmony.
Perhaps, it is just a matter of taste. For you, it is not a positive aesthetic experience.
Or that it's just purple prose. The jar sits on the table like the lone leaf of a dying tree." What does this mean? Metaphors and evocative descriptions requires interconnectivity that has some logic, but what does a lone leaf on a dying tree have to do with the jar on the table? A descriptive language that use metaphors that doesn't connect to the subtext of what's being told leads to misunderstandings and an inability to grasp what's actually being said.
But to explain further, the metaphor appears out of a flow order. If we take the full paragraph of the first thing I noted, and go through the beats:
Gabor shrugs and pulls a jug of white wine from the ice box by the side door. He pours it into a stone jar and sits at the stone table in the middle of the kitchen. The jar sits on the table like the lone leaf of a dying tree. The table sprouts up from the barren soil of the red clay kitchen floor. He drains half the jar. His hands stray to the cherry stems and pits strewn across the table and he begins arranging them into patterns.
The actions here have a choppy chain of events, he pulls a jug of wine, he pours the wine into a jar. But he doesn't set it on the table, it already sits there (?), then the table sprouts from the barren soil, then he drains half the jar - There's no sense of any flow of the actions being taken while using metaphorical descriptions spliced in rather randomly. So the events that happens becomes confusing, requiring re-reads in order to fully grasp what's happening, on top of trying to decode metaphorical descriptions that doesn't really have any interconnectivity to what's being described.
That segment almost looks backwards or jumbled in a chaotic order. Going by the last sentence in that paragraph, the metaphorical descriptions feels like a stream from his consciousness of experiencing the scene. So if I re-arrange the order of sentences in the paragraph it instead ends up looking like this:
Gabor shrugs and pulls a jug of white wine from the ice box by the side door. He pours it into a stone jar and sits down at the stone table in the middle of the kitchen. It sprouts up from the barren soil of the red clay kitchen floor. His hands stray to the cherry stems and pits strewn across the table and he begins arranging them into patterns. He drains half the jar and sets it down on the table. The jar resting there, like the lone leaf of a dying tree.
So when you point out: Quoting Amity
I'm wondering, if we're honestly looking at the original paragraph, and the re-arranged order and flow, what works best? It's this odd order of things that gets in the way of experiencing the harmony and poetic flow for me. The image of the jar on the table like a dying leaf is the punchline of the metaphorical description. Whatever it signifies, that's the most powerful point of this paragraph, but it's just spliced in the middle before we even get an idea of the table resembling something that have grown out of the clay.
To say that this doesn't need any rewrites is I think a disservice to the author. I think there's a beautiful language here that is hindered by odd order structures and phrasings that with a rewrite would flow much better. It would also then build up to the darker stuff underneath in a way that doesn't feel coming out of the blue in a way that's neither poetic or really in good sync with the rest of the story. Sometimes on point in descriptive language, sometimes out of order, sometimes choppy and sometimes oddly and jarringly abrupt.
Quoting Purple prose - Wiki
This is not an example of purple prose. It is not 'overly ornate' nor does it disrupt by drawing attention. There is a creative interconnectivity of nature.
Quoting Christoffer
He is a man of stone:
Quoting Noble Dust
Living in a stone house. The life is hard and unchanging. The introduction of nature with its changing seasons shows the contrast. That single, middle sentence is the pivotal point in the paragraph. At least, that's how I read it. There are other ways...
Quoting Christoffer
It is the logic of poetry and mental associations.
There is a juxtaposition. Stone and paper. The paper-like quality of a dead leaf. The Paper Houses. The choice of living a grey, unthinking existence v a colourful, creative one.
Quoting Christoffer
The original.
Quoting Christoffer
Who is it that is doing the author a disservice?
But none of that has to do with the re-arranged order of actions that I described. Giving the punchline point of the metaphorical language the final beat of the paragraph raises its meaning better.
The logic of poetry isn't hindered or obscured by having a better flow of the same metaphorical descriptions.
Just as in my original feedback, I raised the issue with just crashing into a dialogue that has no sense of place, with characters that aren't defined and the reader getting confused as to what is going on. And by just re-arranging the order of things, letting the reader beginning in the more descriptive setting before Sylvie and Stevie start their dialogue, we can land in a better flow.
Quoting Amity
Why?
Quoting Amity
So giving this feedback is a disservice? How do one improve as a writer? I didn't find this story that well written, but I see the potential and the poetry in it and it's a bit frustrating to see and spot the issues that stand in the way of its full potential. Not pointing those issues out as a reader is a disservice to the author when the author now has a clear way to get real feedback on their story.
And getting feedback is so rare. It's hard even getting feedback from friends and family, and here we get the honesty of strangers. It's invaluable reactions to us all who want to write. I'm not sure why you call that a disservice?
No. Your feedback is welcome. It has made me think deeply about the story.
You provide a useful service.
The disservice I was referring to is about not giving the author the benefit of the doubt. Your insistence that it is a language or translation problem. A language barrier.
Quoting Christoffer
I think its place in the middle is better than at the end.
I've already abandoned that notion, but it was triggered by the weird paragraph structures, the choppy repetitions of actions that didn't flow in and out of each other, the descriptions appearing in a scrambled order not on the emphasized punchline they seemingly lead up to (as in the "jar" example").
Quoting Amity
I think it's too choppy. Each action reads like a point-list rather than a movement through the scene. And to also describe why it feels odd in language, bear with me, because this deconstruction is important in order to understand why I felt the feedback is necessary and why I'm asking you why you think the first version is better. It also describes in detail what I think doesn't work with the structure of the story:
Quoting Christoffer
- It's written in present tense, he pulls the jug, he pours the wine into a stone jar, but he's already sitting at the table? Isn't it supposed to be "He pours it into a stone jar and sits down at the stone table in the middle of the kitchen? Right now it's described as him already sitting down, even though he's pulling the jug and then walking to the table to sit down. It jacks me out of the flow trying to figure out the order of actions being done and what is happening.
Quoting Christoffer
- Did he pour the jar and set it on the table, but not the jug? If he poured it before going to the table, then how is the jar sitting there rather than him putting it down on the table? And if he poured the jug into the jar and put it on the table as well, then the jar isn't alone on the table as per the metaphorical description. The action is basically to pour the wine, walk to the table and put it down, or sit down and put it down on the table. But the choppy actions of pulling the jug, period. Pour the wine into a jar, period. Already sitting down at the table, period. The jar already sitting on the table etc. makes for a very odd experience reading it that I find odd if it's intentional.
Quoting Christoffer
- This description comes after the jar, rather than naturally after mentioning the table. So we go from sitting at the table, then the jar sitting on the table, then we describe the table. Why jumping back and forth like that instead of describing the table after mentioning the table so that it flows naturally between the mentioning and the description of it?
Quoting Christoffer
- This is the first mention of the cherry stems and pits on the table. Up until now, we only know "he'd made a mess on the table" without any notion of what that mess is. So why is this action here and not in the beginning of the chapter, right when his wife comments on the mess he's made? And more so, this "mess" seems to be interlinked with the metaphor about the lone leaf that the jar looks like on the table among the cherry stems. Why would the stone jar look like that on a stone table (we haven't read about the cherry stems yet, it's just stone on stone)? Without knowing about the cherry stems and "mess" on the table before that metaphorical description, it makes little sense and we need to circle back and read the paragraph again to understand how it all connects.
As I mentioned, this paragraph felt so out of order and I would really like to know the intentions, if there are any, for why it's structured the way it is. If we look at the rewritten version, in which I've not really changed the sentences outside the necessary:
Quoting Christoffer
Gabor pulls the wine and pours it into the stone jar before sitting down at the stone table. Then follows the description of mentioned table, flowing between the two sentences. His actions of straying his hand to the cherry stems also connects to the table, going from sitting down at it, describing it then the straying hand on the cherry stems laying on it, establishing the stems there before returning to the jar that he drinks from and sets back on the table where we go into the metaphorical description of how it looks among the cherry stems.
Instead of jumping all around the scene we let the mind wander between each part of the paragraph more naturally, the jug to the jar, to the table, back to the jar again. Instead of the jug to the jar to the table to the jar to the table to the jar again and then back at the table like a mental table tennis match.
We avoid having choppy sentences all beginning with:
Quoting Christoffer
If I were to rewrite it further:
Gabor shrugs and pulls a jug of white wine from an ice box by the side door. He pours up a stone jar before sitting down at the table which sprouts up from the barren soil of the red clay kitchen floor. His hand stray across the table surface, to the cherry stems and pits strewn across it, arranging them into patterns. He snatches the jar and drains down half of it before placing it back on the table, resting it there like a lone leaf of a dying cherry tree.
I have a hard time feeling the poetry if the text is out of order and with most sentences beginning with He pours, The thing does, He does, The table sprouts, He drains, His hands stray etc.
That feels like a point list rather than a flow of poetic prose. I see no real intention for the text being as it is as the issues I'm raising here have nothing to do with the metaphors and the meaning beneath the story. Instead it's about how the odd structure makes these metaphors and poetry miss their mark and meaning in all the deciphering of what is going on with simple actions and beats of the story.
There's no poetry in getting lost in a simple action of someone sitting down drinking wine. It just distracts from the metaphors at display and maybe that's why I felt the metaphors didn't work, because the relations were scrambled up by the disjointed portrayal of the basic actions that the character makes.
1. Is fine. To sit at. Is fine. The sentence shows movement to a destination or state of being.
I drift past your words and sit at the table, head in hands.
It shows his habitual humdrum life.
2. Is wonderful. There is poetic imagery. The connection is between nature. Clay has many meanings.
https://www.oed.com/dictionary/clay_n?tl=true&tab=meaning_and_use
As material:
The jar is clay. The stone table grows from clay. There is death and growth.
Man as Clay. Material v Spirit. Earthly or Earthy.
Quoting Noble Dust
Earthy relates to earth, mother earth and all she bears. The shape soft and natural. Born to give birth. Linked to sex.
3. Is fine. It is simple. It is a return to sequential movement. But this time, he has slowed into a meditative state. Stray and strewn. Thoughts creating in the moment, what lies beneath.
Quoting Christoffer
For me, there is no contest. The original wins every time.
This is not the issue. The meaning isn't erased by improving the flow of the writing. I don't know why you think the idea of "clay" is an issue here? Where did I even hint at that?
I don't know why you're focusing on that when that isn't the issues I brought up??
Quoting Amity
There is no contest here, I didn't write it to make a contest. I made the example to show the issues in flow, the reason why it felt odd in language and why it is hard to get the writing.
The meaning and the metaphors are not the problem, it's that the text has to be decoded in its basic grammar and form before even getting to the metaphors and meaning.
The basics of understanding what is going on in sentence to sentence gets messed up in a way that I wouldn't call poetic.
Poetry is not just about the meaning and imagery, it's also about the flow of text, the lyrical movement and how the mind of the reader flows with the text. This is what I felt while reading, it doesn't flow, it jumps around, I need to re-read not to grasp the meaning but to understand even the most basic geographical change of the characters and their actions before even getting to think on the meaning.
We just have to agree to disagree about this story, I see that there's no way I am able to change the perspective here. But I sure hope that the author takes note and not just gets wrapped up in praise, because there's no problem with the underlying story, the meaning, the metaphor or poetic sensibility, it's just that the writing fails to convey that intention in a way that makes me really get into it. I don't think that's the intention and I don't think a rewrite that improves that flow and structure will remove any of it, rather the opposite, focus it all on the things that matter, the meaning and poetry much better.
I think I've said enough to convey all the feedback that can be said on this story. I hope the author takes it the right way and don't think it's in any way dismissing the story itself, it just needs more work in the writing of that story.
Yes, but I think not so much in this story. Or at least its meaning is not as positive as this reading. The 'earth' here is 'barren' as in 'barren soil'. The figure of the wife is 'earthy', which gives images of plumpness, worn with time. The houses are strong, but joyless. The clay here and the earth are immovable, persistent, durable yet dry, overbearing. Contrast that with the paper houses of old man Gunta. They are paper, but light, kind, roomy, colorful. Earth here has a more ancient Aristotelian connection as 'matter', nothing in itself, needing to be formed, but resistant to it. Your interpretation is relatively young. I feel the story relates to an older, more dark interpretation of matter.
It was more than a 'notion' to you. So, what made you abandon your fixed stance on the story's alleged 'language barrier'? When?
I think @Baden and @Tobias helped by making positive comments about the use of language and metaphors. Perhaps, it was when @fdrake was speculated to be the author? Until then, you would not listen. No matter. You are still intent on changing the story to suit your idea of improvement.
You asked for opinion as to what was best. Your re-arrangement or the original. I gave it:
Quoting Amity
'No contest' is an informal way to say what is best.
Quoting Christoffer
Yes. You gave your perspective and I gave mine.
Quoting Christoffer
It isn't an 'issue', it is part of my interpretation. Right or wrong.
The author speaks in a way that is attractive to me. The voice is unique and original. It stands out.
You turn it into a form to suit your taste. Fair enough. But, for me, it is not an improvement.
Quoting Christoffer
This is not praise for the sake of praise. I have expressed my thoughts and feelings as well as I can.
The fact that I disagree with you is of no real consequence. We are both entitled to our views.
The story remains beautiful and touching. Thought-provoking. Thank you, dear writer. :sparkle:
Yes, I agree. Nevertheless, there is a sense of growth. From the cherry stones to a blossoming tree, producing fruit - to a dying tree. Either temporary - as in autumn - or permanent - as in final death. People are born, they live, they die. It's the cycle or circle of life.[*]
Quoting Tobias
Paper also comes from wood, from trees. There is, or was, a paper mill in the village. I can't recall.
Will have to return. Is it a village that once thrived and is now fallen? Dying or near death.
What chance Stevie? Is she to be the young earth woman? To continue the cycle or will she break the chain, the pattern her father is making on the table.
Quoting Noble Dust
If she is pregnant, then breaking free from village constraints would be a major challenge for her.
Interesting to bring Aristotle into the discussion. My interpretation goes back to the Bible.
To the myth of creation.
Quoting OED - Clay, meanings
Thought-provoking :sparkle:
[*]
Edit: Worth considering the Tree of Life.
from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tree_of_life
This is a new perspective for me. Would you care to explain further?
This story keeps on giving...
It was the initial explanation I had for why the structure of sentences were strung together in such an odd order. I don't think that's an odd initial impression, since others noticed similar things. When examining closer I saw that it's primarily a lack in prose flow and that it's describing actions and events in such an odd order that the reader gets unnecessarily confused about simple plot points that doesn't seem to have a logical reason to be obscured. By the comments, people get confused a lot about rather simple plot points; Which girl is who? Why was Stevie sad? Is the scene with Gabor meant to be innocent or disgusting? etc. These kinds of plot confusions have nothing to do with metaphors or the meaning of the world building, they stem from a lack of clarity in writing the simple story beats. There's no poetry in that lack of clarity, it's just oddly structured English that tells the story in a broken way that makes things confusing.
So to have the initial impression that this seems written and translated from a language in which the grammar structures or ways of stringing together actions and meaning is I would say the more respectable interpretation, since different languages are structured in ways that form meaning in different linguistic ways, but if translated they might form coherent sentences, but the overall structure gets scrambled. Because if it's not, then it's simply not written well and that's actually a tougher feedback to give.
So I really don't understand the obsession on arguing for why the language translation issue interpretation is worse since it foundationally opens up to the fact that the author might be really good in their own language and that it's just the translation that caused issues. That's just a technical thing that can easily be dismissed if confirmed. But if not that, if it's about not being able to convey a flowing and functioning prose, then that is a bigger issue to feedback on. Then we're really getting into sensitive points about lacking in prose writing.
I really don't get why the notion of a language barrier or translation issue aggravate some to this extent. It's such a minor technicality. Sure, it can make a text hard to fully grasp, but it's still just a technical thing obscuring real talent.
Quoting Amity
No, I showed an example of why the writing doesn't work. It's no different from when any writing teacher deconstructs someone's writing and feedback on what is problematic. The author can ignore everything I say if they don't agree.
Quoting Amity
Sure, that's your opinion. Going by most reactions, there's still a lot of confusion that seem to stem from the way it's written and that's what I've feedbacked on. Just because you like how it is doesn't mean it's universally accepted as good writing, especially when more than me found the writing odd in ways that doesn't feel intended. It breaks many structural formats for writing prose and it doesn't feel like it's done so in an intended way. I could be wrong, but if so, then why is it like this? Going by the amount of first drafts I've read, this reads like a first draft with no polish. So I hope my feedback might help with any further rewrites.
Quoting Amity
But you're also aggressively defending the author against any critical feedback. To the point I think isn't helpful if the author wants to grow as a writer.
For me that's frustrating to see as I agree with you on there being a metaphorical and interesting story in this. But I simply don't think the writing is there yet, it's not finished, it's unpolished and needs more work. It's choppy in structure, it doesn't establish details before reflecting on them, making the read difficult in a way that distracts from engaging with the story, world building, and metaphors.
I really can't see why such distraction is a good thing? And I'm not sure that is something the author really wants. I suspect the author wants the reader to be immersed in the story, the world and the metaphorical poetry and not struggle with getting a basic understanding of the events and actions being taken by the characters; having to re-read over and over just to get a sense of the scene that plays out. I'm really struggling to understand why you think this unusual sentence structure is helpful? It's not about the metaphors on nature, that has nothing to do with the structure of the writing. In my rewritten examples, I didn't change a word of the metaphors for nature or removed any details of descriptions. I changed it to flow better by connecting the metaphors and descriptions to flow in and out better. No metaphors or descriptions were lost, only the events and actions became clearer in their causality, so that the important stuff gets more attention.
I think you are defending the wrong thing. Nothing of the substance of the story, the world building, the meanings and metaphors are things I object to or criticize. I criticize the way it's written, because the way its written obscures so much of the good in this story. It's a frustrating read because the potential gets scrambled in unpolished prose, and that's what I'm feedbacking on here.
Are you referring to things like Hylomorphism?
:lol: This. Coming from you. Hilarious. :rofl:
I don't think me trying to further explain what I mean is definable as obsession. You're the one who keeps challenging it or misunderstands what I'm saying to an almost obsessive level of defensive animosity. So you like it, fine, but I think I've demonstrated why people seem to get confused by this story. My aim with my feedback is just to figure out the issues in order to help the writer, if the author doesn't need or care about that, it's up to them really.
Just breathe. Let it go :pray:
I'm a bit under the weather right now, but will respond to comments more directly at some point. Hopefully today/tomorrow. Really I'm just being lazy. But I do have a bit of brain fog from sinus pressure.
Congratulations, ND!! :clap: :flower:
Wow, you are such an incredibly versatile writer. Hope you feel better soon.
Time to rest up and enjoy the New Year break. May it bring all you wish for.
Take care! :pray: :flower:
Was Stevie being molested?
The plot, characters, and rest of the story are awesome. I like how you used metaphors. It reminds me of Kawabata and some Japanese writers. I know you are a great musician, so I now understand why you like to use them; like everything is flowing around with a rhythm.
Please, do not think that your story is poorly written or is a bit rough, because it isn't. The crank got obsessed with the way you wrote it, and I guess he plainly missed the point.
Now I regret posting my opinion in the first place, because it was just a trivial matter rather than quality!
I think it is a complete mistake to rant on metaphors or writing straight while you are receiving inspiration. In my honest opinion, this is a great artistic way of expression, and only a few are brave enough to make it out; you are not guilty if people could be that obtuse.
Quoting javi2541997
The story opens with Stevie telling Sylvie an imagined origin story of how Old Man Gunta came to be. Think of it as fan fiction. I realize in hindsight this was not clear at all; I believe @Christoffer and maybe one other person mentioned being confused at the beginning. But anyway, he didn't have a chance to select colours in Stevie's imagined origin story of him (as a child), but in reality he was able to (as an adult). This isn't important; I only bring it up to clarify about the story within the story at the beginning. I suppose Amity got it though:
Quoting Amity
But as we all know, she is likely in the top 0.1% in reading comprehension skills on the planet. :razz: So we can't take her reading as an average, sadly.
Quoting Vera Mont
I like this interpretation. :cheer: I'm glad you enjoyed it, Vera.
Thanks for your criticisms. I'm not even an aspiring fiction writer; I don't even know if I could call it a hobby, so I totally get that my writing can be hard to parse through as I don't write stories regularly, and am more prone to poetry and songwriting, when it comes to the creative use of language. I'm a native English speaker, but maybe your sense of that comes from the fact that I'm more comfortable using poetic language than writing prose.
I will say that in general, the writing process for this story was very free flowing and sort of improvisational. I didn't have any narrative in mind when I started; I just had the image of Old Man Gunta making paper houses by the docks, and the notion of a young woman telling the story to her sister just kind of happened, and I followed from there, and built out the little world as I went. In terms of revising and editing, I mostly left this impressionistic narrative that formed intact. The hints of alcohol and sexual abuse and Stevie's desire to get away, to change her reality, were not premeditated, but came naturally out of the flow of writing. In hindsight, I think Stevie is unconsciously autobiographical in certain ways. Yet so is Gabor. And Old Man Gunta.
I'll continue in more posts. I really don't want to just make a bunch of really long posts in a row responding to comments as it feels self-indulgent, so I'll try to keep it tight. But I'm not good at that. :razz: The free flowing ideas will continue...
Quoting Amity
This was my intention with the odd similes such as "like your mother cutting garlic", yes. But:
Quoting Christoffer
This is a fair point.
Quoting Amity
To clarify, the hints at sexual inappropriateness were intentional, yes.
I think my reading confusion got its answer here. I sensed that it felt like a first draft through the free writing nature of the text. Its usually how it looks for everyone, even experienced writers. Getting the elements out, figuring out the characters, world, metaphors etc.
Its ok if you want to leave it as is, but I think theres a lot of good stuff here that is in need of some polish and restructuring that would make it much more powerful. So Id say dont leave this in the drawer, theres more potential in this. But its up to you if you want to make more passes on it.
I don't have much to contribute to the debate on these pages, I think both sides are right. Many of the phrasings and metaphors do seem awkward, but in a way I ultimately found pleasing. I don't perceive them as mistakes of a novice writer, but rather as choices of a skilled and somewhat idiosyncratic one. I wonder if @Christoffer's objections stem, at least in part, from him not being a native speaker. The examples here[reply=";954455"] I see as good, or at the very least reasonable, writing in a poetic register. But I do think Christoffer does make good points, that there are areas where things could be rearranged so that there is less confusion and backtracking done by the reader. Something made it take me three times to get through this, and I'm not sure it was entirely a "me problem".
I think I agree that a rewrite could really make this shine, but as it stands it is already quite excellent, and unique. It sometimes felt like I was reading a fable. And as @Vera Mont says, it transports you to a totally different place. I'm curious @Noble Dust, was this taken from a place you have visited? Or, what inspired the location?
Quoting Christoffer
While maybe a little awkward and not my favorite of the bunch, it does effectively suggest privation. On the kitchen table was a jar of wine, and nothing more.
Quoting Christoffer
While a literal oxymoron, these two words together conjured a vivid blast of fresh fishiness that may be an offensive "reek" to those not accustomed.
Quoting Christoffer
Yeah, to me it suggested the rounded and robust body type of a healthy peasant woman in middle age.
Quoting Christoffer
This is the experience of speaking with overfull emotion, words escaping one after the other without forethought.
Quoting Christoffer
What would be an awkward blunder in a child's composition reads like poetry in this context. The repetition of "quietly" suggests something similar in their silences, these two very different people sharing the same moment in silence.
Quoting Christoffer
These curt sentences suggest strong underlying tension. Her voice is rigid and precise. The author explicitly points out the wife calling the husband by his first name, likely never done in easier interactions.
Quoting Christoffer
It is indeed a bit hard to imagine paper conjuring such a vivid and specific image, of coarse, unsanded cypress wood. The hands are of course the hands of the house's imagined inhabitants.
Quoting Christoffer
I'm not sure how I feel about this repetition. It feels a bit reflexive, like this is how you are supposed to write when you write poetically.
Even though you are effectively a native speaker Chrisstofer, I can easily see how many of these might come across as just wrong to you.
I think @Christoffer gives really good feedback. He reads carefully and gives the stories a lot of time and attention. But I don't always agree with him. In this case, some of the things he was critical about are some of the things I liked about it.
Quoting Noble Dust
To me this indicates the smell (and it's a strong one, hence "reek") of cooked fresh fish, as opposed to the more unpleasant fishy smell of less-fresh fish. Or maybe it indicates that the smell is so dominant that it's unadulterated by any other odour, hence pure or pristine. It didn't trouble me that I wasn't exactly sure about it.
Quoting Noble Dust
Great simile; I knew exactly what it meant.
Quoting Noble Dust
Like Christoffer I wasn't exactly sure what to make of this, but it's such a bold choice that I admired it, and it does successfully set a tone, in a poetic way--which is what ND was setting out to do I think.
There were several other things I liked:
Quoting Noble Dust
Great detail. It reminded me of Nabokov. It expertly economically paints a picture of the scene and its interpersonal dynamic. (Although it did confuse me with regard to the setting, which did not lead me to expect cherries)
Quoting Noble Dust
I found this arresting, original, and conceptually intriguing. It adds a lot of richness.
Quoting Noble Dust
This lifted the story at a point when I felt it was sagging. I felt relief at getting some background. It's exposition done right, not a crude "As you know Bob" info-dump.
In conclusion, although I would have liked more of a plot, it was richly evocative.
It can absolutely be that I'm myself not a native speaker. But I think all my feedback has been a bit of a deconstruction and investigation process that evolved through the thread. The initial reaction was that something in some translation got lost, but I abandoned that notion later on, here's a better sum up of what I figured:
What I've seen with most stories that I felt lacked this time around was that almost all of them suffered from the roughness of not going through enough rewrites. "First drafts are always shit" is a common idea in writing, but an often overlooked aspect is how to spot in what way a first draft doesn't work since it's different from writer to writer.
Some manage to write technically perfect prose in their first pass, but fumble on major story parts; character behaviors and consistency. While some already has their world building in place, their characters and metaphors as a fully developed "substance" in their head while writing, but doesn't land how the sentences and scenes fit together or flow to describe it all. I think this is what happened in this one.
It's all there beneath the text; the story beats, the poetry and metaphors. But the text need some massaging to not be unnecessarily hard to get into. For instance, as a comparable story, fdrake's "Invisible Contorter" had such a dense writing that it was exhausting to get through, but it generally was never unclear what happened in sentence to sentence structure, setups and payoffs. But in this, there were instances of payoffs before the setup. Creating this mental back and forth that required unnecessary re-reads when a change in sentence structure and what came before what would clarify everything better --- without losing a single part of the language and poetry, which I think is important to keep in mind.
For instance:
Quoting hypericin
As I did a breakdown of this paragraph, it became clear that this wasn't true. There are twigs of cherry tree on the table and the jug had to be put somewhere as well. It's unclear in action how this scene played out and when arriving at the jar of wine on the table resting there like a one leaf, it doesn't match the description of events around it, making the description, while evocative, irrational. So I tried a changed version to see if it became more clear as well as emphasizing that imagery of the lone leaf:
Quoting Christoffer
I think this reflects the issues I had with the text that I tried to figure out the reasons for. Landing in the conclusion that the paragraphs felt unpolished, not that the metaphors weren't working. It's primarily that the metaphors got damaged by the odd structures and sometimes felt weird because of it. Like how his wife remarked about the "mess on the table", which indicates that it's full of stuff, rather than letting the jar feel like a lone leaf. The table is far from empty. So on top of a restructure of that paragraph, we would have needed a setup description of the table better in the beginning, knowing he's been sitting there eating cherries, spreading out the remains on the table.
None of that changes the poetry of the descriptions, but it let's us grasp them better as the actions and situations become much clearer, not getting in the way of immersing ourselves into the poetic lyrics of the text.
Another area I spotted featuring similar issues was how the story starts. It goes straight into dialogue between two characters we haven't been introduced to, talking about another character that is old, but in an instance then about him as a young boy, before even introducing us to the setting and scene, distracting the reader to ponder about anything but what the text is telling; Where is this? Who are the characters? What's the situation?
If we're just re-arranging a bit, the reader lands better in the scene before the dialogue starts, we get better immersed before having to imagine a layer underneath (by imagining Gunta as a boy):
Quoting Noble Dust
Just putting the later part at the beginning, before the dialogue starts, makes us land in an immersed state before we have to think about it. Otherwise we have to think about something we don't know anything about, before getting to know what we're supposed to think about.
I think this is what I found the major issue. Carts before horses in the structure.
Which also leads to other oddities, such as how the sexual inappropriateness against Sylvie becomes oddly described to the point it kind of looks like its portrayed as an innocent act. And since the whole ordeal is a center plot point for Stevie's emotions and why she wants to live in the paper houses, want to leave it all, it becomes so odd that we don't know about her listening before the end of that scene. The emotions doesn't build, they're done as almost an afterthought. Taking us from an innocent father and daughter scene in which he tells her a story about the land (the best part in this story I might add), to an abrupt sexually inappropriate behavior that Stevie reacts to.
If the story is focused on the subjective language and thought structures of these people, then such an abrupt deviation from that to a plot surprise behavior becomes jarring. It loses consistency with the rest. If it's supposed to be Stevie's story, which for the most part it feels that it is, then we would have needed to get some reactions from Stevie, listening in:
As Gabor tells the story we get to sense Stevie, listening in, reacting oddly to it. Why does she react in that odd way? Why does Gabor's storytelling to Sylvie make Stevie feel that way? And then when Gabor behaves as he does later on, the punchline we can extract is that Stevie has been in Sylvie's position before, but with a much more grounded emotional progression from her side throughout that part.
That way, we understand her last scene and wish to live in the paper houses much better.
So I think the above describes primarily what I've figured out about this story's issues. It's not translational issues, and it's not the metaphorical language in itself, but in the order and way it's structured. Just re-arranging some, adding a few things to immerse the reader better in the scenes and the same text will work much better and be more consistent with the subjectivity of the characters, aligned better with the way some individual lines are subjective. But without introducing an unnecessary confusion that gets in the way of immersion.
I'm glad all of this worked for you. I did try to make these references vague enough to not pinpoint the locale to any specific place. In my mind while writing it I imagined some obscure island in the Mediterranean, but I didn't want it to be specific. Just fictional, but familiar.
Quoting Tobias
While I didn't intend this or think of it, I like this interpretation. I think what you're saying about Stevie is there in the story, but even as the writer I didn't see it. Thanks for your comments, Tobias. I do feel like you seem to have picked up on the aesthetic and vibe I was going for more so than other readers. That's in no way a slight on others or even a compliment to you; we just apparently have met on the same wavelength here. :pray:
:pray: Appreciate your thoughts as always mate.
Yes, I think so too. Thanks for your thoughts, and grateful this was a favorite of yours (if I remember rightly).
And as always, thank you for your detailed and thoughtful exposition. Your thoughts have helped me flesh out the story myself in hindsight.
Especially this:
It is so intriguing to hear about your writing process. The imagination. Where did the original image come from? Then, the creativity. Building out the little world. A wonderful, poetic flow.
I admire your reflection and openness regarding autobiographical elements. I think they tend to make an artist's works more compelling. It depends. Subtle and sensitive, like yours, works well
Your authentic voice and impressionistic narrative. Simply splendid. :flower: :pray: