#Sticks by george saunders analysis full#

The interesting thing, in my experience, is that the result of this laborious and slightly obsessive process is a story that is better than I am in вЂњreal lifeвЂќ вЂ“ funnier, kinder, less full of crap, more empathetic, with a clearer sense of virtue, both wiser and more entertaining.ДЄnd what a pleasure that is to be, on the page, less of a dope than usual. The artist, in this model, is like the optometrist, always asking: Is it better like this? Or like this? What a pleasure it is to be, on the page, less of a dope than usual Like a cruise ship slowly turning, the story will start to alter course via those thousands of incremental adjustments.

Enact a repetitive, obsessive, iterative application of preference: watch the needle, adjust the prose, watch the needle, adjust the prose (rinse, lather, repeat), through (sometimes) hundreds of drafts. Then edit, so as to move the needle into the вЂњPвЂќ zone. WhereвЂ™s the needle? Accept the result without whining. I try to read what IвЂ™ve written uninflectedly, the way a first-time reader might (вЂњwithout hope and without despairвЂќ). How, then, to proceed? My method is: I imagine a meter mounted in my forehead, with вЂњPвЂќ on this side (вЂњPositiveвЂќ) and вЂњNвЂќ on this side (вЂњNegativeвЂќ). According to Donald Barthelme: вЂњThe writer is that person who, embarking upon her task, does not know what to do.вЂќ Gerald Stern put it this way: вЂњIf you start out to write a poem about two dogs fucking, and you write a poem about two dogs fucking вЂ“ then you wrote a poem about two dogs fucking.вЂќ Einstein, always the smarty-pants, outdid them both: вЂњNo worthy problem is ever solved in the plane of its original conception.вЂќ Simply knowing oneвЂ™s intention and then executing it does not make good art. He just liked it better that way, for reasons he couldnвЂ™t articulate, and before heвЂ™d had the time or inclination to articulate them.ДЄn artist works outside the realm of strict logic. It might be more accurate to say that it occurred to him to do so in a split-second, with no accompanying language, except maybe a very quiet internal вЂњYes.вЂќ Now, Stan didnвЂ™t exactly decide to turn her. Then he chose to change that little universe, by turning the plastic woman. What did Stan (the artist) just do? Well, first, surveying his little domain, he noticed which way his hobo was looking. The writer is that person who, embarking upon her task, does not know what to do Donald Barthelme Oh, why canвЂ™t they be together? If only вЂњLittle JackвЂќ would just go home. Why is he looking over there? At that little blue Victorian house? Stan notes a plastic woman in the window, then turns her a little, so sheвЂ™s gazing out. Stan acquires a small hobo, places him under a plastic railroad bridge, near that fake campfire, then notices heвЂ™s arranged his hobo into a certain posture вЂ“ the hobo seems to be gazing back at the town. 2ДЄ guy (Stan) constructs a model railroad town in his basement. The actual process, in my experience, is much more mysterious and more of a pain in the ass to discuss truthfully. We buy into some version of the intentional fallacy: the notion that art is about having a clear-cut intention and then confidently executing same. We often discuss art this way: the artist had something he вЂњwanted to expressвЂќ, and then he just, you know вЂ¦ expressed it. My novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, is the result of that attempt, and now I find myself in the familiar writerly fix of trying to talk about that process as if I were in control of it. I carried that image around for the next 20-odd years, too scared to try something that seemed so profound, and then finally, in 2012, noticing that I wasnвЂ™t getting any younger, not wanting to be the guy whose own gravestone would read вЂњAfraid to Embark on Scary Artistic Project He Desperately Longed to AttemptвЂќ, decided to take a run at it, in exploratory fashion, no commitments. An image spontaneously leapt into my mind вЂ“ a melding of the Lincoln Memorial and the PietГ . Many years ago, during a visit to Washington DC, my wifeвЂ™s cousin pointed out to us a crypt on a hill and mentioned that, in 1862, while Abraham Lincoln was president, his beloved son, Willie, died, and was temporarily interred in that crypt, and that the grief-stricken Lincoln had, according to the newspapers of the day, entered the crypt вЂњon several occasionsвЂќ to hold the boyвЂ™s body.

Sticks by george saunders analysis