In Praise of a Line, 1: Dalva

Readers and critics naturally qualify literary works by analyzing how the essential pieces (narrative, style, structure, voice, character development, genre) interact as a whole. But writing can also be simmered down to a foundation: line following line. Poetry in particular has moved me to read this way. While reading novels, poems, or short stories, I’m often struck by the structure of one sentence or paragraph—not only for the sentiment, but the writing itself. I tend to underline these fragments and return to them often. Thus, I wanted to highlight a few of my favorite written lines—an opportunity to appreciate a purity of language.

This is a series in praise of a sentence (or few): In Praise of a Line.

Dalva by Jim Harrison,

“How could all this happen when there was an ocean?”

I love Jim Harrison, and Dalva may be my favorite novel. I read it annually. I love the story; the character of Dalva herself; the structure; Harrison’s long praises of landscape and foliage; the way he made history personal without veering sentimental.

Reading Dalva can feel like discovering lost art. Our modern identities seem to feed themselves in constriction: either with a protective cynicism, an over-awareness of the self and a fear of appearing too feeling; or worse, with false “vulnerability”, an exploitation of one's suffering, the public validation of private experience. Neither ways of being feel particularly authentic or more acutely, free. Naturally, these modern constructs have seeped into our contemporary literary landscape (particularly the cynicism). Harrison’s writing feels refreshingly uninhibited from these constraints; his characters, born of a certain era, are present, reflective, vulnerable, and best of all, flawed.

That said, Harrison was an old school writer. With Dalva, he was a man writing from the female perspective—a difficult endeavor to accomplish well. (Though character should never be limited by identity because, empathy!) Modern readers will certainly find fault in his rendering; Dalva is a woman created from man, sometimes obviously so. Still, she is a woman I enjoy—a vibrant and compelling character in a meaningful story.

Writing about the spiritual nature of anything without relying on trope can prove more difficult than writing from an opposing identity. Water, in every form—sea, tide, ocean, lake, rain, even tears—remains an ultimate trope; it has been a breathing metaphor in storytelling since time immemorial, if only because the human connection to it is so necessary and profound. The ocean in particular is a resonant symbol: representing the omnipotence of nature and the sobering perspective it can provide.

Still, how many times can a writer evoke water? And yet, the sentence: “How could all this happen when there was an ocean?” Written so directly. Jim Harrison was a vulnerable storyteller only roughened up by a dry humor and grit. (His characters always retained a certain rural sense that came from knowing the land.) Still, he never relied on irony to cover deep feeling. Most of his novels are love stories, often to the natural world herself.

This particular line illustrates a discernment of language very skilled writers wield. Harrison didn’t evoke the ocean, or any one ocean in particular. (Though the one in question was indeed the Pacific, viewed from a Santa Monica balcony.) The ocean would have written too small. Instead: an. An ocean. The article changes everything. An encapsulates beyond the physical without reaching for too much language. An ocean: indefinite, overwhelming, but tangible.

Indeed, when one is confronted with such an omnipotent thing as an ocean, life in all its brevity tends to recede into the enormity. Jim Harrison was one of the few linguists able to describe such existential truths so precisely: ever present, never too carried away.

Harrison, J. (1991c). Dalva (Contemporary Classics (Washington Square Press)) (Reprint). Washington Square Press.