Jaguars and leopards are classified as “Big Cats” (Pantherinae) because they have a U-shaped hyoid apparatus in their throats which gives them the ability to roar. Cheetahs and pumas are just as big as jaguars and leopards, but they are classified as “Small Cats” (Felinae) because their ossified hyoid bones prohibit them from roaring.
Among cats, it is your voice that determines your size.
But dogs are not like cats. According to Indy Beagle, the size of a dog determines the depth of its voice. You never see a “Little Yapper Dog” (Yapperdus Petitae) with a deep voice, and you never see a “Working Dog” (Woofus Grande) with a squeaky voice.
Among dogs, it is your size that determines your voice.
But when it comes to people, all of that goes out the window. Big people can have little voices and little people can have big voices.
Among people, it is your voice that determines your voice.
In review:
Among cats, it is your voice that determines your size.
Among dogs, it is your size that determines your voice.
Among people, it is your voice that determines your voice.
But what about books? What determines the voice of a book?
In non-fiction writing, “the voice of the book” is essentially the style of the narrator. It is the way the author likes to phrase things. It is syntax, diction, punctuation and vocabulary, as well as the manner in which knowledge is revealed to the reader. The author’s own voice will inform the voice of the book, indicating angle of view, philosophical bent, pride of education, religiosity, rurality, intimacy, mastery, academia, bureaucracy, condescension, insecurity, simple-mindedness, bitterness, mental illness, and wit, or lack thereof.
Similes, metaphors, and examples are the literary devices that give us the greatest insight into an author, showing us how he or she sees the world.
The voice of a fiction book is a composite of the voices of all its characters, evidenced through their words, actions, and thought patterns.
Unlike non-fiction, the narrator’s voice in fiction is often just another created character, giving us little, if any, insight into the mind of the author.
Let’s circle back to the voices of people for a moment.
Psychiatrists tell us there are four kinds of people who live in fictional, inner worlds.
Narcissists tell themselves and others that everyone loves them even though they do not. They want to believe it and so they say it.
Pathological liars believe their own lies and will recreate their internal realities to accommodate those lies.
Sociopaths and psychopaths never exhibit remorse after lying or hurting others because they are extremely egocentric and lack empathy. The difference between the two is that sociopaths are made but psychopaths are born.
Last week I wrote to you about the intense disagreements that can occur when two opposing truths come into conflict.
But not all conflict is about truth.
“It used to be that your character and your beliefs were what made people look up to you. But now it’s about whether you have a Rolex, a big house, and a Jag in the driveway.”
A smiling executive from a prominent advertising agency made that statement to eight of us sitting in a conference room in west Tulsa in 1982. I’ve never forgotten that moment, that statement, or his face, because I was jarred by the fact that he said it in celebration, rather than remorse.
The “Me” generation would reach its zenith the following year.
I rarely write to you while I am still in the process of distilling my thoughts, but for some reason I decided this week that I would share all the little things that are tumbling around in my mind like socks in the dryer and let you sort those socks into pairs on your own.
[If you have been reading carefully, right now you are recalling what I said earlier about how, “Similes, metaphors, and examples are the literary devices that give us the greatest insight into an author, showing us how he or she sees the world.” But to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what this socks-in-the-dryer simile might indicate about me.]
John Steinbeck was born one year before the zenith of the previous “Me” generation, so he saw it slowly decline from that zenith as he grew up. Late in his life, John wrote to a close friend,
“Do you remember two kinds of Christmases? There is one kind in a house where there is little and a present represents not only love but sacrifice. The one single package is opened with a kind of slow wonder, almost reverence. Once I gave my youngest boy, who loves all living things, a dwarf, peach-faced parrot for Christmas. He removed the paper and then retreated a little shyly and looked at the little bird for a long time. And finally he said in a whisper, ‘Now who would have ever thought that I would have a peach-faced parrot?'”
”Then there is the kind of Christmas with presents piled high, the gifts of guilty parents as bribes because they have nothing else to give. The wrappings are ripped off and the presents are thrown down and at the end the child says – Is that all? Well it seems to me that America now is like that second kind of Christmas. Having too many THINGS they spend their hours and money on the couch searching for a soul. A strange species we are. We can stand anything God and Nature can throw at us save only plenty. If I wanted to destroy a nation, I would give it too much and I would have it on its knees, miserable, greedy and sick.”
And now you have seen the socks that are tumbling in my mind.
Roy H. Williams
