Less is More

 

Recently, I attended the launch of The Smell of Olhão. Olhão is the city in the deep south of Portugal where I now live. Four people had joined forces to present the fruit of their labour: a travel book with a twist — an alternative to the glossy guidebooks. A raw, authentic look at the city, filled with sharp observations, sketches and comics, essays on local architecture, and even recipes.

Later that evening, I ended up on a terrace with one of the writers, the translator, and the illustrator — all Dutch. Over beers and small bites, these seasoned literary professionals talked endlessly. I listened to their elegant phrasing, the way they exchanged ideas about the state of the world, effortlessly weaving in their views on the Netherlands and Portugal. Intelligent and eloquent. Even when they disagreed, they did so gracefully, with finely sharpened, understated jabs. I mostly listened. I enjoyed their command of language. I only spoke when spoken to. Somehow, I felt inadequate — unworthy of their company, even. Yet I had a wonderful evening.

The next day I read a few passages from their book. I went online to find more of their work. That very same day, as luck would have it, I received an email from my publisher: could I please go over the proofs of my debut De Duivel Slaat Zijn Wijf as soon as possible?

I got to work immediately. Sentence by sentence, I reread my manuscript for what must have been the tenth time. Mostly short, concise sentences. Here and there, a longer one had slipped through. A stark contrast to the work of my new Dutch acquaintances. For the first time, I started analysing my own writing — not the story, structure, or flow, but the language itself. I looked for an explanation for my brevity. Was it my Flemish roots? Are we, as Flemings, less verbose? No, I could easily think of several long-winded Flemish writers. Less articulate, then? Hardly.

While rereading, I came across a passage in which a character is involved in a motorcycle accident. Again: short, clipped sentences. I challenged myself and wrote this one instead:

“Under the pale light of a solitary streetlamp, Tony rode his motorcycle over the glistening road surface, the night breathing like a creature just awakened; dark thoughts raced through his head, mingled with the pain along his ribs, as blood trickled in thin lines over his glove and he knew — this was no longer a ride, but a farewell.”

I read the sentence several times, then reached for the axe. With surgical precision, I chopped it into five parts. It sounded better that way. Less is more.

It took a while before I saw the answer hiding in my own writing. First, I noticed the rhythm of the sentences, and only later their structure. I’ve always been drawn to American novelists from around the Second World War — especially the hardboiled noir. Writers like Hammett, Chandler, and Cain, whose dialogue reveals more than their descriptions, whose stories waste no time explaining. You learn what you need to know from action and speech. Strong, economical language. No frills. The language of Elmore Leonard and James Ellroy.

Those writers have shaped my prose so deeply that whenever I write a long sentence, I come back to it in the next session — hatchet in hand.

I’m grateful to them. Without their influence — and that pleasant evening — I might have waited much longer before doing a proper self-analysis. Now all that’s left is to see if I’m right. In a few weeks, De Duivel Slaat Zijn Wijf will be released. I’m curious to see what the readers’ guild will make of it.