Storytelling 107: Stylistic Interludes

Throw the Audience a few Curveballs

“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

“Chaos theory simply suggests that what appears to most people as chaos is not really chaotic, but a series of different types of orders with which the human mind has not yet become familiar.”

—Frederick Lenz

You can fine-tune a script down to the nth degree, and it’s uninspiring. It doesn’t move. It’s too constructed. Sometimes you just need to break all that, and try to reinfuse some of that chaotic energy into it. As William Goldman said in one of his brilliant books, a screenplay is a series of little surprises. If your script has become too solidified in terms of structure and form, then you’ll have fewer surprises, just because your average movie-going audience is pretty film-savvy at this point. So you need to find a way to break it up, and to create things that will surprise you as the artist, and thereby surprise the audience as they watch the film.”

—David Hayter, Tales from the Script: 50 Hollywood Writers Share their Stories 

Chaos Theory:

Pride… Vanity, and its consequences. 

The ambition, and suffering of the ego. 

Perhaps a decade ago, almost two, I listened to a famous composer explain the history of his collaboration with Jeanine Tesori (who composed the 2000 Broadway performance of Thoroughly Modern Millie, among other productions). She had contributed a tiny sample of music to one of his previous musicals — a small amount of work, less than eighteen lines of notation. The entire rest of the musical was his baby, his jewel, his pearl tenderly squeezed and compressed and secreted into existence through many years of diligent sacrifice. 

During the professional tour, after one of many performances, a trusted friend walked up to that famous composer — and this trusted friend was a discerning craftsman, a respected peer among songwriters. He said something along the lines of, “I liked the play, the music was very good, but your best music was that one digression, in the middle of the Second Act.”

They chatted back and forth, analyzing the technical details of the music. 

A follow-up question specified which song, which segment, was being complimented.

It was the tiny sample, eighteen lines of notation written by Jeanine Tesori. 

A deflating revelation.

Pride… Vanity, and its wounds. 

The agony, and scars of the ego. 

Without knowing it, the famous composer had been insulted; all his art was inferior to the music of Jeanine Tesori. 

Crestfallen, the composer was forced to admit — he hadn’t created that part of the show. It was someone else’s work. 

This feedback motivated him to collaborate more, and in greater depth across subsequent years, with Jeanine Tesori. 

He laughed about it, describing how that accidental humiliation, and the related disappointment, seeded and cultivated his appreciation of someone who at last became a beloved collaborator, profitable coworker, and reliable friend. Someone fondly cherished, and deeply admired. 

This anecdote is fascinating on many levels… 

This anecdote alludes to some intriguing questions about art… music… business… feedback… criticism… psychology… 

The most obvious question is to ask: Why was her music outstanding, in the sense that her contribution stood apart from the rest of the performance? She differentiated herself, somehow. What was different about her music; how did this professional songwriter notice the difference; how can artists learn to create SUPERIOR art which is visibly superior? 

One theory I propose is the idea of novelty itself:

The appeal of foreign exoticism; strange allure; escape from the tedious familiar into the terrifying unknown. 

Stylistic Interludes. 

In every story, there is an opportunity to create some kind of flamboyant digression from the usual rhythm and cadence of the narrative. These digressions remain impractical to include on a regular basis. But they offer a flavor of pleasurable, delightful, thought-provoking adjustment in the baseline rhythm. 

Boom… Boom… Boom…

Wham!

Baseball pitchers alternate unpredictably between speeds, spins, and trajectories to keep adversaries confused, and to introduce an element of chaos into the mechanical task of swinging an elongated wooden club towards an incoming rubber sphere, stitched with leather. The duel is fast. The sport is abrupt. The stakes are high. 

Salaries… families… destinies… 

Millions of dollars sponsored, and advertised, and gambled, and swindled. 

Each swing determines the outcome of athletic careers. Each game determines which coaches are recruited, promoted, fired, or retired. Each season shuffles rosters, enriches celebrities… delights or disappoints loyal fanbases.

No matter which franchise wins the World Series, every year the television networks and the league itself capture tremendous profits.  

Baseball pitchers alternate their throws, seeking to frustrate batters. Every week, coaches and statistical gurus analyze the opposing team’s film, searching for patterns, quantifying trends, identifying strengths, discovering cues and signals and mannerisms, hunting for weaknesses. These insights filter down to batters. Players are coached where to aim. Where to step. Some balls should be avoided. Don’t swing at the next pitch. 

Predictions confront misdirections, and feints. Deceptions originate from both sides.  

Pitchers throw various types of fastballs, curveballs, sinkers, sliders, slurves, forkballs, knuckleballs, changeups, cutters, screwballs, even the occasional eephus. 

Boom… Boom… Boom…

Wham!

Authors should seek to incorporate this kind of chaos, and unpredictability, into their stories. The audience should never feel complacent. 

Even when the overall direction of the narrative seems clear, the next word, next scene, next mystery, next subplot, next betrayal should never be obvious. 

Even formulaic stories can remain turbulent, erratic, and thrilling by mixing together multiple formulas, cross-pollinating genres and techniques and philosophical perspectives, so that the audience is never sure which aesthetic principles will override the others. 

Think in terms of genetics… there are recessive alleles, and dominant alleles. Both exist at the same time. Both are synergistic components of a shared organism. But predicting which traits will triumph, which traits are subordinate or superior, regularly confounds professional scientists, and can only be discovered by observing real behavior.

Dominant genes cannot be predicted.  

Dream in terms of Photoshop… one image can include numerous layers. Layers stack, stack and superimpose, blend into smooth combinations… complex hybrid compositions featuring the illusion of seamlessly-integrated depth. Which layer dominates? Which layer recedes into the background? To adjust these settings will produce drastic outcomes. Switching a few layers can easily ruin a beautiful image. 

Huge changes result from toggling one button. 

Such variance determines which aesthetic is dominant, or subordinate, as part of a hybrid composition. 

Translate this lesson into stories. 

One story can feature numerous genres. 

A psychological thriller could revolve around a detective investigating the gruesome crimes of a fugitive serial killer. The crime scenes draw from the horror genre. The detective falls in love with the woman who the murderer threatened to kill next, which introduces a romance and a time-constrained adventure. There is mystery, and suspense. The female love interest is a scientist studying particle physics, she has stumbled onto some kind of exotic parallel universe — now this is science fiction. 

Hybrid stories are enhanced by cross-pollination. 

Complexity is a significant downside, the clutter of unresolved subplots and the density of too many ideas, trying to pursue contradictory directions. Too much complexity can ruin a project. One aesthetic needs to be the main priority, a clear priority to the author.

But this kind of intermingled aesthetic provides the upside that amid this chaotic overlap of contradictory design, the author is able to mislead and misdirect the audience. 

Fans are not sure whether the ending will draw from the horror genre (everyone is brutally dismembered), romance genre (detective stabs the escaped lunatic, rescues the damsel, and lives happily ever after), or the science fiction genre (physical bodies are abandoned and the human characters transcend into a higher form of enlightened consciousness existing as spirits composed of pure light). 

That confusion generates potential for a fun story. 

During the production of Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, two esteemed professionals collaborated to produce the film’s soundtrack: Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard. Action scenes were composed by Hans Zimmer. Emotional, sentimental character-driven scenes were contributed by James Newton Howard. 

Each man brought a different aesthetic, a different sensibility to the movie. 

The contrast between them was able to emphasize, and accentuate the multi-faceted nature of the superhero’s origin story. Bruce Wayne is a strange figure who shifts uncomfortably among a collection of masks, a spectrum of disguises, an arsenal of expedient personas. There is more than one version of his identity. Much of the story’s dramatic tension can be traced to this inner tension, and the quest to resolve — which version of Bruce Wayne is authentic? Perhaps none of his personas are real. And in that case, which version of his identity is most aspirational? 

There is Bruce Wayne the lonely, isolated orphan child… the angry, rage-haunted teenage aristocrat… the dilettante playboy billionaire… the isolated, sentimental romantic longing to be loved… the dutiful son seeking to honor his parents’ enormous, burdensome legacy… the mythical, leather-clad nightmare of brutality and fear which haunts the city’s sordid, disordered nights.

Who is the real Bruce?

How can Batman be satisfied?  

Some parts of his identity need to be retained. Others need to be destroyed. That process of internal sorting; filtration; disintegration consumes the trilogy. 

The struggle of a broken man to be healed. To find peace. And to project his pain outward in the form of revenge; justice; the rebirth and maintenance of civilization. 

The cleansing of Gotham City. 

Elsewhere, the men involved in creating Batman Begins have explained how they combined their talents, and worldviews, to create an exotic, unpredictable soundtrack which reflected Batman’s complex, fragmented psyche:

Jody Duncan Jesser, The Art and Making of the Dark Knight Trilogy:

“The men composed music as they would for electronic instruments, and then recorded it with a live orchestra, using modern technology to enhance certain notes and motifs. 

…

‘It was a fascinating thing to watch,’ said Christopher Nolan. ‘For example, one of the key musical themes in the film originated as two thematic treatments that Hans and James had composed separately. I was more or less being asked to choose between the two, and it kept bothering me because the two pieces seemed very related. In the end, they literally put them on top of each other, and worked the music as a point-counterpoint. That was representative of the genuine nature of their collaboration. They really found the sound and feel of their music together — even though they have very different styles. James is a technical perfectionist, whereas I think Hans takes a slightly more experimental view — he sort of throws it against the wall and sees what sticks. Having those two very different composers brought something new to the mix, and it supported the duality of Bruce Wayne’s character in Batman Begins.’ 

…

In the end, Zimmer and Howard found their experiment in collaboration to be tremendously rewarding.

…

Howard agreed, ‘Batman Begins was perfect for this experiment because it supported a wide swath of musical ranges. It gave us both room to exert tremendous influence on each other, and to overlap stylistically without ending up with something that felt as if it had been compartmentalized between composers.’

—Jody Duncan Jesser, The Art and Making of the Dark Knight Trilogy

The best writing is deeply personal. 

Secret fears and fantasies; anxieties and ambitions; doubts and desires are packaged into a symbolic narrative form. 

Poignant art resonates with a mass audience because the author’s daydreams, insecurities, and hopes align on some level with the broader public’s dormant spiritual tensions, what we might refer to as the Jungian collective unconscious. These fears tend to be anxieties ordinary people are afraid to even contemplate. These fantasies are likewise absurdly heroic, absurdly aspirational, and normal adults are too beaten down and demoralized to even consider such triumphs are accessible to them. 

Nobody cares about a story, unless that story is about them.

Every novel, film, television series, or comic book is a performance… otherwise, the artist could simply engage in private creation of lovely artwork and then never share it, never display or promote it. Artwork exists to be seen, shared, enjoyed, discussed, critiqued, mimicked, and to influence cultural iterations which strive for something higher. 

Art is a performance, and therefore that performance should be designed with a target audience in mind, seeking to illuminate, or distract, or encourage their lives.

“People are interested only in themselves. If a story is not about the hearer he will not listen. And I here make a rule — a great and lasting story is about everyone or it will not last. The strange and foreign is not interesting — only the deeply personal and familiar.”

—John Steinbeck, East of Eden

The other reason to create art is less therapeutic, and more habitual… to chase greatness through steady improvement, by remaining devoted to a creative routine. Each essay, or poem, or manuscript condenses into one step of polished marble, and together these sober, pensive steps collate into a vast staircase spiraling upwards, penetrating into the clouds, climbing high, climbing higher, striving to reach some distant aesthetic goal. 

But there is a paradox inherent to this whole discussion. 

Deeply personal emotions inspire the best art… simultaneously art exists as a public performance to be shared with an unfamiliar audience… there’s a natural question of OWNERSHIP. 

Bad, or mediocre art remains private, remains in the custody of the artist who created it. Nobody wants it. 

Beautiful art belongs to the audience, emotionally. The manuscript is the author’s baby, and publishing a manuscript is like saying goodbye to a child on the first day of school.

Publishing a gorgeous narrative which resonates with a mass audience provokes some bizarre emotions… your private hopes and dreams are translated and interpreted into someone’s else’s private thoughts. Cultural or financial or aesthetic triumph means a surrender of ownership, as the story ventures out into the world, never again to return to the same embryonic, intimate privacy of childhood. 

Loss of control.

In success, the author is abandoned by his own creation.

Crowds of fans walk up, and remark “Wow, I felt like you wrote that just for me.”

It’s a bittersweet feeling. 

Sometimes perplexing. 

Authors should brace against that expectation — and learn how to disguise their secret fears, secret dreams, personal tragedies, because crowds are fickle machines which can celebrate you in one second, then tear you down the next. 

To share artwork is to lose ownership. 

Publication necessitates a kind of ideological nudity. And to be stripped down in this manner implies the potential grief and soreness of authentic vulnerability. 

“2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song

If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me

Threatening the life it belongs to

And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd

'Cause these words are my diary screaming out loud

And I know that you'll use them however you want to”

—Anna Nalick, Breathe (2 AM)

Stylistic interludes require a similar form of humility…

Pride… Vanity, and its death. 

The attrition, and sedition of the ego. 

Audiences enjoy a change of rhythm. Novelists can write 200 pages of high-effort prose, sweating and sobbing and bleeding over each paragraph, every meticulously, tenderly-crafted page. Then fans mention how their favorite part of the novel was some low-effort interruption, formatted in a different font, arranged with goofy indentation, scribbled off in a couple of instants. 

Nevertheless, these little quirks and lacunae add marvelous texture to a project. Tremendous depth. Succulent flavor. 

The remainder of this essay is comprised of examples of how stylistic interludes can interrupt a standard tempo of prose, to surprise, delight, and satisfy the audience. My intent is to illustrate the baseline tempo, a sudden deviation, and the return to standard pacing.

Poems, proclamations, riddles, rulebooks, letters, songs, inscriptions, medical bills… all qualify.

1.)

“The Main house had a two-car garage and the only window that wasn’t boarded up was the basement window on the side closest to the cul-de-sac’s neck. It was the only house with a lawn, yellow and brown in most spots, but freshly mowed. A goat tied to a post was chewing on grass. On one of each of the boards, in spray paint, read the neighborhood’s laws.

1. No Stealing from Arlo.

2. No Touching Arlo’s women.

3. Arlo’s word is law.

After circling the property, feeling the eyes inside on him, Michael went to the front door and knocked, Donahue covering him from the sidewalk. An emaciated child answered the door.”

—T. R. Hudson, Automaton

Amazon.com: Automaton eBook : Hudson, T.R. : Kindle Store

2.)

ZeroHPLovecraft, Don’t Make Me Think:

“Romero calls over two of the girls who are loitering in the garden. They have big black lines of makeup at the edge of their eyelids, false lashes that remind Branch of spiders. Romero calls the one who comes to him Xiǎo 小 mèi 妹, little sister, and he sees Branch tensing up, flush with embarrassment. “Treat her like a child. That’s how you talk to women.” Romero’s girl pretends to be mad at him and calls him a stupid chollo 🇲🇽, and he grabs her and pulls her close, and she nestles into him. The girl that sits on Branch’s lap smells like ylang ylang and jasmine, but Branch is still thinking of Headstrong’s girl, the girl all in white. Even so, he likes it when this other girl whispers private, half-lucid things in his ear, and he realizes she’s high on smartdrugs, just like everyone else. She quivers and sighs when he touches her skin, and she follows him back to his room that night.

The peach tree, budding and tender—

He holds the fruit in his hands

then bites into the jubilance of peach.

~

The next morning, Shenwu 神巫 meets Branch in the mess hall for breakfast. There is a line and a service counter, and the cooks are serving hot-and-dry noodles. All the food is real; no one eats insect loaf or uses Neuralink to simulate foods from social networks, and this strikes Branch as romantic, or parochial, maybe, because although the noodles are chewy and coated in spicy textured oil, with the sharpness of preserved mustard greens and the piquancy of scallion and coriander, he would not choose them for himself. In the mornings, he’s used to flipping through Matters of Taste, his favorite degustation app, simulating five impossible plates before↙️ breakfast–a bite of salmon tartare in crepes with miso bonito sauce, hickory-smoked octopus in tandoori masala marinade, bamboo-steamed arctic char in a mango hollandaise, and for dessert, poached pear with yuzu caramel and spiced oat cake (although of course it’s all “secretly” high fiber cricket loaf)–and all of this makes sitting through a whole bowl of noodles feel monotonous.”

—ZeroHPLovecraft, Don’t Make Me Think

Don't Make Me Think - Zero HP Lovecraft (substack.com)

3.)

John Michael Greer, The Blood of the Earth, or Pulp Nonfiction:

“A brand of fiction commonly dismissed as sheer escapism, in other words, provides narratives more useful to the current state of the industrial world than the supposedly serious narrative of progress that still shapes every detail of contemporary public discourse. I’m not sure how far to take that point, though I have to admit that if Mabelrode the Faceless, Demon Lord of Chaos, were to be named as CEO of Citibank, I’m not sure I would be surprised. (On the other hand, maybe he already has been; it would explain a few things.) It would arguably have been better for us all if, when Edwin Drake and his men went to drill the first commercial oil well at Titusville, Pennsylvania back in 1859, they had found an ominous standing stone there carved with glowing runes:

“THE BLACK GOLD IS THE BLOOD OF THE EARTH

THE FORCE IN THE BLOOD IS THE FLAME OF THE SUN

TO DRINK OF THE BLOOD IS TO MASTER THE WORLD

BUT THE FATE OF THE EARTH AND ITS BLOOD ARE ONE”

Still, we missed that warning, and so have never quite gotten around to noticing that the world around us has much more in common with pulp fantasy fiction than it does with what passes for serious thought these days.”

—John Michael Greer, The Blood of the Earth, or Pulp Nonfiction 

4.)

“The sign on the wall seemed to quaver under a film of sliding warm water. Eckels felt his eyelids blink over his stare, and the sign burned in this momentary darkness: 

TIME SAFARI, INC. 

SAFARIS TO ANY YEAR IN THE PAST. 

YOU NAME THE ANIMAL. 

WE TAKE YOU THERE. 

YOU SHOOT IT. 

Warm phlegm gathered in Eckels' throat; he swallowed and pushed it down. The muscles around his mouth formed a smile as he put his hand slowly out upon the air, and in that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the man behind the desk. 

"Does this safari guarantee I come back alive?" “

—Ray Bradbury, A Sound of Thunder

5.)

“I owe you nothing.” He’d be a fool to turn them down. “Do as you want.” He turned and left. The toon leaders trotted along with him. One ran ahead and opened his door. They checked the room, made Ender promise to lock it, and left him just before lights out. There was a message on his desk.

DON’T BE ALONE. EVER.

—DINK

Ender grinned. So Dink was still his friend. Don’t worry. They won’t do anything to me. I have my army.”

—Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game

6.)

George R. R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons (promotional chapter):

“The princess lapsed into silence, all the while pondering what she would find at journey's end.  That night when they made camp, she crept into the tent she shared with Jayne Ladybright and Elia Sand and slipped the bit of parchment out of her sleeve to read the words again.

   To Prince Doran of House Martell,

   You will remember me, I pray.  I knew your sister well,

   and was a leal servant of your good-brother.  I grieve

   for them as you do.  I did not die, no more than did

   your sister's son.  To save his life we kept him hidden,

   but the time for hiding is done.  A dragon has returned

   to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance

   for his father, and for the princess Elia, his mother.

   In her name I turn to Dorne.  Do not forsake us. 

                                Jon Connington

                                Lord of Griffin's Roost

                                Hand of the True King

Arianne read the letter thrice, then rolled it up and tucked it back into her sleeve.  A dragon has returned to Westeros, but not the dragon my father was expecting.  Nowhere in the words was there a mention of Daenerys Stormborn... nor of Prince Quentyn, her brother, who had been sent to seek the dragon queen.  The princess remembered how her father had pressed the onyx cyvasse piece into her palm, his voice hoarse and low as he confessed his plan.  A long and perilous voyage, with an uncertain welcome at its end, he had said.  He has gone to bring us back our heart's desire.  Vengeance.  Justice.  Fire and blood.”

—George R. R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons (promotional chapter)

7.)

Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game:

“The other boys had already chosen their bunks when Ender arrived. Ender stopped in the doorway of the dormitory, looking for the sole remaining bed. The ceiling was low Ender could reach up and touch it. A child-size room, with the bottom bunk resting on the floor. The other boys were watching him, cornerwise. Sure enough, the bottom bunk right by the door was the only empty bed. For a moment it occurred to Ender that by letting the others put him in the worst place, he was inviting later bullying. Yet he couldn’t very well oust someone else. 

So he smiled broadly. “Hey, thanks,” he said. Not sarcastically at all. He said it as sincerely as if they had reserved for him the best position. “I thought I was going to have to ask for low bunk by the door.” 

He sat down and looked in the locker that stood open at the foot of the bunk. There was a paper taped to the inside of the door. 

PLACE YOUR HAND ON THE SCANNER

AT THE HEAD OF YOUR BUNK 

AND SPEAK YOUR NAME TWICE. 

Ender found the scanner, a sheet of opaque plastic. He put his left hand on it and said, “Ender Wiggin. Ender Wiggin.” 

The scanner glowed green for a moment. Ender closed his locker and tried to reopen it. He couldn’t. Then he put his hand on the scanner and said, “Ender Wiggin.” The locker popped open. So did three other compartments.”

—Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game

8.)

Robert E. Howard, The Scarlet Citadel:

“They trapped the Lion on Shamu's plain;
They weighted his limbs with an iron chain;
They cried aloud in the trumpet-blast,
They cried, "The lion is caged at last!"
Woe to the Cities of river and plain
If ever the Lion stalks again!

—Old Ballad.

The roar of battle had died away; the shout of victory mingled with the cries of the dying. Like gay-hued leaves after an autumn storm, the fallen littered the plain; the sinking sun shimmered on burnished helmets, gilt-worked mail, silver breastplates, broken swords and the heavy regal folds of silken standards, overthrown in pools of curdling crimson. In silent heaps lay war-horses and their steel-clad riders, flowing manes and blowing plumes stained alike in the red tide. About them and among them, like the drift of a storm, were strewn slashed and trampled bodies in steel caps and leather jerkins—archers and pikemen.”

—Robert E. Howard, The Scarlet Citadel

9.)

“The Three Laws of Robotics:

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Lije Baley had just decided to relight his pipe, when the door of his office opened without a preliminary knock, or announcement, of any kind. Baley looked up in pronounced annoyance and then dropped his pipe. It said a good deal for the state of his mind that he left it lie where it had fallen.”

—Issac Asimov, Mirror Image

10.)

“Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: 

Mr. H. Potter 

The Cupboard under the Stairs 

4 Privet Drive 

Little Whinging Surrey 

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

11.)

Tim Wu, The Attention Merchants:

“On October 7, 1905, Collier’s published his exposé under the hard-hitting title “The Great American Fraud.” The cover, itself a masterpiece of attention capture, was terrifying. It featured a shadowed skull, with bags of money behind it, patent medicine bottles for teeth, and on its forehead the indictment:

THE PATENT MEDICINE TRUST:

PALATABLE POISON FOR THE POOR

Accusing the entire industry of fraud, Adams opened his story this way:

GULLIBLE America will spend this year some seventy-five millions of dollars in the purchase of patent medicines. In consideration of this sum it will swallow huge quantities of alcohol, an appalling amount of opiates and narcotics, a wide assortment of varied drugs ranging from powerful and dangerous heart depressants to insidious liver stimulants; and, far in excess of all other ingredients, undiluted fraud. For fraud, exploited by the skillfulness of advertising bunco men, is the basis of the trade.

The article went on to detail the pernicious ingredients of the patent medicines, the deaths and addictions users suffered, the complicity of a press dependent on advertising revenue, and numerous other shady business practices. The exposé ran to eleven articles, and unfortunately for Douglas Smith and Claude Hopkins, the third was entirely dedicated to Liquozone, which Adams called a particularly noxious offender for “the prominence of its advertising and the reckless breadth of its claims.”

—Tim Wu, The Attention Merchants

12.)

George R. R. Martin, A Storm of Swords:

“The last time Tyrion had seen the man, a sharp word had been enough to set him sweating, but it seemed the singer had found some courage somewhere. Most like in that flagon. Or perhaps Tyrion himself was to blame for this new boldness. I threatened him, but nothing ever came of the threat, so now he believes me toothless. He sighed. “I am told you are a very gifted singer.”

“You are most kind to say so, my lord.”

Tyrion gave him a smile. “I think it is time you brought your music to the Free Cities…”

“But my lord,” the man objected, “you have never heard me sing. Pray listen a moment.” His fingers moved deftly over the strings of the woodharp, and soft music filled the cellar. Symon began to sing.

He rode through the streets of the city,

down from his hill on high,

O’er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,

he rode to a woman’s sigh.

For she was his secret treasure,

she was his shame and his bliss.

And a chain and a keep are nothing,

compared to a woman’s kiss.

“There’s more,” the man said as he broke off. “Oh, a good deal more. The refrain is especially nice, I think. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm…”

“Enough.” Tyrion slid his fingers from his cloak, empty. “That’s not a song I would care to hear again. Ever.” “

No?” Symon Silver Tongue put his harp aside and took a sip of wine. “A pity. Still, each man has his song, as my old master used to say when he was teaching me to play. Others might like my tune better. The queen, perhaps. Or your lord father.”

—George R. R. Martin, A Storm of Swords

13.)

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone:

“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl — a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl — a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down: 

Dear Professor Dumbledore, 

Given Harry his letter. 

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. 

Weather’s horrible. 

Hope you’re well. 

Hagrid Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

—J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

14.)

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone:

“They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a fire sprang up behind them in the doorway. It wasn’t ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward. They were trapped.

“Look!” Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to the bottles. Harry looked over her shoulder to read it:

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;

Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw that she was smiling, the very last thing he felt like doing.

“Brilliant,” said Hermione. “This isn’t magic — it’s logic — a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.”

“But so will we, won’t we?”

—J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

15.)

J. K. Rowling, The Philosopher’s Stone:

“Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry.

“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said Ron. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks —”

Harry turned over his card and read:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore’s face had disappeared. “He’s gone!”

“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” said Ron. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again and I’ve got about six of her . . . do you want it? You can start collecting.”

Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos.”

“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded amazed. “Weird!”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

16.)

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone:

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”

And the school bellowed:

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they’re bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we’ve forgot,

Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot.”

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

17.)

Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game:

“Ender was four lines into the letter before he realized that it wasn’t from one of the other soldiers in the Battle School. It had come in the regular way—a MAIL WAITING message when he signed into his desk. He read four lines into it, then skipped to the end and read the signature. Then he went back to the beginning, and curled up on his bed to read the words over and over again.

ENDER,

THE BASTARDS WOULDN’T PUT ANY OF MY LETTERS THROUGH TILL NOW. I MUST HAVE WRITTEN A HUNDRED TIMES BUT YOU MUST HAVE THOUGHT I NEVER DID. WELL, I DID. I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN YOU. I REMEMBER YOUR BIRTHDAY. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. SOME PEOPLE MIGHT THINK THAT BECAUSE YOU’RE BEING A SOLDIER YOU ARE NOW A CRUEL AND HARD PERSON WHO LIKES TO HURT PEOPLE, LIKE THE MARINES IN THE VIDEOS, BUT I KNOW THAT ISN’T TRUE. YOU ARE NOTHING LIKE YOU KNOW-WHO. HE’S NICER-SEEMING BUT HE’S STILL A SLUMBITCH INSIDE. MAYBE YOU SEEM MEAN, BUT IT WON’T FOOL ME. STILL PADDLING THE OLD KNEW, ALL MY LOVE TURKEY LIPS, VAL DON’T WRITE BACK THEY’LL PROBLY SIKOWANALIZE YOUR LETTER.

Obviously it was written with the full approval of the teachers. But there was no doubt it was written by Val. The spelling of psychoanalyze, the epithet slumbitch for Peter, the joke about pronouncing knew like canoe were all things that no one could know but Val.

And yet they came pretty thick, as though someone wanted to make very sure that Ender believed that the letter was genuine. Why should they be so eager if it’s the real thing?

It isn’t the real thing anyway. Even if she wrote it in her own blood, it isn’t the real thing because they made her write it. She’d written before, and they didn’t let any of those letters through. Those might have been real, but this was asked for, this was part of their manipulation.

And the despair filled him again. Now he knew why. Now he knew what he hated so much. He had no control over his own life. They ran everything. They made all the choices. Only the game was left to him, that was all, everything else was them and their rules and plans and lessons and programs, and all he could do was go this way or that way in battle. The one real thing, the one precious real thing was his memory of Valentine, the person who loved him before he ever played a game, who loved him whether there was a bugger war or not, and they had taken her and put her on their side. She was one of them now.

He hated them and all their games. Hated them so badly that he cried, reading Val’s empty asked-for letter again. The other boys in Phoenix Army noticed and looked away. Ender Wiggin crying? That was disturbing. Something terrible was going on. The best soldier in any army, lying on his bunk crying. The silence in the room was deep.”

—Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game

18.)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring:

“‘I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle,’ answered Boromir proudly. ‘Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope – if such a thing could indeed return out of the shadows of the past.’ He looked again at Aragorn, and doubt was in his eyes.

Frodo felt Bilbo stir impatiently at his side. Evidently he was annoyed on his friend’s behalf. Standing suddenly up he burst out:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken:

The crownless again shall be king.

‘Not very good perhaps, but to the point — if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it.’ He sat down with a snort.

‘I made that up myself,’ he whispered to Frodo, ‘for the Du´nadan, a long time ago when he first told me about himself. I almost wish that my adventures were not over, and that I could go with him when his day comes.’

Aragorn smiled at him; then he turned to Boromir again. ‘For my part I forgive your doubt,’ he said. ‘Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. I have had a hard life and a long; and the leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhuˆn and Harad where the stars are strange.”

—J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

19.)

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring:

‘I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs, that was ever used for such a purpose. I can still remember ten score of them without searching in my mind. But only a few trials, I think, will be needed; and I shall not have to call on Gimli for words of the secret dwarf-tongue that they teach to none. The opening words were Elvish, like the writing on the arch: that seems certain.’

He stepped up to the rock again, and lightly touched with his staff the silver star in the middle beneath the sign of the anvil.

Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!

Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen!

he said in a commanding voice. The silver lines faded, but the blank grey stone did not stir.

Many times he repeated these words in different order, or varied them. Then he tried other spells, one after another, speaking now faster and louder, now soft and slow. Then he spoke many single words of Elvish speech. Nothing happened. The cliff towered into the night, the countless stars were kindled, the wind blew cold, and the doors stood fast.

Again Gandalf approached the wall, and lifting up his arms he spoke in tones of command and rising wrath. Edro, edro! he cried, and struck the rock with his staff. Open, open! he shouted, and followed it with the same command in every language that had ever been spoken in the West of Middle-earth. Then he threw his staff on the ground, and sat down in silence.”

—J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

20.)

Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl:

“Well, well, well. Guess who’s back? Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act. Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan. Turns out, he’d lost my phone number. His cell was out of juice, so he’d written it on a stickie. Then he’d tucked the stickie into his jeans pocket and put the jeans in the washer, and it turned the stickie into a piece of cyclone-shaped pulp. He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. (He said.)

And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me. (He said.)

Of course I was angry. I had been angry. But now I’m not. Let me set the scene. (She said.)

Today. Gusty September winds. I’m walking along Seventh Avenue, making a lunchtime contemplation of the sidewalk bodega bins – endless plastic containers of cantaloupe and honeydew and melon perched on ice like the day’s catch – and I could feel a man barnacling himself to my side as I sailed along, and I corner-eyed the intruder and realized who it was. It was him. The boy in ‘I met a boy!’

I didn’t break my stride, just turned to him and said:

a) ‘Do I know you?’ (manipulative, challenging)

b) ‘Oh, wow, I’m so happy to see you!’ (eager, doormatlike)

c) ‘Go fuck yourself.’ (aggressive, bitter)

d) ‘Well, you certainly take your time about it, don’t you, Nick?’ (light, playful, laid-back)

Answer: D

And now we’re together. Together, together. It was that easy.

It’s interesting, the timing. Propitious, if you will. (And I will.) Just last night was my parents’ book party. Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yup, Rand and Marybeth couldn’t resist. They’ve given their daughter’s namesake what they can’t give their daughter: a husband! Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! Wheeeeeee. No one cares. No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me. Leave her in kneesocks and hair ribbons and let me grow up, unencumbered by my literary alter ego, my paperbound better half, the me I was supposed to be.”

—Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

21.)

Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park:

“But if planting deadly ferns at poolside was any indication, then it was clear that the designers of Jurassic Park had not been as careful as they should have been.

“Isn’t it just wonderful?” Ed Regis was saying. “If you look up ahead, you’ll see our Safari Lodge.” Ellie saw a dramatic, low building, with a series of glass pyramids on the roof. “That’s where you’ll all be staying here in Jurassic Park.”

Grant’s suite was done in beige tones, the rattan furniture in green jungle-print motifs. The room wasn’t quite finished; there were stacks of lumber in the closet, and pieces of electrical conduit on the floor. There was a television set in the corner, with a card on top:

Channel 2: Hypsilophodont Highlands

Channel 3: Triceratops Territory

Channel 4: Sauropod Swamp

Channel 5: Carnivore Country

Channel 6: Stegosaurus South

Channel 7: Velociraptor Valley

Channel 8: Pterosaur Peak

He found the names irritatingly cute. Grant turned on the television but got only static. He shut it off and went into his bedroom, tossed his suitcase on the bed. Directly over the bed was a large pyramidal skylight. It created a tented feeling, like sleeping under the stars. Unfortunately the glass had to be protected by heavy bars, so that striped shadows fell across the bed.

Grant paused. He had seen the plans for the lodge, and he didn’t remember bars on the skylight. In fact, these bars appeared to be a rather crude addition. A black steel frame had been constructed outside the glass walls, and the bars welded to the frame.”

—Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park

22.)

Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park:

“Tim went with the others, following Mr. Regis up the black suspended staircase to the second floor of the building. They passed a sign that read:

CLOSED AREA

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

BEYOND THIS POINT

Tim felt a thrill when he saw that sign. They walked down the second-floor hallway. One wall was glass, looking out onto a balcony with palm trees in the light mist. On the other wall were stenciled doors, like offices: PARK WARDEN… GUEST SERVICES… GENERAL MANAGER…

Halfway down the corridor they came to a glass partition marked with another sign:

BIOHAZARD CAUTION

BIOLOGICAL HAZARD

This Laboratory

Conforms toUSG P4/EK3

Genetic Protocols

Underneath were more signs:

CAUTION

TERATOGENIC SUBSTANCES

PREGNANT WOMEN AVOID EXPOSURE

TO THIS AREA

DANGER

RADIOACTIVE ISOTOPES IN USE

CARCINOGENIC POTENTIAL

Tim grew more excited all the time. Teratogenic substances! Things that made monsters! It gave him a thrill, and he was disappointed to hear Ed Regis say, “Never mind the signs, they’re just up for legal reasons. I can assure you everything is perfectly safe.” He led them through the door. There was a guard on the other side. Ed Regis turned to the group.

“You may have noticed that we have a minimum of personnel on the island. We can run this resort with a total of twenty people. Of course, we’ll have more when we have guests here, but at the moment there’s only twenty. Here’s our control room. The entire park is controlled from here.”

—Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park