Dialog / Dialogue

I recently read a web article about writing dialog by a prominent teacher of writing, and to my horror, found that I had broken every single one of his rules. He said: Don't use stilted language. I used it fairly heavily. He said don't insert little tags like "he said," or "she mused," or "Jane interjected." Why the hell not? I wish I could give you a link to the page. I'm sure there was good advice, too, but a lot of unqualified advice makes the page less valuable. (By 'unqualified' I mean that the advice might be for a specific type of writing, or intended to achieve a particular objective. In that case, that objective must be made clear, and that's a qualification of the advice. Otherwise it's blanket advice, and since it will not apply in some cases, it's less useful.)

Here's a short passage from something I wrote. This is set in a fantasy feudal world, so the language is accordingly "stilted", or at least formal. =====

One night, when Maia's restlessness was matched by Sybilla's own, the slave was surprised by a soft song. Sybilla was singing, in her thin, barbarian voice, a sweet song. It started out softly, and, as the girl was caught up in the sweetness of it, grew more full of emotion and gathered strength. It was so utterly unexpected that Maia forgot to breathe. She listened, rapt, until the song wound to its quiet end.
Maia held her breath, still taking it in. A head popped out from between the curtains.
“Did you like it?” Sybilla asked softly, her face shining.
“It was very nice, princess,” Maia said, honestly.
“I haven't sung for such a long time!”
“You have not forgotten how! What is it about?”
“Oh, it is in the old tongue of our people. It is about a girl whose husband has gone to war. A lullaby to her baby, you see? Each verse tells of more sad things that have happened to the baby's father; first, going to war, then loneliness, then injury, and finally, he is not coming back. Isn't it beautiful?”
“Is he a prisoner, or is he dead, your highness?”
“Dead, of course. Our men are never taken prisoner, didn't you know? Of course you don't! You had to spoil the mood for me!”
Maia was deeply sorry. “It was an honest question, princess. I thought the song was perfect.” Maia could not see her expression in the near dark, but she heard the rustle of the fabric as the head was silently withdrawn.
“Sing me a song of your people, Maia,” she commanded, her voice coming muffled through the curtains.
Maia sighed. “I was not a singer, my lady. I ...” What was she to say? “I can play the harp,” she said, finally. And she was glad to say it. No one played the harp better than she. And to have been this long without one; it had been hard.
The head popped back out at once. “Really? One of those big things, with lots of strings?”
“Yes ... though I prefer smaller ones.”
“Did you know, the army brought a beautiful one back with them? It is said to have been taken from the royal palace!”
A wave of bile rose in Maia's throat. That they should dare to steal her own harp! But what daring was there? They had killed her parents, and she would be dead, if not for having hidden with the women in the baths.
“Indeed?”
“Yes! I asked for it, and the king gave it to me! It is in storage in a room in the great hall, but you shall have it! Oh Maia, what a joy this is!” Maia was puzzled. Why had there been no indication about musical interests all this while? “From where has this sudden interest in music come, my princess?” “I ... I thought I would soothe you with a song, Maia, since you were restless.” Maia listened, very interested. “It is no secret why we only sing; we have no knowledge of other musical arts but singing! The king asks the army that if musicians should be taken prisoner, they should be treated kindly, so that even if we do not have our own instruments, we might at least allow a slave to enjoy what he loves to do best! But the army is not able to understand such subtleties, and ... I suppose it is a miracle that the harp was brought here, instead of being simply destroyed!” “I will be glad to play it once you bring it here, my princess,” said Maia. ===== As you can see, there is much editorializing between the lines of dialog, and this has been the style I have settled on, since I can't quite figure out how to tell the story with pure dialog. Other writers miraculously do manage to accomplish all the storytelling without much authorial comment, as Susan Haley would say. Though I envy them this ability, I treat my writing as a means of telling a story, and I am not --at the moment, though that may change-- concerned about economizing the means that are used. I think there is value to letting the characters speak for themselves, especially if there is an agenda in the writing. I could have done things a little differently when Maia wonders why the princess is interested in music all of a sudden:

"From where has this sudden interest in music come, my princess?" Maia asked, with a slight sarcastic edge to her voice, which the princess apparently chose to ignore.

That would have changed the tone of the whole thing. As the story continues, early the next morning, the princess and her twin sister bring the harp out, and make Maia play it for hours, listening in fascinated silence. That triumph of innocence would be a little less plausible if notes of cynicism were introduced earlier. I have to admit that I did not write the dialog this way consciously, but I wouldn't consider changing it very much.

"I never imagined that your highness had any interest in song or music at all, my princess," said Maia, carefully veiling her skepticism.

That could have worked, but Maia's forthrightness of speech is of a piece with the slight sullenness she simply can't suppress, and it would be just a little out of character for her to be so restrained with her mistress. I don't know whether I'm making excuses for my choices, or whether they were all made with these motives present, even if subconsciously! It is not helpful to be too conscious of every decision you make when writing. I simply write like a maniac, but I read and re-read the stuff (because I write it to be fun to read for me, most of all, and I love the characters!) and I'm sensitive to most of the nuances, and so I can fix an off-note quickly. Unfortunately, because of the fact that I have read this sort of fiction from the age of 11, a lot of cliches tend to creep into my writing. I really don't know how one can de-cliche-ize one's writing, and still have it flow smoothly. If any phrase flows really smoothly you can absolutely depend upon it having been used before.

Writing a piece of Fiction

I've just finished reviewing a book for Amazon. I normally read these books without putting them down, but this one I have to take in little portions, mostly because it is such a delicious book, a pleasure to hold in my hand as well as read, with characters who wriggle their way into my heart, protesting all the way. It is about a little eleven-year old cynic, and a fifty-year-old cynic, who manage to entertain themselves with their cynicism to their own satisfaction. Now there's a basis for a story! You can read the review at Amazon, if you can find it, and lots of better reviews as well, he said humbly. Here, I'm more interested in the whole matter of writing fiction. Something my blog fans (ahem, if I may be permitted the phrase), both of them, may not know is that I, too have attempted to write fiction. Everything I say below applies to me, and may or may not apply in general. (The tendency to make unwarranted generalizations is a characteristic of the immature intellectual, a tendency to be admired in youth, but deplored in adults. So let me deplore myself right away and get that out of the way.) When I write, I start with characters, because in my case I write in order to make people who will keep me company! (Now don't you worry about me; I'm not as sorry a case as that may lead you to believe, but let's face it, the company we keep may not always be the company we want to keep. KnowaddImean? .) This may be a foolish idea --a fancy, or a "conceit", as literary folks are wont to say-- but it seems to me that my favorite authors begin with characters that they love, warts and all. What happens next? In the case of authors who need to make a living out of writing, they need to go on to creating a situation that is entertaining, absorbing, or relevant to the current state of society. Above all, they need readers, and they need to persuade publishers that they will have readers, so --at least initially-- the readability of the story is paramount, followed only in importance by the ease with which the story can be sold to a publisher. In the case of authors who desire to make a moral point, or illustrate a social phenomenon, or showcase a condition that fills them with indignation, they need to create situations that further their educational goals, though of course these educational goals must be disguised. Unfortunately, people are too clever for their own good, and often see through the agenda of the author, especially if they have had the misfortune to have read an earlier work of theirs. (Oh to have been so unfortunate as to have read Dickens before his later works were published!) In order to further the needs of their story, they now have to invent characters who are the very opposite of their beloved protagonists: people who are the enemy. In the case of authors who are fictionalizing events they have witnessed, or have played a role in, in one sense they need to invent very little. The ingenuity here is in reducing the number of characters by telescoping several of them into a single composite character, simply to keep the task of following the story easier. (I don't bother with this, and consequently, my own stories are impossible to read. That's the way I like it. If that sounds defensive, you might be right.) That horrible aunt you discovered when you were thirteen, and that awful seventh-grade teacher who was such a vicious bastard can be fused into a single villain of some indeterminate gender. At this point, most of the planning ought to be complete. Remember that not just people, but places (On Golden Pond), institutions, pieces of music, and pieces of art or literature too can be characters in the story, such as a bicycle or automobile (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, by Ian Fleming), or a magical mask (The Mask). The reader must be introduced to the characters, after which your story must unfold. At this point, what happens is a symbiosis of (a) what the characters want to do and say to each other, and (b) what you want to happen. The more you fool with (a) in order to accomplish your hidden agenda, the less effective and organic your story will be. Rather than force (b) on the story, it is better to re-think the personalities of the characters, and let what needs to happen, happen of its own accord. Rebecca West explains this far better than I could ever conceive of doing:

the non-sentimental artist has an intention of writing a book on a theme which is as determined and exclusive as the tree’s intention of becoming a tree, and by passing all his material through his imagination and there experiencing it, he achieves the same identity with what he makes as the growing tree does. Now neither tree nor artist has eyes, neither has ears, neither is intelligent: simply they are becoming what they make. [. . .] But the sentimental artist is becoming nothing, he has ears, he has eyes, he is being intelligent, he is playing a game, he is moving certain objects according to certain rules in front of spectators. Those objects one may take as the isolated units of his material which he has passed through his imagination by an unfortunately discontinuous process. He sees that one of those objects occupies a certain position on the ground, and knows that he will score a point if he can remove it to another position; he therefore sends another of these objects rolling along to displace it. Shock . . . one hears that ugly sound.

(Here Rebecca West makes explicit a fact which I, for one, would prefer to forget: that all our characters are merely ourselves, in disguise.) Rebecca West denounces the modus operandi of the most vile sentimental artist as one who interferes with the organicity of a story by manipulating circumstances in order to score points. Instead of being a tree, the work of art becomes an Eiffel Tower, which is good enough for engineering, but not good enough for art, at least in her estimate. (The same organic nature of a work of art is present in music; great music has an inevitability when it unfolds, to which lesser works cannot hope to aspire.) All this, most likely, any would-be author would have his or her opinions about, and which way to go is something between the writer's conscience and his or her art. But there are so many other things, on the surface so mechanical, that we could talk about for days!

Nice Pictures from Mathematics

We're probably safely over the worst of the Chaos mania. When Fractals first began to appear in the media, it was as though the world realized for the first time that mathematics produced pretty pictures. Ha! Remember circles? They're pretty, aren't they? Anyway. It is rather sad how really clever people have such a hard time explaining technical matters in non-technical language. I'm not criticizing the attempts, but some are most definitely more successful than others. Here's an example that isn't entirely satisfactory to my mind, but possibly quite okay to anyone who simply likes to feel that they have gotten familiar with higher mathematics.

A presentation by a British mathematician

A System The idea of a system is a very general one. It is simply something that can be in any one of several states. Only examples can help to understand this idea, because of its extreme generality. (1) A six-sided die on a flat surface. The different states are which number is showing, from one to six. (2) A light. The states are "on" or "off". (You can think of other states, such as "flickering", if you want. Throw them in into the collection of states. Every choice of the set of all possible states makes a different system.) (3) A driver on a highway. The states might be: (*) looking for a rest area. (*) Looking for an exit. (*) Looking for a gasoline exit. (*) Trying to pass. (*) Cruising. Most people, when driving, are in one of these states. Of course it is an oversimplification to insist that a driver only exists in these states, but mathematics is about simplification. (4) A disc drive. It can be reading, writing, or idling. The examples are numerous. A dynamical system is a system that goes from one state into another state in exactly the same order every time. It is as though each state had a forwarding address: "Now go to state x!" a little like a treasure hunt. Obviously, if (as in all the examples I gave) there are only a finite number of states, the dynamical system will not be very interesting. In contrast, if there are an infinite number of states, what the system is doing can be fascinating. Where do all the colors come in? Suppose all the states of our system can be represented by the points in a square. Then every point (state) knows where the system will go next. In other words, right after the system is in that state, it must always go to the same next state, just like the stops on a school bus route. The system is said to be deterministic, because given that the system is at State A, its entire future is known. Joining the dots, we get a trace of all the states that the system visits.

• For instance, all the states from which the system goes on to hit the upper edge of the square can be colored red,
• All the states from which the system goes on to hit the lower edge of the square can be colored blue,
• States starting at which the system ends up at the right edge can be colored green,
• States starting at which the system ends up at the left edge can be colored yellow, and
• States from where the system never hits the boundary but keeps going round and round can be colored grey, say.

This gives you an idea of what goes on in this coloring business. One of the best known fractal figures is a coloring of the plane determined by how many state changes are needed before the state leaves the circle of radius 2 around the point (0,0). (In that example, it is known that if the system leaves the 2-circle, it will not return.) See below. The Mandelbrot set shown here is a representation of something a little more sophisticated than merely a map of starting values from which some system heads off into the sunset. (It is actually a map of an entire family of systems, coloring the systems according to a particular characteristic.) Pretty Pictures from Simple Math Simple algebra can provide pretty pictures too, and has the benefit of being easy to understand. (The very complexity of fractals and dynamical systems attracts some people undoubtedly.) For example, all the points on the XY plane for which

lie on a circle. (A circle of radius 3, with a center at O.) But we can easily color every point depending on how much x^2 + y^2 is. If it is exactly 9, we could color it black, and if it is between 0and 1, we could color it blue, and so on, and we would get a pattern of concentric rings. Well, why not change the formula? What about a minus sign? x^2 - y^2 = 9 might give us some pretty pictures, too! Here's the result, below on the left. The points that are colored yellow correspond to points that satisfy the equation, the other colors represent points for which the left side is larger than 9 or smaller than 9, by different amounts. It is possible to view the behavior of this formula in 3 dimensions. The result is known as a saddle-surface, for obvious reasons. The flat plane indicates the zero level.

First Movement Form (Sonata-Allegro Form)

Hi, everybody. I thought I'd greet everyone before I lost all my friends for ever!

Writing about form is difficult, without a blackboard, a piano, music examples, anything like that, but I'm going to do it. I want to add the examples somehow, someday, but I'm going to get started right away, or this will never get done.

'Form' is the word used to describe the relationship between the parts and the whole of a piece of music, or a movement of a piece of music. The first movement of a conventional symphony, for example by Haydn or Mozart, has a particularly interesting form, and this is what I'm going to try and describe. Conventional music, say of the centuries preceding the 20th, is usually written in movements, and each movement is usually written in a key, such as B Flat major. The word key stands for a set of seven notes, which form a sort of musical home scale for the movement. The music can, and usually will, travel away from this home key, and the further it goes, using different notes (called accidentals, for no good reason,) the more a listener gets a feeling of being far from home. For instance, think of the theme from Jeopardy. It's a simple little ditty, and comes to a close with hardly any departure from its home key. Then, the same tune is repeated, but most definitely in a different key. (In fact, the choice of key is startlingly unconventional, presumably a deliberate choice, to point up the intellectual atmosphere of the show.) And then, the tune is repeated once again, in yet another key! So, all the repetitions of that tune constitute a kind of 'form' for that theme, a rather unusual one (but anticipated by Wagner in his Tannhauser overture; we'll talk about that another time...) Let's start with some major key; it doesn't matter which. There are two related major keys with the same notes except for just one each. One of them is only different because the fourth note up from the home note is replaced with a note one semitone higher. This new set is called the key of the dominant. Almost any tune worth its salt (and certainly its accompanying harmony) will take a brief trip to the key of the dominant. (Example: in the Star Spangled Banner, by the time you get to "dawn's early light?" you've already gone to the dominant. The second syllable of "early" is on the raised fourth note that signals the arrival at the new major key. Soon afterwards, however, the tune hurries back to the home key. But the same little sortie out to the dominant key happens in the third line. Then, towards the end, the words "...that our flag was still there!" goes into the dominant yet again. This time it is the word "still" that hosts the raised fourth note. (The official description of that note is 'the fourth degree of the scale.') Another major key very closely related to the home key is the subdominant. This one has all the same notes as the home key, except that instead of the seventh note, it has the note one semitone below it. Let's illustrate with C major. C major has all the white notes: C,D,E,F,G,A,B,C. Its dominant major key is G major: GABCDE F# G. Notice the new note F#. Notice that it replaces the note F, which was the fourth degree of the scale of C major. The subdominant major key (of C, of course) is F major: F, G, A, Bflat, C, D, E, F. Notice the new note Bflat, which replaces B, which was the seventh degree of C.

Sonata-Allegro Form

This form is very likely to have been inspired by literary notions, because the basis of the form is a choice of two themes, or motifs. These are brief musical phrases that are highly recognizable. For example, there is the famous "da-da-da-DUM!" of Beethoven's Fifth, or the obsessive tune of Mozart's G minor symphony, or the famous unison theme of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Listen to a clip of the beginning of this movement. You first hear Theme No. 1, and then it fades away, and we hear Theme No. 2. The first theme is vigorous and energetic, and the second softly falling, sweet and consoling. Traditionally the themes have been masculine and feminine, respectively, but obviously the choice of attributes was vague and subjective. In this movement, Mozart gives us two themes that are sufficiently masculine on one instance and feminine in the other to satisfy anybody. This first musical example simply shows the two themes being "announced". If you have a fairly sensitive ear, you could tell that the Second Theme is actually in a slightly different key (D major) than the First Theme was (G major). It's almost impossible to notice the key changing, because Mozart was so smooth and clever in how he managed the transition! Exposition

After the two themes have been announced (in this example; if you have your own recording to listen to, the exposition is repeated in its entirely, to provide everyone a clear shot at recognizing the two themes), the central part of the movement consists of a development section. The themes are used in various ways, combined, strung together, turned upside-down, separated into bits and put back together, etc etc. (It sounds a lot more exciting in theory than it is in practice. Mozart gave this piece only a modest development here, only a few seconds.)

After the development, there is a restatement of the two main themes, called the recapitulation. The themes are re-announced, in their usual order, but this time, they are both in the same key. This is the exciting problem that the composer has to solve. If the recapitulation is simply the exposition, the second theme would be in the wrong key, according to The Rules. So things have to be changed around just a tiny little bit to set the Second Theme also in G major! Here are the two themes as they appear in the recapitulation of this particular recording, with the intervening stuff taken out for easy comparison: Recapitulation 

Well, that almost completes the most interesting form that has come down to us in classical music: First Movement, or Sonata-Allegro Form.  All that remains is a grand ending for the movement, called a coda (which simply means "tail" in Italian).  Often the coda is just a number of loud chords, a sort of punctuation to finish off the movement.

The rest of the Symphony (or sonata, or whatever) usually consists of a beautiful, slow, quiet, second movement, and then the structure varies a little, as follows.

In symphonies, there is a third movement, which used to be a minuet, which reveals the origins of the symphony in dance suites of the seventeenth century.  It was usually a minuet, then a contrasting minuet for a reduced number of parts, possibly even just three parts, called the Trio; followed by the first minuet again.  Later on, Beethoven substituted a movement called a scherzo, which means a joke.  They were essentially a movement in triple time, with surprising and humorous elements in them.

Then, all compositions in this general category: Sonatas, Concertos, Symphonies, have a last movement--a finale, as they are called--which is usually a rollicking, highly rhythmic movement to finish off the work.  They are sometimes built on the same model as the first movement (Sonata-Allegro form), or sometimes a rondo form, where it begins with a tune, which is followed by a different tune, then the first tune again, then another tune, and so on.  Very rarely, the finale is a hybrid of the Sonata-Allegro form and the Rondo, where there is a little development section as well.

Arch

Symphonies

Symphonies were invented just a couple of hundred years ago. Until that time, apparently, music was not supposed to be written just because someone was bursting to write a piece of music; it was for a definite purpose, such as for a celebration, or for dancing, or maybe for the entertainment of some count or duke. A famous musician would bring his band along, and they would play something to show off his skill. (In other words, the music was probably written precisely for the purpose of displaying the skill of the performer and his troupe.)

Around the 1600s, musicians seem to have had more leisure to indulge in creativity. Following the lead of incredibly wealthy courts such as that of France, musicians created grand musical fantasias, such as Handel's Watermusic, and Purcell's Fairy Queen, which consisted principally of dance movements. In Italy these were called sinfonias. It happened that the composers who put these things together put a lot of energy into the grand opening movement, which was called the Overture, and was not a dance at all. So the whole musical work consisted of: Grand Overture, followed by a number of dance pieces. They were called Suites in English, or Dance Suites. [Added later: I forgot to make the main point I wanted to right here; most symphonists must have found it more satisfying --in terms of the opportunity for self-expression-- to write the overtures than the rest of the suite. It is almost certain that this was the reason for the classical symphony to be greatly influenced by the overture than by the other dance movements. However, the third movement of a classical symphony was often a minuet, or a scherzo, a movement in triple time that expressed humor.] Today we might view such unprepossessing works with condescension, but there are many who enjoy them greatly, myself among them. Some of the most satisfying are Johann Sebastian Bach's four orchestral suites, called Ouvertures, and Georg Friderik Handel's Watermusic suites. Of Bach orchestral suites, the first two are a little more contemplative in nature, while the last two are more energetic and celebratory. In all, the actual introductory overture is the most grand and serious movement. When such men as Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach and Joseph Haydn began to experiment with abstract music, that is, music that was not intended for an entertainment, nor for the theater, they appear to have taken the Overture as a starting point. In any event, in the symphonies of the 19th century, the first movement is the most serious movement, followed by usually three shorter movements. (The first movements also had a very sophisticated structure, about which I'll write another time. It's better to get familiar with a couple of symphonies first, by just listening to them repeatedly.)

Haydn must be credited with establishing the symphony as a viable compositional vessel for the creativity of Mozart, Beethoven, and those who followed, until by the time of Mahler, composers felt impelled to break the mold of the form simply because, one imagines, that it was the only way to escape the domination of Beethoven's incredible achievements. Those who are knowledgeable about symphonies usually have their favorites, and I was hoping to air my own. But the collection of all symphonies ever written is unbelievably varied. Thus two people could claim to love symphonies, but be thinking of very different examples of the genre. The symphonies of Haydn do not excite me very much. There are several that command attention, but I'm not totally grabbed by them. Starting with late Mozart, though, symphonies start getting very engaging. The symphony that seems easiest to get to know and like, I think, is Mozart's Symphony number 40 in G minor. The unforgettable first movement was well known in the seventies, thanks to a pop version that didn't come close to doing it justice. And once that is so familiar that you don't long to hear it over and over again, why there's three more movements to get familiar with! Beethoven's 5th is one of the most famous symphonies of all. But his 3rd symphony is also fascinating. It has an amazing sense of motion, as if things are whirling round at a terrific pace! As a teenager I viewed it with a certain disdain, since the 5th seemed so superior in it's intense passion. But the unbridled enthusiasm of the 3rd (often known as the Eroica) is hard to resist; finally when I was 40 it got me. That's one persistent symphony!

Beethoven's 3rd, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th are all frequently performed, and well-established in the symphonic repertoire. But I discovered Beethoven's 4th earlier this year. I had bought a whole set, and had just put the first few on, to get familiar with them. Well, I guess it worked! Nos 1, 2 and 4 are really musical, and by no means trial runs. Any composer would have been proud to have written any of them; they're just overshadowed by the remaining six.

Franz Schubert was an amazing symphonist. Two of his symphonies are notably famous: the Unfinished, and the Ninth. The Unfinished, especially, is accessible to someone not accustomed to listening to extended works, because of the gorgeous melodies with which it is filled. Johannes Brahms wrote four, at least to our knowledge. They're each very powerful works, indeed. But 2, 3 and 4 seem to be a little on the lighter side than 1, which is very Beethovenian, as well as very Brahmsian. Felix Mendelssohn, a near contemporary of Brahms, wrote a number of symphonies. The first few were written as a teenager of about 15, and were only for strings (violins 1 and 2, violas, cellos and double-basses), and when Mendelssohn's symphonies are considered, these are not usually what are meant. The major orchestral symphonies were written when he was about 30, and one of them is the famous Italian Symphony, written in recollection of a holiday spent in Italy. Germans who traveled in Italy in the 19th century were often impressed with the sunshine and the sunny personalities of the Italians, and Mendelssohn put a lot of bubbliness into the Italian. Finally, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky wrote several symphonies that are very well loved, in particular Symphonie Pathetique; Antonin Dvorak wrote the lovely symphony titled From the New World after a visit to the US; Gustav Mahler wrote many symphonies, including the towering 8th, which requires an enormous number of performers, and is very impressive. And one of the great symphonists was Anton Bruckner, who wrote some lovely symphonies that are very atmospheric, notably the 4th, called the Romantic Symphony. This is just a starting list of possible symphonies to listen to. Finally, a little gem that is not a symphony at all, but rather a serenade for light after-dinner (or even during dinner) entertainment: Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusic, K525. The writing is famously transparent, that is, its very simplicity makes it easy to see its structure, especially the structure of its first movement, which is a poster-child for the structure of the first movement of a symphony.

Archimedes

Humor

Some authors have ventured to suggest that it's humor that sets humans apart from the lower animals. I don't know about lower animals; if you've ever owned a dog, you could not have possibly missed the grin of anticipation on its face as it waits for you to discover its latest practical joke. 

Cats are different. They always regard you with this look that seems to say, "What? Are you looking at me? Is something wrong?" Humor seldom comes into it. I remember the wonderful day --back when I was in grade seven I believe it was-- when a bunch of buddies and I decided to delight our friends in boarding school with a play. It was a home-made drama about a troubled kingdom, where the Prime Minister was plotting against the King. I was starred as the villain of the piece, but somehow I had to drink wine laced with poison, I remember. (It seems to me that I should have been lacing the wine, not drinking it. Obviously the plot must have been more subtle than I recall.) 

It was a Methodist school (lord love 'em) and we were all, what, eleven or twelve, and not permitted to drink spoiled orange juice, let alone wine. I was supposed to be brought a glass of Portello (a distant ancestor of Dr Pepper). On the evening of the performance, I settled down onstage, and called for the wine. The glass was duly brought out by the Butler (who hammed it up, as expected), and, possibly out of a desire not to be upstaged, I grossly over-acted the innocent task of drinking the wine. Instead of writhing on the floor with pain, though, I finished the glass, and called for another, showing every indication of appreciating the drink. The audience, who had been expecting at least a decent belly-ache, roared with laughter. (We were usually bored out of our minds on Saturday nights in boarding school, and would have roared at practically anything.) Thus a clown was born. 

Clowning, of course, isn't really the kind of humor we want to talk about when we're feeling intellectual, so I'll let it go soon. But some of the greatest comics we have known have also been clowns. It seems to me that someone with a sense of humor should write a piece about Clowning. Clowns are such dreadfully serious people that you can't trust a clown with the job. I'm not knowledgeable enough to be the one to do it myself. In the rest of what follows, I would like to describe some of the funniest people whose work I'm familiar with, and hope that if you like some of these, you might want to check out the rest.

Woody Allen. We know Woody from his brilliant movies, though younger folk who browse the internet might not be familiar with them. If you think about it, the humor in those movies is very literary; and if you suspected that Woody Allen was a brilliant humorist author, you would be right. I found an anthology of humor one time, and his was one of the funniest pieces in it. I wish his brand of humor would come back in fashion! If you do want to try one of his movies, it might help to have the subtitles on, so as not to miss a single syllable of his humor! 

Mel Brooks. Oh, where to begin? If you plan to end your life tonight, just hold off until you watch Blazing Saddles, one of the funniest western spoofs ever made. It features a star cast including Gene Wilder, Harvey Korman, Mel Brooks himself, Madeline Kahn, a very young Alex Karras, John Hillerman, Dom de Louise, Count Basie and Slim Pickens. It's worth watching if only for Madeline Kahn for her vintage performance parodying Marlene Dietrich, for which alone Madeline Kahn deserves a Nobel Prize. This is a keeper. It was one of the first DVDs I bought for my personal film archives, and every time they come up with a super deluxe anniversary edition of the same thing, I buy another one. Warning: the ending is a preposterously sophomoric cop-out right from the pages of MAD Magazine, but what the heck.

Groucho Marx. The Marx Brothers, a bunch of real brothers who emigrated from Hungary, were dragged along in the wake of the comedic genius of Groucho. Harpo and Chico were talented comic actors in their own right, but Groucho was also an amazing literary humorist. I don't know whether there is a lot of Groucho writing available today, but it is certainly worth reading. It takes you back to the mad old days of the 40s, but they're good days to go back to, even if they weren't that much fun to live in. (I was not around in person.) As Groucho might have said, you can have your big game hunting, but in Alabama the Tuscaloosa. Stupid, right? But funny! Here's another one: Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. (Inside of a dog, it's hard to read.)

Carol Burnett, Harvey Korman, Vicky Lawrence, and Tim Conway. These four actors were absolutely inspired, especially as they appeared in the Carol Burnett Show. For sheer physical humor, none of them could be surpassed. If you need one episode to try before you make up your mind, try the spoof of Gone with the Wind. A good DVD to invest in is their collection called Show Stoppers, which singles out the moments where the cast of the show lost control at their own jokes. the culprit was usually Harvey Korman, an incorrigible giggler! 

Danny Kaye. Danny Kaye was a physical comedian, and a comic actor. He appeared in a number of movies, including the Court Jester, the Inspector General, and Knock on Wood. Towards the end of his life, he appeared as a crazy Russian dentist in the Cosby Show, an absolute triumph! He was also incredibly musical, and has appeared with symphony orchestras, (I believe the New York Philharmonic was one) for fund-raisers. The brilliant writer of Danny Kaye's patter songs was Silvia Fine, later Silvia Fine Kaye, and some of her best stuff is in Court Jester, where Danny is trying to learn which drinking vessel to avoid. "The vessel with the pestle, not the chalice from the palace." (Danny Kaye's friend is a lady spy, played brilliantly by Glynis Johns, who subsequently appeared in an equally brilliant role in Mary Poppins, as the suffragette mother of the two little kids. [Added later: I just discovered that it was for Glynis Johns that Steven Sondheim wrote "Send in the Clowns."] Also, watch the unforgettable Gypsy Song in Inspector General, in which Danny Kaye sings, dances, and either plays the violin, or pretends to do it very well indeed.  

Bill Cosby. It's hard to classify Bill Cosby, because his interests seem to spread wider than his niche as a comic. One wonders whether he is a reformer stuck inside the body of a comic, or a comic stuck inside the body of an educationist. Still, this should not distract us from admiring his humor, which is not only an insightful commentary on the condition of being black in a white world --actually a rather minor concern for him-- but being a man dealing with women, and being an intelligent person dealing with lovable idiots. I laughed myself sick at one of his shows. A funny, funny guy. 

P. G. Wodehouse. Wodehouse is a member of a generation of Brits who decided that the USA wasn't as bad as they had thought back in 1776. A lot of his humor had to do with hyperbole, and using American slang in odd ways. The British don't find Wodehouse particularly funny, but out in the Commonwealth, Wodehouse provides an opportunity to peek in on the early 20th century in Britain, and keep company with Wodehouse's own brand of lovable nuts. Wodehouse provided some of the words and lyrics to Guys and Dolls, a Broadway musical which was later released as a movie that starred Marlon Brando, for you Brando fans. It's full of the 40s gangster talk that Wodehouse loved. If you like Wodehouse, you might also try S.J. Perelman and Stephen Leacock, both funny writers of the same period, from New York and Toronto, respectively.  

Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams. The late Douglas Adams was a very funny writer. His language was not dreadfully funny, but his ideas were. Even his choice of names (e.g. Ford Prefect) would make me laugh out loud. He could dream up one funny situation after another. The new movie version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a worthy addition to his collection of books. Also very funny are The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul, and the other Dirk Gently book(s). Terry Pratchett, in contrast, in addition to being someone who could create comedic situations, is also able to squeeze a laugh even out of a description of a perfectly ordinary scene, like P.G.Wodehouse could. In addition, he has a brilliant knack for parody, which is probably a survival trait among Brits, so weighed down by superior literature. One way to keep sane after a dozen years of Shakespeare is to parody it. Try Wyrd Systers, one of his classic works, which parodies not only Macbeth, but also Hamlet, and heaven knows how many other plays. 

Monty Python, Saturday Night Live, and Second City These jokesters were comic ensembles, so it's hard to know where to give credit for their hilarious stuff. Monty Python's writing was done by the fellows themselves, and Saturday Night Live had writers, one of whom is a great comic in his own right: Al Franken. Second City is an unknown quantity for me; all I know is that the few shows I have watched had me in stitches. (Aren't they Canadians? You've gotta have a sense of humor to live over there.)  

Ellen DeGeneres. I wish there were more nominees to be the Carol Burnette of this century. Ellen DeGeneres is a leading contender, and if you doubt me, watch Finding Nemo, and listen to the manic lines of Dory, the confused female buddy who helps Nemo's dad to rescue the youngster. I can't tell how much of the dialog is the screenplay and how much is Ellen, but her humor and her personality shine through. I must read her stuff; it is probably very funny. She should really get into Burnett-like skits; maybe she does, and I just haven't seen them. She's a tad too self-conscious to be totally effective; but that could be a matter of extreme youth. (I don't know how old she is, but she does look young.) 

Paula Poundstone. I had never seen this lady do her stuff (until a few seconds ago), but she is a hilarious panelist on Wait, wait, don't tell me! one of the few funny shows on NPR. I like her awkward humor, but she does have a good feel for comedy. The important thing for a comedian is to spot things that an ordinary person should find funny, but maybe has not noticed yet. Click on the title of this piece, and you should get a YouTube clip of Paula on Letterman.  

Garrison Keillor. I almost feel bad to include The Garrison as a humorist, but arguably that's what he is. Conservatives might not find this funny, but one of the most hysterical moments in public radio was his monologue right after the 2004 elections. It encapsulates many aspect of this genius's work and personality and style. His weekly program called A Prairie Home Companion is a good place to call Home, for those who lead a nomadic life.  

Charlie Chaplin. I'm going to stop here, but Chaplin has almost defined comedy for generations, and if you can find a collection of his shorts, you should watch them. The Kid is a good choice. Other wonderful actors of this generation are Laurel and Hardy (Flying Deuces), and Buster Keaton (The General). I have left out some comedic stars such as Jerry Lewis & Dean Martin, and Gracie Allen and George Burns. Carey Elwes has acted in a few fabulous movies, as have Michael Myers, Rowan Atkinson, and Christopher Guest, and numerous young people whose names are constantly in the news. My intention was to focus on my own favorites, in particular those who might be overlooked by younger readers. 

[Added later] Steve Martin's Father of the Bride series is hilarious, not least for the contributions of Martin Short, and Diane Keaton. 

[Added later:] Jackie Gleason, Art Carney and Audrey Meadows were an incredible team, and I do not want to leave out Seinfeld and his team, either.  And finally, I wish to note the talents of Sarah Silverman, Chelsea Handler, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and the maniacal Kate McKinnon] 

Archimedes

What I Would Like In A Car

One Summer, my daughter and I packed our ailing puppy and a whole lot of stuff into our little Nissan, and headed out West. This was so that daughter and puppy could spend July Fourth with their Mama, my Ex. What with one thing and another, the car died just outside Winona, Arizona. We somehow found our way to Phoenix, and I was under pressure to obtain a car that would not give up the ghost in the middle of the desert. And Junior and I shopped around, and found a used Jeep Cherokee. It was a tragic love affair. It was a big, roomy, chunky automobile that did about 10 miles a gallon, except on the highway, on which it was pleased to give us 18 entire miles a gallon. Its decline began the first time I tried to put it into four wheel drive. Four years later, I had to give it away. The Cherokee violated almost every principle of automobile design that I had espoused. But when I regarded it with loving eyes as it stood in my driveway, it looked exactly like what I thought in my mind a family car should look like. Here is my dream car.

• It should keep you out of the cold and the wet.
• It should have space to haul your stuff.
• It should be easy to drive.
• It should give you lots of miles for very few gallons.
• It should be comfortable.
• It should be stable on the road, with perhaps all-wheel drive.
• It should be agile.
• It should protect the occupants against very minor collisions.
• It should have easy access at the back, and access to the cargo area from the back seat.
• It should have a nice stereo, and tinted windows.
• It should smell nice inside.
• It should look like a JEEP CHEROKEE.

I suppose there are a million reasons why a car that looks like a Cherokee should guzzle gas like a Cherokee, and have all those transmission troubles. But I think the principal reason is that they build cars these days to withstand a head-on collision with a locomotive. If you make cars like that, you're going to get gas mileage like that. Why can't they design cars for people who are reconciled to handing in their dinner pail if they're in a serious accident? With all these trucks whizzing about on the highway, there really is no hope for survival in an accident, so why try? Isn't it better for a few people to die on the highways, than that all the remaining gasoline should be used up to power enormous, heavy automobiles that set out to protect their passengers, and fail anyway, but succeed in eating up a whole lot of fuel? Ralph Nader, the safety prophet, first pointed the finger at the automobiles of the mid 20th century, and started this race to make safe automobiles. The solutions that have been found to the safety problem have generally had implications for gas mileage. From a serious, ecological point of view, as well as from the point of view of conservation and energy efficiency, here's what we need:

1. Low mass transportation. The weights of all transport, including commercial trucks, must gradually be reduced to a minimum.
2. Low speed transport. All vehicles of greater weight than a certain cutoff must be required to keep to speeds under a certain maximum. This means that produce on its way to market will spend a longer time on the road, but SO BE IT.
3. Segregation of high-mass traffic from low-mass passenger vehicles, either on different roads, or on different lanes in the same road.

Perhaps the time has come to make the railways more efficient and consumer-friendly. Intersections with road traffic should be eliminated with under/over passes, so that neither railway traffic nor highway traffic will be slowed down. Efficient locomotives must be designed, and locomotive traffic made more reliable and efficient. This is far easier to do than to regulate highway traffic. If railways become more streamlined in operation, some of the air congestion in the vicinity of airports will surely be relieved. Eventually, our freedom to travel will decline with unavailability of fossil fuels. But it need not decline tomorrow. There is a certain arrogance in the structure of our transportation system, a refusal to compromise freedom and convenience. The large businesses and industries profess to fear the American public, but I have found that these same corporations really run the country. It is possible to make changes easily, and I believe the costs will be far less than they are feared to be.

 Archimedes, who drives a Honda now