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The “chronology”—that sparely written, tidily formatted appendix one finds fitted into the front or back of an edition of a great work by a writer or in a volume dedicated to the writer’s work more generally—is a literary form to which we give not a great deal of thought. Nor, of course, are we meant to. After all, the “chronology” is designed and built to be all function, a bare biography of the artist whose work we have in our hands. It is only expected to offer a thumbnail of the path through life that the person took on the way to and past his work.
No fuss, no flash, the dates of events are given flush left, and are rarely more precise than a year, or even a range of years. One begins:
|1915||Born Solomon Bellows in Lachine, Quebec, on June 10, fourth child of Abram Bellows and Lescha Gordin, Russian-Jewish immigrants from St. Petersburg.|
Verbs tend to start the entries in chronologies, their subject shorn from view: no need to say “He was born…” when every entry is about him. Life is thus, if not reduced, rendered as a litany of doings: born; attends; reads; serves; reads; writes; begins; writes; marries; vacations; begins; writes; suffers; obtains; records; makes; gives; teaches; buys; assumes position; spends; spends; impoverished, takes; publishes; publishes; has coronary; refuses; suffers; dies. To tease down to such terseness is not to leach of life. Rather, to read such a economical enumeration of the events of a life is to compel, through descriptive brevity, by reminding us of life’s proscriptive brevity.
Another chronology begins:
|1895||Born Edmund Wilson Jr. on May 8 in Red Bank, New Jersey, the only child of Edmund Wilson and Helen Mather Kimball, after a difficult delivery during which his mother was injured by his large head.|
A hundred novelists pant to have a detail as telling as the one fitted to the end of that phrase: the writer, so legendarily smart, whose head, from day one, was dangerously large. Such a detail, of course, might be untrue, but without the padding that longer accounts inevitably admit, chronologies more often evade hagiography; they leave little room for authorial vanity. They are a style of telling a life that focuses on fundamental facts, on undebatables. As such, they are a style of telling the truth of a life, in writing, that also says something important about truth in writing.
For one can do a great deal with very little, the chronology suggests. The big book; the long and winding phrase; the effortfully alliterative style: all fair and good, all reasonable approaches to the making of literary art. And yet, chronology suggests, there is another, humbler way to telling the truth. Or, chronologies remind us, some writing is better suited than some others at orienting our eye on subject. Much of what we like to call “good writing” is about nothing so much as writing and, by extension, its writer. Chronologies suggest there are things more interesting than writers and writing, and do so in writing.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Conversation — October 2, 2015, 8:26 am
“By committing to the great emotional extremes demanded by Greek tragedy,” says Bryan Doerries, author of The Theater of War, “the actors are in effect saying to the audience: ‘If you want to match our emotional intensity, that would be fine.’”
Flor Arely Sánchez had been in bed with a fever and pains throughout her body for three days when a July thunderstorm broke over the mountainside. She got nervous when bolts of light flashed in the sky. Lightning strikes the San Julián region of western El Salvador several times a year, and her neighbors fear storms more than they fear the march of diseases — first dengue, then chikungunya, now Zika. Flor worried about a lot of things, since she was pregnant.
Late in the afternoon, when the pains had somewhat eased, Flor thought she might go to a dammed-up bit of the river near her house to bathe. She is thirty-five and has lived in the same place all her life, where wrinkled hills are planted with corn, beans, and fruit trees. She took a towel and soap and walked out into the rain. Halfway to the river, the pains returned and overcame her. The next thing Flor remembers, she was in a room she didn’t recognize, unable to move. As she soon discovered, she was in a hospital, her ankle cuffed to the bed, and she was being investigated for abortion.
Average duration of a Japanese prime minister’s tenure since August 1993, in months:
Brain shrinkage has no effect on cognition.
An Indianapolis fertility doctor was accused of using his own sperm to artificially inseminate patients, and a Delaware man pleaded guilty to fatally stabbing his former psychiatrist.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”