As the train nears the station, they get up and crush against the windows, press their faces to the panes or rush to squeeze up against the doors, and jostle for more room, crane to see something outside, limbs tangled and necks outstretched as though there wasn’t enough air, a mass of squid—but it’s strange if they get out to smoke on the platform or stretch their legs they never stray very far, stay clumped together in front of the steps—a herd—and shrug when people ask where they’re headed: they’ve been told Krasnoyarsk and Barnaoul; they’ve been told Chita, but it always come down to the same thing: no one tells them anything.
Eastbound, by Maylis De Kerangal, translated from the French by Jessica Moore
Eastbound is a beautiful short novel, 127 pages, with small dimensions, five inches by six inches, and with sentences like this, you are propelled like riding a train to an unknown destination. In many ways, the entire book is filled with syntactic symbolism, sentences that mimic a train ride. In the novel, more than one hundred new Russian conscripts are packed in a trans-Siberian train going east because they didn’t figure out how to avoid the annual spring draft.
This sentence pulses with energy, capturing the feeling of these anxious young men crammed on the train with not enough seats for all of them. The energy comes primarily from the string of verbs describing these young conscripts' actions. There are a whopping 14 of them, “get up, crush, press, rush to squeeze, jostle, crane, get out to smoke,” and so on. (So much of writing creatively is giving yourself permission. I can’t recall an English teacher ever saying, go ahead, string 14 verbs together—see if you can do it.)
Kerangal also uses verbs as adjectives to intensify the energy, “limbs tangled, necks outstretched.” She draws attention to these adjectival verbs by deviating from the traditional structure and placing them not before but after the noun.
Once they are out of the train, there is room to move and relax, and the verbs are still there but quieter, “get out to smoke,” stretch,” “stray,” “stay clumped,” and “shrug.” No need for pushing and shoving anymore.
She makes another syntactical move that adds energy: this sentence has two “but”s. This coordinating conjunction always turns a sentence in a new direction, like a train making turns.
Kerangal uses a colon and lists the places they’ve been told are their destination. She uses anaphora, the repetition of a word(s) at the beginning of phrases, clauses, or sentences to create rhythm, “They’ve been told…” The repetition also creates a pattern and a sense that they are told their destination in a perfunctory way, and they’ll never know the truth, not until the train reaches its destination. The second “but” comes here and builds to the final colon and what functions like a short sentence, “no one tells them anything.”
Your Turn:
Open with a dependent clause that gives a sense of location and transportation.
Now comes your subject with the first independent clause containing seven verbs. Can you use two verbs as adjectives and place them after the noun?
Add an em-dash and “but,” which turns the sentence in a different direction. Can you change the location of your subject? In Kerangal’s sentence, the young men are on the train, and then they are out.
Use an if-then (implied) structure and add seven more verbs.
Add a colon. Use anaphora and write two independent clauses connected by a semicolon.
Add “but” to turn the sentence again. Use a colon and end with a short independent clause.
How did it go?
What else do you see?
About Me:
I’ve taught “Style in Fiction,” “Word for Word” and “Cultivating Your Prose” at the University of San Francisco and Stanford Continuing Studies since 2007. Painters have paint; sculptors have clay, and we have words. Words are sounds, and if you pay close attention to this, you can make music.
Please visit my website to find all my books: ninaschuyler.com, including my novel Afterword, How to Write Stunning Sentences, and Stunning Sentences: A Creative Writing Journal.
Preorder My Award-Winning Short Story Collection:
I’m so happy that my short story collection, In This Ravishing World, will be published in July 2024. The collection won the W.S. Porter Prize for Short Story Collections and The Prism Prize for Climate Literature.
Nine connected stories unfold, bringing together an unforgettable cast of dreamers, escapists, activists, and artists, creating a kaleidoscopic view of the climate crisis. An older woman who has spent her entire life fighting for the planet sinks into despair. A young boy is determined to bring the natural world to his bleak urban reality. A scientist working to solve the plastic problem grapples with whether to have a child. A ballet dancer tries to inhabit the consciousness of a rat. It’s a full-throated chorus, with Nature joining in, marveling at the exquisite beauty of our world, and pleading, raging, and ultimately urging everyone toward activism and resistance.
I’d really appreciate it if you pre-ordered the book. Here’s the link:
Afterword!
A Blackwell’s Bookshop Manchester favorite 2023 pick!
The Newsletter:
Finally, if this newsletter is valuable to you, consider becoming a Patreon supporter for as little as $5 per month. Here are the instructions on how to do that:
Thank you!
I'm always humbled to find how difficult it can be to maintain the original's movement and consistent use of imagery. Here then is my attempt:
As their inflatable drifts near the coastguard vessel, they stay low and grope for a line, shove their children to the middle or trace the raft’s bottom with their toes, and lean against their neighbours, strain to hear the bullhorn, torsos rudderless and eyes skyward as if this could keep them all stay balanced, a melee of hope—but surprisingly they walk single-file up the gangplank or find their land legs their heads crest in formation by the doors of the detention centre—a flock—and shake their heads when translators ask where they hoped to settle: they have been promised France, and Germany; they have been promised Norway, but this floating geography meant little: no one there to meet them
This is so true--in general and manifested in this stunning sentence: "So much of writing creatively is giving yourself permission."