A picture's worth a thousand words?

Recently I saw the film 'The Book Thief', based on the book by Australian author Markus Zusak. Perhaps you saw it too. I enjoyed it despite the grim moments, and especially loved the wonderful characters and warm, quirky humour. But I had read the book, and there was something missing - as there often is when the book becomes a film.

When I read the book, I was struck by the many fascinating turns of phrase, the way words seemed to have been carefully chosen to stop you in your tracks as you were reading so that you would pay attention to the description and let it sit with you.

Here's an extract from the first chapter:

Of course, an introduction.

            A beginning.

Where are my manners?

I could introduce myself properly, but it’s not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I’ll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps. (p.4)

The sections in bold are what I'm talking about - words put together (the technical terms is 'collocations') that are quite unusual, often because the verb typically calls for a particular kind of noun to be the 'do-er' or the 'done-to', but the noun chosen is of a different kind that would not normally be considered a good fit. It's not enough just to put a noun with a verb - under normal circumstances, you have to choose the right kind of noun with particular semantic properties in order for it to work well with the verb. But in literature, the writer can exploit and subvert these conventions in order to make very particular or vivid meanings.

'A color [excuse the American spelling] will be perched on my shoulder.' 'To perch' is a particular kind of verb that generally calls for a very tangible thing to do the perching - for example, a bird is the thing you would usually expect to find perched on someone's shoulder. Sometimes a building is said to be perched on a cliff top or other precarious position. But a 'colour' - that is certainly not a tangible thing. Colour is an abstract quality. So we can differentiate between two categories of nouns - concrete and abstract. Some verbs need a concrete noun, whereas others can take either abstract or concrete.

I'm still not sure what it means for the narrator (spoiler alert: the narrator is 'Death') to say that a colour will be perched on his shoulder. Perhaps Zusak means for us to be confused there - after all, we can't yet know what it will be like when we die. Or perhaps he's trying to make 'colour' more tangible here by its association with the verb 'to perch'.

A similar thing is happening with 'a scream will dribble down the air'. With the verb 'to dribble', we expect the thing that dribbles to be concrete, and more specifically, something liquidy. You can see now how specific the requirements of the verb can be in terms of what kinds of nouns are 'allowed' to hang around with it. But 'a scream'? - it's neither liquid nor concrete.

Likewise, the phrase 'down the air' subverts our expectations. We expect that if something dribbles, it will dribble down a tangible surface, such as a wall or window. But 'the air' is not a surface and so the whole clause jars you as you read. As I ponder it, I get a very vivid image of the way the sound of the scream might make an initial impact and then gradually die away, leaving some kind of mental or emotional trace, as liquid dribbling down a surface leaves a trace.

I expect it would be very difficult, no matter how good the screenplay, to capture in film the meanings made by these unusual collocations. There are lots of these examples in the book where abstract things are collocated with verbs that usually require concrete things, and the thing about abstract things is that they are abstract. That is, they are harder to convey in the visual medium of film, without using the original wording somehow in spoken or written language as part of the film. A picture may be worth a thousand words; but where the words precede the picture, there may be no picture worthy of the words.  

References

Zusak, M. (2008) The Book Thief. Sydney: Picador/Pan Macmillan.

The Language of God

I had some days off sick this week, which gave me the opportunity to do a bit of long-awaited leisure reading. So I started reading 'The Language of God' (2006, Free Press), which I found amongst the small collection of books my husband already owned before I moved in with my several extra bookshelves worth!

I was initially attracted by the title, as you can imagine - but it's not really about 'language' of the kind that I study. It's written by Dr Francis Collins, who is the head of the Human Genome Project, and the title is taken from US President Bill Clinton's speech at the official public launch of the findings of the Human Genome Project, the human DNA sequence, in 2000. Clinton said: "Today we are learning the language in which God created life. We are gaining ever more awe for the complexity, the beauty, and the wonder of God's most divine and sacred gift." (see full transcript here).

Collins' aim in the book is to dispel the notion that a rigorous science precludes serious belief in a transcendent God "by arguing that belief in God can be an entirely rational choice, and that the principles of faith are, in fact, complementary with the principles of science" (p.3). As part of this, he gives his own testimony as a scientist with a firm faith in God.

I haven't finished reading it yet (only up to chapter 3) but I have thoroughly enjoyed reading the first two chapters. In the first chapter, Collins shares the story of his interesting childhood, his growing thirst for scientific knowledge, his studies in chemistry and then medicine, and ultimately, sparked by the simple question of a dying woman, his discovery of a God who is there, and who takes a personal interest in human beings.

He also shares some of the trains of thought he went through during this time of discovery, inspired by the writings of C.S. Lewis, another academic who had taken a very similar path from atheism to faith. These included the perplexing fact that "the concept of right and wrong appears to be universal among all the members of the human species" and that "this law appears to apply peculiarly to human beings" (p.23). I was encouraged and excited to read his reflections on the differences between humans and animals on this point, as this is an issue that has been on my mind, as seen in last week's blog post. I was glad to find some support for my ideas from a more knowledgeable source. It's nice to know I might be thinking on the right track!