At LutherDog’s suggestion, I have “read” Jack London’s Sea Wolf. (I actually listened to it; I borrowed the audio book from the local library.)
There were a couple passages I thought were striking, and so I share them here with some comments.
Childish and immaterial as the topic was, the quality of [the seal hunters'] reasoning was still more childish and immaterial. In truth, there was very little reasoning or none at all. Their method was one of assertion, assumption, and denunciation. They proved that a seal pup could swim or not swim at birth by stating the proposition very bellicosely and then following it up with an attack on the opposing man’s judgment, common sense, nationality, or past history. Rebuttal was precisely similar. I have related this in order to show the mental calibre of the men with whom I was thrown in contact. Intellectually they were children, inhabiting the physical forms of men.
Doesn’t that describe the caliber of most of what passes for political discussion? Substitute “weapons of mass destruction” or “links between Iraq and al Qaeda” for the proposition that “a seal pup could swim or not swim at birth”, and it is what you hear all the time, particularly (though not exclusively) from the Left.
Now for a second passage.
I’ve always found it amazing that authors and movie makers claim they need to use foul language to make their work authentic. Perhaps within their own circles they never experience language in any other way, and so they think that everyone else talks that way. Perhaps they just don’t know any better.
But perhaps they are just taking the easy way out. It is possible, although difficult, to write in a way that clearly gives the feel of people who talk in a rough way without actually lowering yourself and your audience to their level. Admittedly, this is more difficult this is more difficult to do in the movies, but I contend that it is still possible.
Jack London does just this, showing just how salty a sailor’s language can be, but without making you feel like you have to take a shower afterwards.
Then a most surprising thing occurred. The captain broke loose upon the dead man like a thunderclap. Oaths rolled from his lips in a continuous stream. And they were not namby-pamby oaths, or mere expressions of indecency. Each word was a blasphemy, and there were many words. They crisped and crackled like electric sparks. I had never heard anything like it in my life, nor could I have conceived it possible. With a turn for literary expression myself, and a penchant for forcible figures and phrases, I appreciated, as no other listener, I dare say, the peculiar vividness and strength and absolute blasphemy of his metaphors. The cause of it all, as near as I could make out, was that the man, who was mate, had gone on a debauch before leaving San Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen short-handed.
It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends, that I was shocked. Oaths and vile language of any sort had always been repellent to me. I felt a wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and, I might just as well say, a giddiness. To me, death had always been invested with solemnity and dignity. It had been peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial. But death in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a thing with which I had been unacquainted till now. As I say, while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that swept out of Wolf Larsen’s mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked. The scorching torrent was enough to wither the face of the corpse. I should not have been surprised if the wet black beard had frizzled and curled and flared up in smoke and flame. But the dead man was unconcerned. He continued to grin with a sardonic humour, with a cynical mockery and defiance. He was master of the situation.
Now that is good writing that I can share with my children.
