The Power of Observation

Photo by Robert Bakiev on Unsplash

I think a lot about what makes some writers fascinating (even when wrong), and others ponderous (even when right).

Awful writers will often beat you over the head with abstractions. But that's an easy error to overcome. More common is for a writer to have broad abstractions followed by concrete examples.

"Honesty means a refusal to fake reality. For example, Bernie Madoff pretended he was making investments and getting returns, even though he never invested in anything."

That's a step in the right direction, but jumping back and forth between abstractions and examples is not what the best writers do.

The best writers operate at all levels: deep, abstract analysis, illuminating examples, engrossing stories--and penetrating observations.

I like to think of "penetrating observations" as "mid-level" observations. They involve drawing our attention, not to a journalistic concrete, but to a phenomenon we've encountered but never paused to notice--or they involve naming in clear-cut terms something we've sensed, but never crisply conceptualized--or they involve a passing analysis that deepens our understanding of someone or something, even though this analysis is not central to overall argument of the piece.

Ayn Rand is the master of this. Take this selection from "Global Balkanization," where Rand is dissecting the phenomenon of tribalism:

Atavistic remnants and echoes of those [prehistorical] ages have always existed in the backwaters of civilized countries, particularly in Europe, among the old, the tired, the timid, and those who gave up before they started. Such people are the carriers of "ethnicity." The "ways of living" they transmit from generation to generation consist in: folk songs, folk dances, special ways of cooking food, traditional costumes, and folk festivals. Although the professional "ethnics" would (and did) fight wars over the differences between their songs and those of their neighbors, there are no significant differences between them all; all folk art is essentially similar and excruciatingly boring: if you've seen one set of people clapping their hands while jumping up and down, you've seen them all.

Or how about this gem from "Apollo vs. Dionysus"? Speaking of the hippies, Rand says:

Avowed anti-materialists whose only manifestation of rebellion and of individualism takes the material form of the clothes they choose to wear, are a pretty ridiculous spectacle. Of any type of nonconformity, this is the easiest to practice, and the safest.

Rand is far from the only author whose writing is rich with penetrating observations. Allan Bloom's The Closing of the American Mind is filled with them, including this one, which in effect explains how modern education has destroyed our ability to make penetrating observations:

In a less grandiose vein, students today have nothing like the Dickens who gave so many of us the unforgettable Pecksniffs, Micawbers, Pips, and with which we sharpened our vision, allowing us some subtlety in our distinction of human types. It is a complex set of experiences that enables one to say simply, "He is a Scrooge." Without literature, no such observations are possible and the fine art of comparison is lost. The psychological obtuseness of our students is appalling, because they have only pop psychology to tell them what people are like, and the range of their motives. As the awareness that we owed almost exclusively to literary genius falters, people become more alike, for want of knowing they can be otherwise. What poor substitutes for real diversity are the wild rainbows of dyed hair and other external differences that tell the observer nothing about what is inside.

One more example, this time from Robert Greene's Mastery:

When people form groups of any type, a kind of organizational mind-set inevitably sets in. Although members of the group might trumpet their tolerance and celebration of people's differences, the reality is that those who are markedly different make them feel uncomfortable and insecure, calling the values of the dominant culture into question. This culture will have unwritten standards of correctness that shift with the times we live in. In some environments, physical appearance is important. But generally, the spirit of correctness runs deeper than that. Often unconsciously conforming to the spirit of the man or woman on top, members will share the same values about morals or politics. You can become aware of this group spirit by observing how much people feel the need to display certain opinions or ideas that conform to the standards. There will always be a few within the group who are the overseers of correctness and who can be quite dangerous.

This is great writing. Not because of its poetry or even its great depth, but because of its richness. Great writing doesn't merely argue for a conclusion, but helps you see more of the world, and see the world more clearly.

And notice that this aspect of writing can't be copied. You can regurgitate someone else's abstractions and dredge up fresh examples. You can even apply someone else's abstraction to new issues. And that's fine. That's useful.

But to rise to the level of "great," your writing has to be filled with fresh observations and insights that can only come from looking out at the world and conceptualizing it firsthand. You can rely on a genius to give you a broad framework for thinking of the world. But you cannot rely on the genius to give you all of the mid-range observations that transform writing from beef stock to beef bourguignon.