The banner
A season of protest
and uprising
Photograph by
Islay McLeod
Arthur Bell
on the persecution
of his father
Robin McMillan
on a remarkable
pilgrimage to Scotland
SR is having a short break over Easter and will return on Tuesday 9 April. Meanwhile, our petition in defence of free speech remains open. To sign: click here
For this, the last edition before the holiday weekend/religious festival (delete according to belief), I had contemplated asking a cross-section of prominent people a deceptively simple question: ‘What does Easter mean to you?’ I tested it out on the focus group next door. They dismissed it at once, predicting that it would merely elicit a parade of the usual prejudices on the subject.
Here is a typical passage from his report of the last supper:
Now when the even was come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me. And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord is it I?
It is hard to find fault with this as a piece of writing. The writer knows what he wants to say and says it. There is a palpable tension in the air; we want to know what happens next. Miss Brotherston (primary 6) would have objected no doubt to two sentences – or any sentence – starting with the word ‘And’. Miss Brotherston was scrupulous about such matters. But – she wasn’t too keen on sentences starting with ‘But’ either – I would ignore such pedantry and recommend Matthew’s prose style to any young journalist who is interested in language.
Matthew’s gripping account of one of the great historical events – the crucifixion and burial of Christ – is accomplished in around 2,000 words with scarcely a wasted one. He has the resurrection done and dusted in 600. His language is concise and punchy, yet full of stylish imagery, some of which catches the reader’s breath. It is essay writing of the highest quality and it has the merit of brevity.
Consider what the modern novelist would have done if he – or more likely she – had been a fly on the wall at the last supper. In place of Matthew’s pacey narrative, there would have been a detailed description of the food, an exploration of the psychological motivations of the characters, and endless speculation about the identity of the traitor.
Everyone over-writes these days. A member of the focus group next door, the deputy editor no less, brought to the office the other day a 1,000-page tome on humanity and violence; she announced proudly that she had reached page 84. I peeked inside and discovered that the type was too small for me to be able to read it without a magnifying glass. I calculated that this book by an American academic must amount to three quarters of a million words. If Matthew could do the death of Christ in no more than twice the length of this editorial, American academics should be able to exercise a little self-discipline.
Hilary Mantel’s early novels were short and sharp. Her vignette of the Arab world was a page-turner. But the more successful she becomes, the longer she writes; it seems to be a rule of the trade.
J K Rowling, always an over-writer, recently produced an adult first novel, a slight thing but drawn out at inordinate length; I still see piles of it hanging around W H Smith. There comes a point when authors decide they no longer need an editor. That’s the ultimate moment of self-delusion.
What is true of fiction is also true of fact. We should be eternally grateful that Christ died before the advent of 24-hour rolling news. Otherwise the women outside the empty tomb would have been there all day servicing the requirements of the embedded press corps. While Matthew did it in 2,000 words, the Sunday papers would have required a special souvenir supplement. For them 2,000 words is the going rate for a routine piece about the latest inappropriate behaviour.
I see that I have successfully avoided any discussion of personal belief. Enough of diversionary tactics. At this time of year, I think always of the writer Joan Ure, whose work I once published and produced, who told me something worth remembering: ‘If you can make it to Easter, you’ll be all right’. One year she didn’t make it to Easter. She had this much in common with Matthew: she never over-wrote. Her natural length in the theatre was the uncommercial hour; she wrote short short stories, and short lyrical poems.
The risen Christ? Joan Ure, a deeply thoughtful person, an artist, did not regard this proposition with the implacable hostility of all my atheist friends. I think she found it intriguing and attractive, as I do myself. The strangest things happen all the time. Why not this? But I admit that it pays to have a snappy hack like Matthew on your team, someone who knows how to hold an audience for 2,000 years.
SR is having a short break over Easter and will return
on Tuesday 9 April
