The art of describing things without actually describing things

[Cheery]

As I'm getting back into my re-read / re-listen of the watch books, I'm noticing more and more what an absolute master Pterry was at writing action through dialogue.Good example of this in Jingo, with this interaction between Vimes and Willikins:

He tried to yawn and shave at the same time, which is never a good idea.
"Damn!"
"I shall fetch some tissue paper directly, sir."

We can simply infer from the moment before and the dialogue that Vimes just nicked himself, no description necessary.

Or in Feet of Clay when Angua changes to her wolf form in front of Vimes. The only reason we know it's happening is because she tells Vimes to turn around. And when he doesn't get it, her voice slurs, indicated simply by a bunch of added "r's" in her dialogue, and we know "Oh shit, she's changing!"

Or multiple moments where it's just a character going "Can you hand me that thing over there? Thank you." And that's enough. We don't need a description of the thing being handed over because the dialogue tells us exactly what we need to know.

Not to mention all the times Pterry used our collective knowledge of visual comedy to tell us exactly what just happed by describing a sound or two.

It's stuff like this that just keep me coming back to these books, it's such a joy to watch a master at work.

 

[Tonyblack]

I'm sure I have said more than once - it's my belief that Terry Pratchett will, someday, be taught in English lessons. You are right - his descriptions are precise and don't interfere with the flow of the narrative.

 

[Cheery]

I totally agree with you!

 

[RathDarkblade]

Absolutely. It's like the difference between writing:

==================
I first met Jon outside the pub. His hair and beard were ginger, well-trimmed. He was wearing yellow trousers a light blue shirt, and deep purple shoes. His hands and fingers were coarse, with dirt under the fingernails.
==================

This is all fine, and accurate, but there's not much "feeling" in the narrative. Compare it to:

==================
"Howyagoin' mate ... hold on, I needa chunder."

I put my hand gingerly on Jon's shoulder while he evacuated the seven or so beers he had. Eventually, the noise stopped. "Feeling better?" I said.

"Wassat? Yeahyeah, bet'er. Less'go."

I took Jon's left arm to support him while he used his right hand to feel for the wall and keep from falling down. His ginger beard, neatly trimmed, was now psychedelic-looking - no surprise there - and his carrot hair stood up on top of his head as if he'd seen a ghost. It was possibly the ghosts of kebabs long-past.

After a while, I said "Jon--" The monosyllable was careful, like a scalpel, prodding its way into unfamiliar territory.

"Wassat? Who there? You onna left, or you onna right?"

Oh dear. He was seeing double again.

"Jon," I said again. "It's not that I mind coming down to the Pig and Whistle and rescuing you from looking like a bell-end. It's just ... you need a less, um ... vibrant wardrobe."

"Wassat you say? Wha's wrong wit' me outfit, eh?" He tried poking the air with a twirling finger. He missed. "Eh?"

This would test the diplomatic skills of Kofi Annan himself. I tried anyway. "Corn-coloured pants ... lavender shoes that look like Bilbo Baggins wore 'em and puked on 'em ... a sky-blue shirt that badly needs the wash ... is it me, or are they not, um -- coordinated?"

"Wassat? You don' like the way I'm dressed?"

"Not that, Jon. It's just that they ... clash."

"Well if they clash, I'll tak'um off, then." To my horror, Jon was beginning to unzip his fly. "Nonononono!" Too late. Some passersby were giving us dirty looks.

How I hated it when Jon got too drunk to make it home on his own. It must have looked like the winner of the Most Embarrassing Date From Hell Of The Year Award.
==================

(I could go on, but I just made all of that up). Little exercise: spot the differences.

 

[=Tamar]

Hmm.

Just as I reached the pub, I heard "Oi! Wot'r you lookin' at, eh?"
"Er...nothing..."
"Don' gimme that, yer judgin' me clothes, I know that face."
"No, really, the - er - striking color combination is a real Look. Most gingers couldn't work it the way you do."
"Yeah! Me aunt said purple dunt go with blue, but I showed 'er!"

 

[RathDarkblade]

(Sorry, long - but once I got going, I couldn't stop. My little tribute to Phillip Marlowe).
===========
"Oh, and hey, those button shoes. I never realized purple suede and bronze shoes could go so well together."

"Yeah! Y'know, you're my pal, pal. People like uzz ... like uz ... like usssss c'ld really go places. Wiv your brains and my llllllooks---"

I gently pushed him back, hard enough to avoid his gin breath, but soft enough so he wouldn't take offence. He was built like a Boston harbour and could probably accommodate a few "sssssships". But right now, he was a lush, and a lush is not what I wanted in company.

"Pal, if I were you, I'd go home and sleep it off," I said.

"You don' wanna be m'pal?" He dribbled on my shoes.

"It's not that," I said. "I'm sure you're very nice socially, and I would love to introduce you to the DA. It's just that, well, I'm allergic to the corn-chiffon polka dots on your tie. They, er--"

"Somefin' wrong with m'tie?" His eyes glazed. "All right, come on. Let's have it out, pally."

"Nothing!" I waved my hands in denial. "Nothing at all - they make you look, well, mysterious and, er, handsome. They give you a certain je ne sais qoui, you know?"

"That'sh the nishesht ... the nishesht ..." He tried again. "That'sh the nishesht fing anyone said to me all evening. 'Ere! Let'sh go upstairs an' pound a few. You an' me, huh?"

Now I don't usually say no to a social drink with a stranger, especially a stranger who looks as if he could rip off my head and spit down my throat. I really hoped it wouldn't come to that, because none of my fedoras would fit me anymore.

"Hey!"

I looked at the two advancing figures, and my heart sank. Bluejobs. They were walking down the street in that old dominant walk, the kind that says "We own the street, brother. We're tough, yeah, an' we don't take no guff. Know why? 'Cos we're cops." I could see my reflection in their sunglasses. One of them was chewing a toothpick like he had a grudge against it.

"This fella givin' ya trouble, pally?" The one without insignia said. Three Stripe behind him said nothing.

"No, sir," I said. "I can handle him. No trouble."

Plain Shoulder eyed my newfound friend up and down. "Looks like we got ourselves and escapee from the circus," he jostled. "Huh, Breeze?"

Three Stripe behind him - probably Breeze? - gave Plain Shoulder a look of disdain. It said: of all the goddamn rookies I could be patrollin' with, why did I draw Joker?

I made a show of reading Plain Shoulder's nametag. "Officer ... Malloy, is it?" I tipped my hat. "Look, Officer..."

"He don't want no trouble," Plain Shoulder said. "That's what he's gonna say, huh?"

"Jesus, Malloy, you wanna be a big shot?" Three Stripe shoved him aside. "Then keep your mouth shut and your ears open." He gave me his hand. "Breeze's the name, soldier. Jessie Breeze."

I shook his hand. Hell, why not? DA gave me a license. I don't have a reason to risk it.

Polka-dot Tie was keeping his mouth shut. That was good sense. Or the sight of cops was scaring him sober.

"You fellas in town for a spell?" Breeze said.

"Lived here thirty years," I said. "Say, let's grab some coffee, huh? You wanna gab, that's jack by me. "

"Jes' keepin' the peace, fella," Breeze grunted. "You keep your nose clean, you won't have no trouble with us."

"Gee, that's swell," I said, turned to Malloy. "So what's your game, son, coming on all heavy?"

To his credit, Malloy didn't back down. "I know your face, Jack," he said. "Seen you downtown. Small-time peeper, ain't you?"

I didn't have to look around to notice Polka-dot was gone. I was sure I saw a flash of blue and yellow over my shoulder. I let him go. He wasn't worth the trouble. Then I undid my jacket and pulled out my ID.

"This what you want - Jack?" I said. "I'm not on a case, and I'm not covering for a dame, so you can back off. You got nothing on me."

"This gone far 'nough," Breeze grunted through his toothpick. "Malloy, what the hell's the matter with you? Somethin' eatin' you, that you gotta pick fights?" He gave me a lopsided grin. "Don't mind him, soldier. Some boys get in a uniform an' think they own the world."

"Sure," I said. "Oldest story in the book. We jake, Breeze?"

"Yeah," Breeze said. "I know you of old, Phil. You're a straight shooter. You stay cool." He shifted his grip on the toothpick. "I'll take you up on that coffee sometime."

"Sure," I said. "Call me up anytime you want to pick my brains. Jus' don't call late, got it?"

"Got it," he said. "Come on, Malloy. Don't bother about Phil. If he was involved in something, we'd know."

They turned around and continued their beat. I gave Malloy a cheery wave. "So long, Big Guy," I said. "Don't trip over your ego."

I saw his fists clench and Sergeant Breeze lay a hand on his shoulder. "Let it go," he said. "Phil likes to push his luck, see how far it goes."

I got in my banged-up Oldster and drove home to my flat overlooking the city. There was nothing in the mail. The chessmen gleamed by the window, the board slightly dusty, the smell of moths in the air. I mixed myself a rye whiskey and sat over the board. Capablanca beats Alekhine in fifty-four moves. Clinical, simple, unbeatable, unstoppable.

I raised my glass. "Here's to you, maestro," I said.

 

[raisindot]

Yes, Pterry's use of spare, razor-sharp dialogue to convey action was one of this greatest narrative strengths. Most likely, in this aspect was influeced by P.G. Wodehouse, who was the master of this style.

Sadly, as the embuggerance grew worse, he lost this skill. In Snuff, Dodger, Raising Steam and The Shepherd's Crown in particular, he wrote literally, using long-winded speechifying and endless exposition. These books almost read like they were written by a different author. The only thing left by that time was his imagination and his will to complete the books.