I’ve spent a large chunk of my life teaching principles from E.M. Forster’s Aspects of the Novel: the differences between flat and round characters; “the king died, and then the queen died” is a story, but “the king died, then the queen died of grief” is a plot. I never had to read the book, because those lessons are part of the fabric of writing now. They were referenced by mentors, reinforced with examples, used to mark out the lines between good writing and bad. I had what I needed, so why go looking for the original? I had a copy if I needed it – often more than one – but there was other stuff to read that advanced his original points.
Forster wrote his speeches in 1927, and the ideas had been hashed out (I didn’t even have Forster’s name right, half the time, referring to him as EM Forrester for much of the last decade).
Academia doesn’t let you get away with repeating things you heard from a someone, sometime. They want you to go back to primary sources, which means I had to read Aspects of the Novel for the first time.
The points Forster makes aren’t always the points I’ve inherited through the writing grapevine, where years of discussion have seen value judgements and arguments filtered into the source material. The best parts of the books aren’t the things I already knew, but the stuff nobody talks about which lead up to his key arguments.
I’d expected Forster to be smart, but I didn’t expect him to be wry. I’d expected him to make good points, but I didn’t expect the occasional turn of phrase or metaphor that’s a source of startling joy. The little moments where I put the book down and acknowledge Forster can write.
It’s worth going back to primary sources, even if you think you know what they’re saying. There’s always little things that surprise you, and more nuance than you’d expect.
