The Essayist's Notebook

While revising one of the essays on method, a question emerged that felt larger than the editing itself.

Which sentence is the defining sentence?

Literary criticism often looks for one. The sentence that unlocks the piece. The sentence from which everything else follows. The sentence that resolves the argument and allows the essay to close neatly upon itself.

There is elegance in that approach. But I find myself increasingly resistant to it.

It's a question of focus – here are a few words I scribbled in the margin: I think at this point I don't want the piece to have a clarity of focus – I want a vagueness to it – that encourages the reader to explore, perhaps to define for themselves – I don't want to close the circle in that way – I know that literary critics would see that as elegant, but a pedestrican crossing is more than stripes on the tarmac.

Yes the image that came to mind was a pedestrian crossing.

A critic might look at a pedestrian crossing and see a successful arrangement of white stripes on tarmac. They might admire the geometry, the symmetry, or the way each stripe contributes to the overall design.

Yet a pedestrian crossing is more than stripes on the road. It may even have lights. It is an invitation to cross. A convention shared by drivers and pedestrians. A piece of civic infrastructure. A relationship between risk and trust. The visible part is not one thing, and it's not the whole thing.

I am trying to construct my essays to work in a similar way. Readers rarely leave carrying away an entire argument. More often they carry fragments. A phrase. An image. A question. A way of looking; perhaps even an adjusted disposition.

One reader may remember: Dig where you stand. Another may remember: The contradiction remains interesting. Someone else may carry away: The argument can wait.

I am not convinced that any one of these must become the master key to the others. Readers bring themselves to the page. They are not all some idealized type.

The temptation to identify a single defining sentence is really a temptation to close the circle. To say: this is what the essay is about. Yet some essays are less concerned with bringing a reader to a destination than equipping them for a journey. Perhaps essays do not always need a centre. Perhaps they need landmarks.

A landmark is not the destination. Nor does it prescribe a route. It helps someone orient themselves within a larger landscape. That thought seems increasingly important to my own practice. I am less interested in delivering conclusions than in offering navigation tools.

A useful essay may not tell a reader where to go next. It may simply help them recognise where they are standing. And from there, they can decide the direction for themselves. David Marshall Flic en Flac, Mauritius