I'm re-reading Patrick Leigh Fermor, whose account of his walk to Istanbul (from London!) is one of my favorites. I'm reading it again to try to understand what makes his descriptions so appealing. Here's a short passage to illustrate. He approaches a country manor in Hungary.
Once through the great gates, I was lost for a moment. A forest of huge exotic trees mingled with the oaks and the limes and the chestnuts. Magnolias and tulip trees were on the point of breaking open, the branches of biblical cedars swept in low fans, all of them ringing with the songs of thrushes and blackbirds and positively slumbrous with the cooing of a thousand doves, and the house in the middle, when the trees fell back, looked more extraordinary with every step.
Now, I'm sure all the writing coaches would say that third sentence is too long, but I'll leave that aside (to my ears it is perfect). One aspect of Fermor's writing I already had recognized: his specificity. He names plants, birds, furniture. The books is a veritable dictionary of nouns, some of them very obscure. Being specific is a fine way to anchor the reader. I don't really even know what a thrush is, but I don't need to; the description is still more vivid that just "birds".
The discovery was his sense of movement. The first sentence gets us through gates, then halts. The second sentence stands still for a moment. The third, though, is filled with verbs of motion: the cedars swept low, the trees fell back, the tulip trees were on the point of breaking open. And the final clause, with the narrator once again stepping forward, leads the reader forward as well.
He does this regularly in his writing. In looking at my own writing, I'm struck by how often the descriptions are static. They may be colorful, detailed, even passionate, but they do not move. I'll be making some adjustments along those lines.
Just wanted to share.
Once through the great gates, I was lost for a moment. A forest of huge exotic trees mingled with the oaks and the limes and the chestnuts. Magnolias and tulip trees were on the point of breaking open, the branches of biblical cedars swept in low fans, all of them ringing with the songs of thrushes and blackbirds and positively slumbrous with the cooing of a thousand doves, and the house in the middle, when the trees fell back, looked more extraordinary with every step.
Now, I'm sure all the writing coaches would say that third sentence is too long, but I'll leave that aside (to my ears it is perfect). One aspect of Fermor's writing I already had recognized: his specificity. He names plants, birds, furniture. The books is a veritable dictionary of nouns, some of them very obscure. Being specific is a fine way to anchor the reader. I don't really even know what a thrush is, but I don't need to; the description is still more vivid that just "birds".
The discovery was his sense of movement. The first sentence gets us through gates, then halts. The second sentence stands still for a moment. The third, though, is filled with verbs of motion: the cedars swept low, the trees fell back, the tulip trees were on the point of breaking open. And the final clause, with the narrator once again stepping forward, leads the reader forward as well.
He does this regularly in his writing. In looking at my own writing, I'm struck by how often the descriptions are static. They may be colorful, detailed, even passionate, but they do not move. I'll be making some adjustments along those lines.
Just wanted to share.