Could be, unless both
narrator and characters participate in dialogue. Why the narrator? Because despite
substantial overlap in first person point of view, the narrator’s always a step
ahead of the character. As storyteller, the narrator already knows the ending,
and describes the trouble, rather than enduring it. Finally, the compassionate,
insightful, charming, witty narrator can accomplish many things that characters
can’t. Like speed up dialogue.
In rare instances, the
tension soars and the dialogue is pitch-perfect. Then the narrator summarizing
or describing would damage that white-hot pacing. Usually, though, you achieve optimal grounding, momentum, and insight when
the narrator and characters create the illusion of conversation, which isn't much like an actual conversation. In this
example from Saturday, Baxter and his
accomplice Nigel hold an entire family hostage, including pregnant young Daisy:
Baxter puts his right hand in his pocket again. “All right, all right,” he says
querulously. “I’ll kill you first.” Then he brings his gaze back onto Daisy and
repeats in exactly the same tone as before, “So, what’s your name then?”
She steps clear of her mother and tells
him. Theo unfolds his arms. Nigel stirs and moves a little closer to
him. Daisy is staring right at Baxter,
but her look is terrified, her voice is breathless and her chest rises and falls
rapidly.
“Daisy?” The name sounds improbable on Baxter’s lips,
a foolish, vulnerable nursery name. “And
what’s that short for?”
“Nothing.”
“Little Miss Nothing.” Baxter is moving behind the sofa on which
Grammaticus is lying, and beside which Rosalind stands.
Daisy says, “If you leave now and never
come back I give you my word we won’t phone the police. You can take anything you want. Please, please go.”
Even before she’s finished, Baxter and
Nigel are laughing. -- Ian McEwan, Saturday
What if each
character talked constantly instead of the narrator paraphrasing? What if you cut what the narrator adds to this passage? No, the narrator
and characters must hold their own
dialogue, with the narrator speeding, hinting, developing.
At the opening of
Alice Hoffman’s Here on Earth, the
mother and daughter have a brief exchange about being in a strange place, mired
in the mud in an unpredictable car:
“We’re going to get stuck,” March’s daughter,
Gwen, announces. Always the voice of doom.
“No, we won’t,” March insists.
Three paragraphs of
narrator summary bring readers to the climax, omitting the obvious or redundant.
“We’ll get out of here,” she tells her
daughter. “Have no fear.” But when she turns the key the engine grunts, then
dies.
“I told you,” Gwen mutters under her breath.
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