Clarity and precision is elusive. It is hard to be clear, when one's mind is filled with doubt. It is harder to be precise; the eternal question of why hinders precision. Why? Why am I? Why am I not? Precision, however, comes easier to those who move away from abstraction. A writer achieves precision by observing and experiencing the world. The writer, in a way, is part voyeur. Whereas voyeurs consume the image, writers do more than consume; they speculate beyond the surface.
Clarity and precision is difficult to achieve - descriptive narratives may serve as example. Although a writer can free himself from abstraction by writing about experience and observation, this move exposes him to another danger, banal verbosity. Descriptions ought to paint with generous strokes an adequate representation of reality, or at least a subjective interpretation of reality. The writer is entrusted by his audience to provide insight as well as description; in short, the task is to inform readers without falling into tedium.
Clarity and precision, hence, does not come from inspiration alone. For a piece of writing to achieve these two elusive qualities, the writer must approach the task as a labour of love - a task initiated by passion and sustained by discipline. Even when a writer goes gonzo, he is still expected to be clear and precise in thought; it all must lead somewhere and be coherent, if only in structure.
It is hard to write like Samuel Beckett. In spite of his ostensibly fractured narration, such as in Molloy, a careful reader ought to note the carefully plotted structure of the work. Hence, there is an aporetic quality to clarity and precision. On the surface, clarity of structure is not easily grasped when reading "schizo" prose. The narrator, possibly named Molloy, alludes to the point of the story - "to speak of things that are left, say my goodbyes, finish dying". And in spite of the ranting and wandering narrative, which some characterize as late modernist, insofar as it supposedly subverts the conventional structure of the novel, Beckett moves the story along through the recurrence of lack - no sense of time, no sense of place - "Molloy" often wonders where he is, and a general sense of uncertainty. Lack provides for mood. And of course, Molloy and Moran's narration, at times lacking consistency, does provide ambience. The intensity of this lack culminates with the infamous ending, "It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining," as if negating -- through this most assured of negations -- the entirety of the novel. The condition captured by the writer is a subjective interpretation; the question of whether it is an actual condition is often irrelevant. So what is clear or precise about imploding the novel with this negation at the end? Death is the highest negation. The novel finished dying. Possibly to begin again.
