All in all, “the next time you hear a writer on the radio or catch him on the tube or watch him on the monitor or find yourself sitting next to him at dinner, remember he isnât the author of the books you admire; heâs just someone visiting the world outside his study or office or wherever the hell he writes.”
So, if you haven’t rushed yourself to read the original essay yet, take your time to read it below đ
“When Writers Speak – by Arthur Krystal
Thatâs Vladimir Nabokov on my computer screen, looking both dapper and disheveled. Heâs wearing a suit and a multibuttoned vest that scrunches the top of his tie, making it poke out of his shirt like an old-fashioned cravat. Large, lumpish, delicate and black-spectacled, heâs perched on a couch alongside the sleeker, sad-faced Lionel Trilling. Both men are fielding questions from a suave interlocutor with a B-movie mustache. The interview was taped sometime in the late 1950s in what appears to be a faculty club or perhaps a television studio decked out to resemble one. The men are discussing âLolita.â âI do not . . . I donât wish to touch hearts,â Nabokov says in his unidentifiable accent. âI donât even want to affect minds very much. What I really want to produce is that little sob in the spine of the artist-reader.â
Not bad, I think, as I sit staring at the dark granular box on my YouTube screen. In fact, a damned good line to come up with off the cuff. But wait! Whatâs that Nabokovâs doing with his hands? Heâs turning over index cards. Heâs glancing at notes. Heâs reading. Fluent in three languages, he relies on prefabricated responses to talk about his work. Am I disappointed? I am at first, but then I think: writers donât have to be brilliant conversationalists; itâs not their job to be smart except, of course, when they write. Hazlitt, that most self-conscious of writers, remarked that he did not see why an author âis bound to talk, any more than he is bound to dance, or ride, or fence better than other people. Reading, study, silence, thought are a bad introduction to loquacity.â
Sounds right to me. Like most writers, I seem to be smarter in print than in person. In fact, I am smarter when Iâm writing. I donât claim this merely because there is usually no one around to observe the false starts and groan-inducing sentences that make a mockery of my presumed intelligence, but because when the work is going well, Iâm expressing opinions that Iâve never uttered in conversation and that otherwise might never occur to me. Nor am I the first to have this thought, which, naturally, occurred to me while composing. According to Edgar Allan Poe, writing in Grahamâs Magazine, âSome Frenchman â possibly Montaigne â says: âPeople talk about thinking, but for my part I never think except when I sit down to write.â I canât find these words in my copy of Montaigne, but I agree with the thought, whoever might have formed it. And itâs not because writing helps me to organize my ideas or reveals how I feel about something, but because it actually creates thought or, at least supplies a Petri dish for its genesis.
The Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker, however, isnât so sure. In an e-mail exchange, Pinker sensibly points out that thinking precedes writing and that the reason we sound smarter when writing is because we deliberately set out to be clear and precise, a luxury not usually afforded us in conversation. True, and especially true if one writes for magazines where nitpicking editors with expensive shoes are waiting to kick us around for every small mistake. When people who write for a living sit down to earn their pay they make demands on themselves that require a higher degree of skill than that summoned by conversation. Pinker likens this to mathematicians thinking differently when proving theorems than when counting change, or to quarterbacks throwing a pass during a game as opposed to tossing a ball around in their backyards. He does concede, however, that since writing allows time for reveries and ruminations, it probably engages larger swaths of the brain.
I agree. Iâm willing to bet that more gray matter starts quivering when I sit down to write than when I stand up to speak. In fact, if you were to do an M.R.I. of my brain right now, you would see regions of it lighting up that barely flicker when I talk. How do I know this? Because Iâm writing! In fact, Iâm so smart right now that I know my cerebral cortex is employing a host of neurons that are cleverly and charmingly transforming my thoughts and feelings into words. But if I were talking to you about all this, a different set of neurons would be triggered, different connections and associations would be made, and different words and phrases would be generated. In short, Iâd be boring the pants off you.
O.K., Iâm just guessing, but I do think that whoever wrote that he never thinks except when he sits down to write was using hyperbole to make a valid point. Thereâs something about writing, when we regard ourselves as writers, that affects how we think and, inevitably, how we express ourselves. There may be no empirical basis for this, but if, as some scientists claim, different parts of the brain are switched on by our using a pen instead of a computer â and the cognitive differences are greater than what might be expected by the application of different motor skills â then why shouldnât there be significant differences in brain activity when writing and speaking?
Along these lines, it seems composers sometimes pick up different instruments when trying to solve musical problems. Itâs not that a violin offers up secrets the piano withholds, but that the mind starts thinking differently when we play different instruments. Or maybe itâs just that the flow of thought alters when we write, which, in turn, releases sentences hidden along the banks of consciousness. There seems to be a rhythm to writing that catches notes that ordinarily stay out of earshot. At some point between formulating a thought and writing it down falls a nanosecond when the thought becomes a sentence that would, in all likelihood, have a different shape if we were to speak it. This rhythm, not so much heard as felt, occurs only when one is composing; it canât be simulated in speech, since speaking takes place in real time and depends in part on the person or persons weâre speaking to. Wonderful writers might therefore turn out to be only so-so conversationalists, and people capable of telling great stories waddle like ducks out of water when they attempt to write.
So the next time you hear a writer on the radio or catch him on the tube or watch him on the monitor or find yourself sitting next to him at dinner, remember he isnât the author of the books you admire; heâs just someone visiting the world outside his study or office or wherever the hell he writes. Donât expect him to know the customs of the country, and try to forgive his trespasses when they occur. Speaking of dinner, when the German naturalist Alexander von Humboldt told a friend, a Parisian doctor, that he wanted to meet a certifiable lunatic, he was invited to the doctorâs home for supper. A few days later, Humboldt found himself placed at the dinner table between two men. One was polite, somewhat reserved, and didnât go in for small talk. The other, dressed in ill-matched clothes, chattered away on every subject under the sun, gesticulating wildly, while making horrible faces. When the meal was over, Humboldt turned to his host. âI like your lunatic,â he whispered, indicating the talkative man. The host frowned. âBut itâs the other one whoâs the lunatic. The man youâre pointing to is Monsieur HonorĂ© de Balzac.â
 Arthur Krystal is the author of two essay collections, âAgitationsâ and âThe Half-Life of an American Essayist.â
Occam's Razor 