But
alas, even slight acquaintance with the average story-teller proves the
dire necessity of the admonition. The halting tongue, the slip in name or
incident, the turning back to forge an omitted link in the chain, the
repetition, the general weakness of statement consequent on imperfect
grasp: these are common features of the stories one hears told. And they
are features which will deface the best story ever told.
One must know the story absolutely; it must have been so assimilated that
it partakes of the nature of personal experience; its essence must be so
clearly in mind that the teller does not have to think of it at all in the
act of telling, but rather lets it flow from his lips with the unconscious
freedom of a vivid reminiscence.
Such knowledge does not mean memorising. Memorising utterly destroys the
freedom of reminiscence, takes away the spontaneity, and substitutes a
mastery of form for a mastery of essence. It means, rather, a perfect
grasp of the gist of the story, with sufficient familiarity with its form
to determine the manner of its telling. The easiest way to obtain this
mastery is, I think, to analyse the story into its simplest elements of
plot. Strip it bare of style, description, interpolation, and find out
simply _what happened_. Personally, I find that I get first an especially
vivid conception of the climax; this then has to be rounded out by a clear
perception of the successive steps which lead up to the climax.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101