The Harrow Was Not Writing Blog

Written by 


In this series taking a look at Jeff Vandermeer’s BORNE, we continue by taking a look at how Vandermeer builds complex emotional moments. Lots of spoilers for the first half of the book below. 

THE CHALLENGE
Recently, I read a new book on writing. This is actually a rare event for me, nowadays, and I only approached it to help myself re-orient for longer work. I wanted something that covered the standard-fare logic of novel writers in a concise way, and Kate Weiland’s STRUCTURING YOUR NOVEL did the trick. One concept she covered, though, was something I had never encountered in detail before, and I think originated in the work of Dwight Swain. This was the distinction between a Scene and a Sequel. 

This terminology is a little confusing I think, but it’s attempting to show two different moments in fiction that look like this. 

A Scene is a moment in which a character has a goal, fights to overcome obstacles and in the end either succeeds or fails. 

A Sequel is a moment in which a character reacts to some external event, fights through a dilemma of some kind, and then decides what to do next, theoretically setting up a new goal scene. 

This concept strikes me as useful but limited and oversimplified. I’ll probably do a full analysis of it at some later date, taking a look at a few novels. But one thing I noticed while reading after learning this concept, is that books I enjoy tend to heavily favor sequels, which slow the pace, and the sequel is usually used to build out complex, layered emotional reactions. How do authors go about creating these layered reactions? 

THE STORY
The basic premise is this: A scavenger (Rachel) in a post-apocalyptic city full of strange, artificial creatures, discovers a piece of biotech (Borne), and raises him in her home with her drug-dealing boyfriend (Wick). Much of the plot is dedicated to figuring out what Borne is and describing his development from a little sea anemone, to a child, to a super powerful guy. The city is more-or-less ruled by a giant flying bear (Mord), with the Company, who created Mord and once ruled the city, in tattered subservience to him. The only rival to Mord’s dominion seems to be the mysterious Magician. We follow Rachel, Borne and Wick through several great changes in the city as they attempt to navigate this roughshod world. 

At its core, this novel is built from layered examinations of emotional reactions to change. Rachel reacts to epic changes in the city, to changes in Borne, to changes in Wick and in herself. There are one thousand moments of deep, layered emotional reaction that are truly wonderful, and we’re going to look just at one. 

THE SOLUTION
First, let’s take a look at a sequel on page 106. In this scene, Rachel reacts to an attack by what the novel calls a Proxy. Proxies are a bear-like biotech that goes around murdering people in the city, who take their likeness from the much-larger Mord. To protect them from the attack, Borne pretended to be a rock while hiding Rachel inside. This scenes takes place just after that. As you might expect, this is a longer scene, but also a beautiful one: 

In the old world, when I emerged with my parents from secret rooms or tunnels or caves or closets, we knew what we were returning to–the same place we had left, as dangerous or as safe as before. We had hidden so we could remain in that world, were saying we believed in that world no matter what. Because we had no choice. Because there was no better or worse world, there was just the place we came out into. 
     But when I emerged from Borne, out onto the rooftop again, I did not feel the same way. We had waited until Borne told me the Mord proxies had truly gone and all that remained below were the kinds of scavengers that would scatter at our approach. The cast-off biotech that could move, well or not so well, that came out nocturnal. 
     We had waited until nightfall, even then, and so when I stood outside of Borne the world had changed in more than one sense. It was not just that Borne had shielded me rather than the other way around. It was not the change in the sky. 
     Pieces of Borne had been torn from him by the Mord proxy in its suspicion. These pieces had bounced like rock, settled on the rooftop like rock, but now quivered and flexed like hands opening and closing, reformed as Borne flesh. 
     The Borne that faced me was, even in that dim light, scarred and misshapen. He had returned to his normal size and shape, the one that looked like an upside-down vase, that combined attributes of a squid and a sea anemone, but he had a slumped, subdued quality that I’d never seen in him before. 
     I winced to see that his left side was fissured and purpling-black and the ring of eyes, darkly luminous, circled his body in a haphazard way, like a rotting carnival ride one loose bolt away from spinning off into the crowd. He had a smell like turpentine and rotting fish sticks and moldy bandages. 
     “I’m sorry, Borne,” I said, feeling shaky. “I shouldn’t have brought you out here.” 
     Somehow they had known. Somehow they had known where we would be–but which ones? The ferals or the proxies? I was unwilling to accept that this had been just coincidence or bad luck. And also tumbling through my mind, an awful sense of responsibility: that if Borne hadn’t moved out, if Borne hadn’t pretended to be more like an adult, I might not have taken the chance. 
     “It is okay,” Borne said. “I need to learn. I need to know.”
     “But not by being hurt.” 
     “It’s not being hurt that hurts,” Borne said. 
     Borne might be alien to me, he might have more senses, he might do things no human could do . . . but I thought I understood what he was saying. (Although, did I, really?) He knew now that he could be harmed. He knew now that he was vulnerable. No joy would be the same for Borne. No playfulness, either. Because behind it would be this certain knowledge: that he could die. 
     “I’m tired, Rachel,” Borne said. “I need not to move for a while.”
     “That’s okay,” I said, and it was. If we had to make this rooftop our home for a few hours, I was prepared to do it. 
     It had cooled as the sun disappeared and the stars came out across an unusually cloudless sky. We were silent for a long time, and I made no move to go downstairs to recon. Borne needed my attention but I also think we both dreaded going downstairs. Neither of us wanted to experience the aftermath up close, even in the dark. But Borne was also looking up at the stars, all of his attention drawn there. 
     Borne was reaching out a tentative tentacle, as if to touch the stars. 
     He must have known he couldn’t, but I still said, “You can’t touch them!” 
     “Why not? Are they hot?” 
     “Yes, they are. But that’s not why. They’re very, very far away.” 
     “But my arms are so long, Rachel. My arms can be as long as I want.” 
     “That might be so, but . . .” I trailed off when I realized Borne was joking. He had a little tell when he joked–or it was actually a big tell. Some of his eyes would drift to the left, a particular cluster. He couldn’t control that. 
     “Diabolical,” he said, still captivated by what lay above. “Diabolical. Deadly. Delirious. Deep.” Four new words he’d been trying out. Except he had not learned “diabolical” from me, and I felt a twinge. Some book, some other source. 
     A normal night sky, but I was attuned to Borne in that moment and I saw it from his eyes–like a rush or an onslaught. Because as far as I knew, he had never seen the night sky so unguarded before–glimpses, maybe, from the Balcony cliffs at dusk or in his books. So many stars, so little light from the city to disguise them. It was just like I remembered it from our island sanctuary so long ago. Walking down the beach and not needing a flashlight because the stars were so strong. 
     A glittering reef of stars, spread out phosphorescent, and each one might have life on it, planets revolving around them. There might even be people like us, looking up at the night sky. It was what my mother said sometimes–to be mindful that the universe beyond still existed, that we did not know what lived there, and it might be terrible to reconcile ourselves to knowing so little of it, but that didn’t mean it stopped existing. There was something else beyond all of this, that would never know us or our struggles, never care, and that it would go on without us. My mother had found that idea comforting. 
     Borne’s many eyes became stars as he watched them, and his skin turned the color of velvety night, until he was just a Borne shaped reflection. So many eyestalks arose from him that his body flattened away to nothing, into an irregular pool of flesh across most of the roof, the edge lapping up against my boots. I could still see how he had been injured, because he looked like a circle that had had a bite taken out of it. Each eyestalk ended in three-dimensional representation of a star, and the stars clustered until he was a field of stars rising from the rooftop, forming nebulae and galaxies, and a few fireflies like meteorites across the depth and breadth of him. 
     “It’s beautiful,” he said, from across the star field of his body. “It’s beautiful.” 
     For once what he thought of as beautiful really was beautiful. It was as if we had become closer even as he exhibited more alien attributes, but I quashed that with an instant of wariness. Was he truly without guile? Wasn’t this repetition because of my reaction about the polluted river? But even if I suspected “beautiful” was just making conversation or in some other way for my benefit, I knew that he’d taken this form to begin to heal, that there was something comforting about it, something that had helped him. 
     “What are they?” Borne asked. “Are they . . . lights like in the Balcony Cliffs? Or . . . electrical lights? Who turned them on?” So whatever he’d seen in books hadn’t explained stars. At all. 
     “No one turned them on,” I said, realizing after I’d said it that I’d just discounted thousands of years of religion. But it was too late to turn back. 
     “No one?”
     “We’re on a world,” I told him, not knowing what gaps existed from his reading. “We’re on a world that revolves around a star, which is a giant ball of fire. So enormous that if it weren’t so distant we would all be dead–burned up. We call it the sun–and the sun is what you thought wasn’t nice when it shone so bright on you the other day. But all of those points of light above are also suns, even farther away, and they all have worlds, too.” 
     My eyesight had gotten blurry telling Borne this, the aftershock of our ordeal hitting me. 
     “All of them? Every single one? But that’s like hundreds.” 
     “Thousands. Maybe millions.” 
     Across the star fields of Borne’s body there coalesced one great sun in the center, also atop a stalk. Heretical was his astronomy at this point. He’d become metaphorical or metaphysical or just silly. 
     “But that’s incredible,” Borne said, quietly. “That’s amazing. That’s devastating.” 
     Then something began to blot out the stars, to turn that glittering, shining brilliance into a great and final darkness. 
     “And what is that?” Borne asked, as if it was something normal, something else he didn’t know about yet, and he trusted me to tell him, to let him know what to think about it. 
     I was speechless, because for an instant I thought the world was ending, that fate had conspired to put us on that roof to watch the end of . . . everything.  
     Then I realized what we were seeing, and I couldn’t help a stifled chuckle. Oh, this was rich! Because it was the end of the world. 
     “What’s so funny, Rachel?” An edge to that voice as Borne withdrew from the edge of my toes, drew himself up into his normal form, still sagging, still wounded. 
     “That’s Mord,” I said. 
     Yes, it was Mord–floating and diving across the night sky, high up, so huge that even from a distance he blotted out the stars. Across the night sky the giant bear Mord glided, seething, and we could hear faint rasps and roaring from the stratosphere, the chocking gasps of his rage. Snuffing out first this constellation then that one, his form as it occluded the stars making me aware of them again. His was the greater darkness, and although I feared him and hated him and despised him, Mord was still, in that moment, the purest reflection of the city. 
     “Moooooordddddddddd,” Borne said in a kind of hissing way, and I saw even in the reflected light that every inch of Borne’s unscarred surface had become sharp, jagged, pointed like spears and spikes, and the eyes now revolving tracked Mord’s obliterating progress like gun emplacements tracking aircraft. Strafed Mord’s position with analytics and calculations and trajectories. 
     “He’s very far away,” I said, in a soothing tone. “He can’t hurt you.” Neither statement was entirely true. 
     “That is what you mean by Mord proxy,” Borne said, “This is the source.” 
     “Yes.”
     “They are his children.”
     “In a way, yes.” 
     “Why would he let his children do that to other children?” 
     I didn’t have a good answer for him, but I was sure that Borne had an idea of what he was looking at. We had turned Mord into the boogieman in his imagination, the monster under the bed. Don’t go outside, don’t do this, don’t do that because: Mord. But now Borne had been mauled by one of Mord’s emissaries, and he was trying to understand Mord. The real Mord. 
     Mord continued to dip and glide and wheel and drop across the sky like a god. 
     “Mord is beautiful,” Borne said with disdain. “Mord is strong. Mord is not nice.” From his tone, I believe Borne was beginning to parody his own innocence. 
     “Mostly not nice. Remember the not-nice part. Avoid him.” 
     “He kills the stars,” Borne said. “He kills the stars and brings darkness.” 
     “The stars all come back, though.” 
     “But not the people down below.” 
     You killed four of them yourself, back at the Balcony Cliffs, I wanted to say. But didn’t.

My first step, when I want to write about a novel, and I’m not sure what to write about, is to re-read and outline it. I’ve used a lot of different methods to outline, but for BORNE, I used the Scene/Sequel distinction I discovered in Weiland’s book, refering to these as (Goal) scenes and (React) scenes, because the language is clearer, and because I did change up the idea a little to suit my own purposes (it makes no sense to me, for instance, to see a scene as separate if it takes place at the same setting with the same characters and no line break, just because the goal ends). This outline was quite useful, but limited, as you can see below in my outline of this scene: 

(React) to attack of Mord Proxies (pg 106 – 112)
Reaction: Rachel thinks about coming out of caves as a kid; ready to wait in secret until nightfall; to watch the stars; track how Borne has changed & show his reactions; Borne mimics the stars & galaxies, he thinks they’re beautiful; cry while explaining stars and planets to Borne. 
Dilemma: trying to explain stars to Borne; apologizing to him; Borne needs to heel; tries to understand Mord. 
Decision: Not much of one. Borne decides Mord is not nice. 

As you can see, getting the scene to fit into this outline requires the removal of a lot of richness, and the stirring around of elements. That’s fine for the purposes of outlining after the fact, as a reader, and I’d bet it would be helpful when outlining after the fact as a writer, too, before revising. It’s fine for getting a high level overview of the story. But a lot is lost in translation. To be fair, many of Vandermeer’s shorter scenes cut much closer to the proper breakdown, and some wonderful scenes fit perfectly. But for our purposes here, a more detailed outline is probably necessary: 

1 (React) to Borne’s injury
     Reaction: To remember how it felt when she emerged from hiding with her parents (always the same world) and connect that with her feeling emerging from Borne (a different world in several ways); go over Borne’s injuries with detailed description 
     Dilemma: How responsible is Rachel for Borne’s injuries? Why did the attack happen? How should Borne learn about the violence of the city? 
     Decision: Borne needs to not move for a while. Rachel decides to “make this rooftop their home” for a few hours. 
2 (React) to the “unguarded” stars and Borne’s injury
     Reaction:
Borne tries to reach out and touch them; Rachel stops him, almost panicked, remembers the stars of her past, and experiences the stars like Borne must “like a rush or an onslaught.” Borne transforms himself into a little solar system. 
     Dilemma:
What are stars? Rachel teaches Borne about stars while the trauma of the attack finally hits her (she cries)
     Decision:
none–interrupted by the stars starting to go black–
3 (React) to Mord and the stars and Borne’s injury
     Reaction:
Mord asks what the mass in front of the stars is; Rachel at first speechless, thinking the world is ending, then realizes she’s seeing Mord and laughs, “because it was the end of the world.” 
     –describe Mord and his blocking out the stars–
     Reaction:
Borne forms himself into a bunch of spikes that track Mord’s flight
     Dilemma:
Why does Mord let his proxies hurt people? 
          Exposition:
Rachel and Wick have made Mord a boogeyman for Borne
     Decision:
Mord is not nice–Borne decides, and Rachel reaffirms. 
 A closing thought from Rachel: Mord might kill people, but so does Borne. 

With this new outline, we find a really common strategy that Vandermeer uses in Borne: he creates a series of nested reactions, each one built on the last. 

So why not consider each of these three reactions as a separate scene? 

Because they are tied together in time and because they are tied together, most importantly, on an emotional level. All three off these is a step further in Borne and Rachel reacting to the attack, to Borne’s injuries. In the first arc, we find Rachel reacting to Borne’s injuries, placing blame on herself; in the second, we can see Borne contemplating “the vastness of the universe” and his own mortality through the stars; in the third, we can see him coming to terms with why it’s bad to kill and to hurt with Mord, his boogeyman, as the central focus, in a way that will be very important later. 

What I notice first about how these reactions are nested: each one is tied to some physical, external element of the narrative. First, Borne’s injuries; then the stars; and lastly Mord, flying by. That physical element acts as an important touchstone for the development of each arc, creating the surface level subject of Rachel and Borne’s dialogue and giving the narration some change in the setting to describe. 

I think the choice of these physical touchstones is vital. 

For starters, the easiest, most obvious touchstone is Borne’s injuries. This is clearly what Rachel would focus on, because they make acute the stakes of Rachel bringing Borne outside. This is what any normal person would notice first and feel strongly about; this is the logical thing for them to debate in the “dilemma” part of the scene. But it also has the chance to be the most melodramatic, so after the apology, Vandermeer has the conversation sizzle out. We can make sense of the conversation ending: Rachel feels guilty, and knows nothing she can say or do will make it better. Rachel introduces the idea that Borne will, through this attack, gain a sense of his own mortality.

But then the stars intrude.

The choice of stars is interesting; in part because the attack Rachel is reacting to happened during the day, meaning that if Vandermeer wants to view the stars, he needs them to wait until nightfall, which they do. When we hear the conversation about the stars, it feels like getting away from thinking about the attack and nearly dying (lowering the tension, to a degree), and I think it is, in a way, but really only through abstraction. We can see, in the way that Borne spreads himself out and transforms himself into the night sky, that Borne is getting some pleasure from contemplating the universe, but as soon as he says “That’s amazing. That’s devastating” we get a glimpse at the nuance of this moment.

We can see how he’s connecting the universe to his own new-found sense of mortality (this is of course an association with a long history in world literature), and how we have not actually stopped reacting to the attack. But Vandermeer does not stop at “devastating,” he makes the connection explicit by wrapping around to Mord. Tension roars back. 

Mord flying, blotting out the stars, is perfect. 

It wraps the conversation back around to the proxies, making it quite clear that they never really stopped talking about the attack, and but it doesn’t quite leave the universe, since Mord is in the sky. 

Rachel’s reaction to Mord rings true, also. She’s afraid at first, of some abstract end of the universe, but when the real danger makes itself clear, she just laughs. Partly because Mord actually is laughable, but also because he does, for her, represent the end of the world, a symbol of the city. We can see in this that she’s turned to nihilism of a kind, even without a prolonged discussion of why she reacts this way. Borne then tries to understand Mord, the way he now understands stars, and this discussion is much shorter, because Rachel knows little about Mord. In this moment, though, I think it’s clear that when Borne tries to understand Mord, what he’s thinking about is himself, his own mortality, the possibility that Mord could kill him. 

They come together to the conclusion that Mord is “not nice,” and Rachel means it on a literal level, but Borne comes to a broader conclusion: killing is not nice. Here Borne is reflecting on his own actions, the people he’s “absorbed,” and Rachel picks up on this, as we see in the final line. 

That also leads well into another point I want to make. A lot of the time when I write, I treat emotions and reactions as something that happens in isolation, inside the character. This scenes does a lot to counteract that, because so much of the emotional depth spawns not from direct thoughts (although some of it does) but instead from the interplay between the external touchstones and the conversation around them. A lot of it comes from the way these two characters dance around what they really should say: “Someday, both of us will die. Maybe everyone.” Instead, Borne tries to distract himself and Rachel, but ends up circling back around, constantly on the edge of acknowledging their mortality. So much more emotional depth is possible in this scene because it starts as two characters interacting. 

FINALLY
The last question, I suppose, is how do you go about building this sort of scene? 

Knowing a little about Vandermeer’s process, it’s likely that this scene occurred to him at least in part through introspection. He has a rather organic method, but he does a lot of revision, too, so it’s likely that some element of this was introduced, cut back, or changed to make the scene work. 

Other than that, it’s a hard question to answer. This scene is stunning. It relies on a lot of built-up meaning behind the symbolism of Mord in the book, and deep-rooted real world symbolism that connects the sky with death, which Vandermeer makes explicit on the page. That takes a lot of thought and a layered understanding of what you want the scene to accomplish. It takes a consciousness about what objects are taking on resonance in your work and what objects already have resonance in the real world. It takes sharp revision efforts. 

If you’re working on a scene in which a character reacts deeply to some event in the narrative, how would you go about anchoring that process? How would you proceed? Do you have any examples you return to in reading?

Written by 
Let’s take a look today at how to handle capital-D Drama. As with many things in fiction, drama requires a particular balance, and we’re going to examine a scene from How I Live Now by Meg Rosoff, a young adult near future science fiction novel that I highly recommend. To look at this, we’ll be dissecting a specific scene, and it does include some minor spoilers. 

The Challenge:

It’s hard, when I get to that moment I’ve been building toward, where everything has come to a head and something has to happen. How do you handle scenes of high emotion without melodrama but still with impact? Seems my pendulum always swings back and forth between the extremes of giving up drama and giving up impact. 

For some answers, I turned to a novel I’d read years ago. 

The Story:

Meg Rosoff’s How I Live Now is about an American girl living in Britain when things really hit the fan–they’re invaded and conquered by a mysterious, unnamed enemy. It’s a young adult romance and adventure novel that is both emotionally impactful and full of suspense. There are few novels I recommend as easily as this one, even to people who don’t often read. It reads quick and leaves a mark. It balances blot and character masterfully. And the prose is beautiful in a simple, streamlined way. 

For my purposes, I analyzed a scene toward the middle, at the end of a chapter of descriptive summary, little more than a list of chores in this fairly transitional moment of the story. Read the short scene below: 

One night we were driving home through the usual checkpoints and Piper and I were asleep and Joe, who sometimes came with us to stay with his parents in the village, suddenly took it into his head to stand up and get show-offy, and I guess thinking war was some kind of open discussion forum where everyone was really interested in your opinion, started shouting a whole bunch of obscenities at one of the checkpoint guards and when Major McEvoy told him to sit down in a really icy army tone of voice he ignored him and kept shouting stuff about Johnny Foreigner being an Effing Bastard and worse. 

And then in almost a lazy kind of way the checkpoint guy who’d been looking at him raised his gun and pulled the trigger and there was a loud crack and part of Joe’s face exploded and there was blood everywhere and he fell over out of the truck into the road. 

Piper watched the whole thing without moving a muscle but the shock of it made me retch and I had to turn away over the side of the truck. Someone else was screaming and when I turned back the whole world seemed to have slowed down and grown quiet and from inside the silence I watched the guard go right back to chatting with his friend and saw Major McEvoy’s head roll back for a moment and his eyes close and a look of despair crumple up his face and in that split second I wondered whether he was really that attached to the kid and then it was with horror that I looked down and saw that Joe was still alive, gurgling and trying to move the arm that wasn’t caught under his body and when I looked back at Major M I realized he was doing what he felt was his duty as a member of the armed forces defending a British national and still in slow motion he was climbing out of the truck and his plan must have been to get Joe to his feet somehow and then to safety when I heard about a hundred shots from a machine gun and the momentum of the blasts hurled Major M backward across the road away from Joe with blood welling up in holes all over him and this time you could see Joe’s condition was 100% dead and with brains splattered everywhere and our driver didn’t wait around to see what might happen next but just stepped on the gas and as we drove away I thought I felt tears on my face but when I put my hand up to wipe them it turned out to be blood and nobody made a single sound but just sat there shell-shocked and all I could think about was poor Major M lying there in the dust through I guess he was much too dead to notice. 

There never were seven more silent human beings in the back of a truck, we were too stunned even to cry or speak. When we reached Reston Bridge our driver, who I knew was a close friend of the Major’s, got out of the truck and stood there for a minute trying to get up the courage to go inside and tell Mrs. M what happened, but first he turned to us and said in a voice full of rage, In case anyone needed reminding This is a War. 

And the way he said those words made me feel like I was falling (103 – 105). 


The Solution: 

At five paragraphs and about two pages, this is a decidedly short scene (although not too short for the book’s average), but it does a deceptive amount of work to both control the drama and heighten the impact. It’s doing a good bit of complex work to maintain this delicate balance, and I’ll try to pick that apart here. 

First a brief outline of the scene, as I see it: 

Paragraph 1. (Setup). Scene conflict begins, exposition is given with a humorous tone. 
Paragraph 2. (Escalation). One shot. A distant description of the bloody scene. 
Paragraph 3. (Reaction & Further Escalation). A wide range of reactions from a number of different people. A little more humor. Much longer sentences. 
Paragraph 4. (Deflation). A very muted response and a clean getaway that also connects the loss of life to the wider world. 
Paragraph 5. (Effect). A single, punchy line on how the protagonist has been changed by this scene. 

So how does this scene attempt to control drama, minimize melodrama? There are a number of ways that this is being done. Paragraph 1, for instance, seems only to exist for this function. It’s using humor to deflate the tension, exposition to slow the pace, summary (mimicking the rest of the chapter, which was fairly low-key) that creates a level of distance, and it even uses a linguistic trick to add to the drudgery (“usual checkpoint”). It’s routine. It’s a chore–just like the rest of the chapter, this will be every-day. That, of course, is not how it pans out. 

Paragraph 2 uses a similar linguistic trick when it describes the shot as “lazy”–the laziness of it reduces the melodrama. In Paragraph 3, a return to humor seems to aid the reduction of melodrama (100% dead). We also get a number of characters who fail to react in any active way to this shot–Piper watches “without moving a muscle,” the guard goes “right back to chatting with his friend,” and the driver who did nothing but “not wait around.” These muted reactions serve as a counter balance to the descriptions of gore and to the narrator’s response. Paragraph 4 continues the muted response, allowing it to spread to the rest of the car. Meanwhile, Paragraph 5 does little to manage the drama–how does the scene’s final line have such a strong impact? 

While Paragraph 1 is the touchstone paragraph for controlling melodrama, Paragraph 3 is its counterpart, a keystone in developing impact. It does this in a large number of ways. Firstly, we have the more dramatic character reactions: the narrator, who retches, and Major M, who reacts with nothing short of anguish, not to mention Joe himself, twitching on the ground. There is also the natural drama of further escalation of the conflict (going from Joe, a minor nobody, dying to the death of Major M, who we’ve come to know and who was a central figure of this chapter, and the imagery usage (like tears that transformed into blood). Beyond those things, there is also the massive and sudden stretching of sentence length (so long it’s almost beyond comprehension) using polysyndeton (lots of “ands”) that makes each sentence feel like a constant barrage of horrors. 

The other paragraphs build upon this one, adding minor touches of drama to increase the impact. In Paragraph 2, drama comes from the conflict escalation and the use of face-explosion imagery. In Paragraph 4, emotions are driven home by revealing the delayed anger of the driver (This is a War) and focusing on who is hurt (Major M’s wife). Finally, in Paragraph 5, the tragic punch line, a single, lonely line, a structure that serves to emphasize how alone the narrator feels, further hitting home the imagery of falling. 

Finally:

It’s the delicate balance of this passage that makes it work so well. Just look, for instance, at the “sandwich” created by the first paragraph, which only works to reduce melodrama, and the fifth paragraph, which only works to increase impact. And the sparseness of Paragraph 2 contrasts with the extravagance of Paragraph 3 to create a similar sense of balance.

Ultimately, what I take from this scene is that, while there are consistent strategies worth knowing for reducing melodrama and increasing impact, the brilliance of this scene comes from structure–how those methods are designed to balance each other. 

Is there anything you’d add? Are there any scenes that you’ve read that should have been melodramatic but ended up deeply moving you without going over the edge? I’d love to hear about this or anything else you have to say.