It was Thursday evening and I was
at a drinks party. I had come along with Paul, a friend from work, and I did
not know most of the guests so he was showing me around.
‘That’s Marc,
my flatmate, over there. He’s quite a character.’
‘Oh, why’s
that?’
‘Well, he’s
always fancied himself as a literary figure, not just an author but a really great
writer’
‘That’s
certainly ambitious, have you read anything of his?’
‘Not yet, but
he’s told me a bit about his technique. He works as an assistant in the
University science labs and he’s always taken a scientific approach to things. Perhaps
stretching that to literature is a step too far but it’s an interesting experiment
anyway.’
‘I don’t
really understand; there’s no formula for producing art. Did he work out the
best time of day to write by finding out when we’re most awake?’
‘It’s a bit
more technical than that and, I would say, a lot more fanciful. You see, the
scientists were working on psychological feedback effects. When you’re feeling
happy, you smile: that’s a given. What’s interesting is that the smile creates
a feedback loop. The activation of the muscles in the cheeks releases
endorphins which make us happy. It works both ways, you see?’
‘I think I’ve
heard about that before; they tell depressives they should smile and it’ll make
them happy, right? But I really don’t see how that can make you a writer.’
‘So the mental
state causes a motor effect in the muscles and the motor effect in the muscles
feeds back to create the mental state. Marc’s theory is, if that works for
smiling and happiness, couldn’t it work for other things? He doesn’t want to be
just any writer, he wants to be a great writer, so his thinking is that he
needs to acquire the mental state of a great writer. He’s decided that if he
can sit and type out the great books, he can create a feedback loop and the
physical activity in his fingers will create the mental state of a literary genius!’
‘Well it’s
certainly a theory but I think he sounds a bit delusional’
‘Maybe, but he’s
followed through on it. Really testing the hypothesis. Last Saturday morning he
popped out to the shops and came back with a copy of The Sun Also Rises in one hand and a vintage typewriter in the
other. He’s really thorough about employing the scientific method and
replicating the right environment so he had to get the right machine; he’d
bought a Royal Quiet DeLuxe Portable,
Hemmingway’s favourite typewriter. He said that the keys might be spaced
slightly differently on a different model and so his fingers wouldn’t be
following the same paths as Hemmingway. The movement of the fingers is vital in
creating the neural message back to the brain. If he could type the same words,
on the same typewriter, Hemmingway’s mental landscape as he wrote the novel
could be replicated, and Marc could become a great writer.’
‘It’s
impressive attention to detail but I think he’s going to be disappointed. He’ll
spend ages typing out the book and be no wiser for it.’
‘I couldn’t
agree more; I said the same thing to him but he disappeared straight into his
room. A few minutes later I heard him start, clattering away at the keyboard. This
went on for hours, all day in fact. I think he stopped briefly to make some
toast for supper, but then straight back to it. Some dedication! When I woke up
on Sunday morning, I could hear him already going at it, tapping away. In fact,
he took Monday off work to carry on with it.’
‘It sounds
like he’s become obsessed’
‘Definitely,
he’s not one for half-measures. I came back from work on Monday evening, went
into the kitchen and there on the table was the fruit of his labours, the
entire manuscript for The Sun Also Rises
typed up onto a stack of paper. I had to flick through to check he’d actually
done it: it was all there, about 300 pages. Extraordinary! Just then, I heard
that he was still going. I suppose I hadn’t noticed before because it had
become part of the background noise over the weekend. I opened his door and
there he was, hunched over that old typewriter, hammering at the keys. He was
so intent on the typing that he didn’t even look up at me. I couldn’t help
noticing that there were a couple of bottles of brandy sitting on the desk, one
was empty and he was half way through the other one. He stopped at the end of a
line, knocked the carriage back across the page, took a swig from his glass and
just went on typing!’
‘It
sounds like he’s really getting into the author’s head.’
‘Well
yes, Hemingway was well known for his heavy drinking. I don’t know if this was
part of the experimental set-up or if the tedium had driven him to it. Either
way he must have been pretty sozzled at that point; it’s amazing he was able to
keep going. One other thing that struck me was that he didn’t seem to copying
from anything this time, just typing away, looking down at the keys. I guess he
was trying to repeat the book without prompting, trying to ingrain the lesson.’
‘That
would be incredible though, to memorise an entire book just from typing it out.’
‘You
should have seen the state he was in, completely focussed. For some reason I
think it might be possible, perhaps he’s devised some special technique to remember
it? He’s always telling me about theories that he’s picked up from the
scientists at the lab. The other week it was The Clockwork Universe. The concept is that if every single atom in
the universe is governed by the laws of physics, the motion of those atoms will
continue according to the laws as time passes. Everything is made up of atoms
and everything we do or think is just a product of those atoms moving.
Therefore, we don’t have any choice over our actions; life and the universe
just continue like clockwork as atoms move around on a pre-determined path.’
‘He
certainly sounds like a sponge for knowledge. Maybe he’s the one to memorise that
book’
‘Well,
I suppose we’ll see when he’s finished. Every night this week I come home and
he’s still in his room, typing. I’m actually surprised he’s come along to this,
perhaps he’s realised it’s not working’
Just then I was surprised by a
shout from across the room.
‘And..
here it is!’
Marc, staggering and clearly very
drunk, was waving a sheath of paper above his head. The two girls he had been
speaking to looked distinctly uneasy. My first instinct was to head over and
rescue them but I did not know many people there and thought it was really Paul’s
duty to step in and take Marc home.
‘This
is my finest work yet!’
Marc was still shouting, and
slurring his words. Paul walked across to him and took him by the hands, trying
to calm him down. It seemed to work and pretty soon Marc was slumped over Paul’s
shoulder and being walked towards the door. As they crossed the room to leave,
the manuscript fell from Marc’s hand, landing on the carpet. All eyes were on
the drunkard but I was fascinated to read what he had produced. Had he managed
to re-create the whole book blind, and blind-drunk?
I
picked it up. There was certainly a lot of it, several hundred pages, and,
flicking through, all typed. I turned back to the cover of the stack and was
shocked. The only text was the title: A
Farewell to Arms. Hemmingway’s next book.
