Pointless Points

At one point in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis stops his narrative to dwell on a dead bluebottle fly on a windowsill.

What’s the point of including an utterly meaningless detail like that in an otherwise compelling narrative? How could a dead fly possibly carry the plot forward?

In my house, flies, bluebottle or otherwise, never live long enough to die of old age. I hunt them down and kill them like a relentless assassin. But I know what he’s talking about. I’ve seen those wizened little husks in my shop and other neglected places. I associate them with dry, cracked wood trim and dust-covered window glass.

Lewis is evoking empty rooms and forgotten places with little reminders left in the narrative like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. He leaves us a faint trail to an undeniable conclusion. The children in the story have happened into a part of the big old house that adults have simply forgotten about. In places like that, adventure begins.

Our worlds are full of those compelling details that speak volumes to those perceptive enough to take note. Most of us pass by, oblivious to the subtle distinctions that separate one place from another. We are too busy talking on our cell phones to notice if the traffic light is red, much less if there is gum on the ground. But to a writer with an eye for nuance, those details tell all, and speak volumes about places and the people that inhabit them.

Sherlock Holmes is the kind of character that builds an entire narrative on those little anomalies, but he is not alone. Any character who is perceptive enough to see and note those little things has a head start on keeping our interest. He or she doesn’t need Sherlock’s ability to fabricate an entire crime scene from a single hair. Nevertheless, when that character sees and notes things that bring a place alive, we are interested, even if they don’t conclude anything about what they’ve observed. To observe is to know.

As readers, we have come to expect characters to be careful observers of body language. If an author feels compelled to tell us that someone is angry or embarrassed, we are a little disappointed. Where are the creased brows, the clutching hands? We need to test our own ability to read emotions. Are we correct? When a suspect confirms our suspicions in their subsequent actions, we can feel pleased about our insights. When I miss the cues and am taken by surprise, I sometimes go back to find what I missed. If the clues are not there, I feel disappointed.

Scenery speaks the same language. A room scattered with discarded laundry speaks of a disorderly mind, or haste. Who lives like that? Are they crazy, or is their mind on greater thoughts? We need to know. When a place reeks of neglect, is it because a neglectful person lives there, or has the place been abandoned? Does a spotlessly clean place speak of an obsessively compulsive owner or somewhere no one lives? We need to know.

Clothing can be redolent with cues. Someone with newly acquired wealth is likely to seek out expensive brands from the racks of prestigious designers like Armani or Versace, but someone from a family who’s lived with wealth for generations probably has a relationship with a tailor. Expensive fabric? Certainly. Expensive label? Probably not. Even then, the cut of the suit will tell many things about the wearer. Are they conservative (Savile Row) or a jetsetter (Milano)? The clothes will tell. The writer doesn’t need to spell it out to their perceptive readers.

Not a perceptive reader? Dirk Pitt will gladly jump off a two hundred foot cliff and swim through fifty miles of underground river, all the while grimacing in pain from his grievous wounds.

I’ll take my chances that you’re paying attention. If not, perhaps the other person who bought my books will notice.