To spin words while gazing at the blank spaces between them—this “blank space” in textual expression is nothing other than the adjustment of the distance between the reader and the subject of the narrative. By adjusting this distance, one can also calibrate the space between the narrator and the reader. Depending on the mode of expression, the reader and the subject may draw closer or move further apart. The intimacy that arises between reader and narrator is likely achieved when the distance established through linguistic expression aligns with the emotional distance of the moment. One cannot write just anything by adjusting this distance, nor should one attempt to.
Let us assume here that by manipulating sentence structure, it were possible to describe everything. If everything were describable, it would be self-evident that one could write about any given thing. For instance, suppose you have experienced a broken heart. Why did it happen? Was it because you were disliked? Or was it a misunderstanding from the start? When you attempt to write about that heartache in a diary, if everything were something you could describe clearly and completely, what meaning or necessity would there be in doing so?
To say that everything is describable implies a closure within a certain structure—specifically, that everything is contained within the structure of prose. On the other hand, there are many things that cannot be captured by writing. Even if one tries to accurately describe the moment of realizing a lost love—a moment where it feels as though a crater has opened in the heart—it is unclear what “accuracy” even means in that context. There is no absolute answer.
Perhaps we write not because everything is describable, but rather because everything is not.
Furthermore, an “outside” to a structure always exists; it can be said that the interior exists only because there is an exterior. Regardless of the form of expression, the moment something is written, it possesses a structure. There is always that which is contained within that structure and that which spills out. In this process, the more explicit the contained elements are, the more closed the structure becomes. For example, the sentence “Summer in Japan is humid; therefore, I hate it” has a clear meaning. The content explicitly provides a reason and rejects the humidity of the Japanese summer.
Conversely, the sentence “Summer in Japan is humid; yet, that is precisely what is good about it” explicitly mentions the humidity but does not explain what is good about it. It does not speak it aloud, yet it suggests a certain atmosphere. What is being adjusted here is the distance between the subject of the narrative and the reader. Between the two examples, the former creates a greater distance from the subject, while the latter is closer. While the “hate it” example explicitly defines the subject, which one the reader feels an intimacy with will depend on their own experience. This is the alignment or misalignment of distance and emotion in textual expression.
To tell a story without telling everything—how to speak, and how to remain silent. It is my personal conviction that the ethics of narrative reside precisely in that balance.
