OPENING MONOLOGUE

by James Lincoln Warren

Among any self-identified group, there are topics that may seem trivial to the uninitiated but will generate passionate debate among the cognoscenti. Among writers, one such topic relates to the use of prologues in story telling.

Another such topic is “rules for writing” (a new collection of which the Gentle Reader may find here, but be sure you read both pages). One of the most common rules among various advice-dispensing writers is “For God’s sake, start at Chapter One and SKIP THE FRIGGIN’ PROLOGUE.” There are all sorts of justifications for this nugget, not least of which is that there is an unavoidable break in continuity between a prologue and what follows it, thereby destroying a story’s rhythm before it even gets established, but usually the advice to avoid prologues is based on the notion that they are superfluous, a waste of time and effort, an example of bloated and unnecessary verbiage, a demented example of lack of economy, the badge of an utter tyro.

Well, sometimes—maybe even most of the time—they are. But then again . . .

One of my own rules is that authorial technique is aesthetically neutral. The sole value of any technique depends on how well it serves the story. So I think the question to be asked is not whether the idea of a prologue is good or bad, but whether a prologue in any way improves the story. And I think sometimes it does.

Perhaps the most common form of prologue these days is the teaser—the short scene at the beginning of a TV program that is supposed to hold the watcher’s interest long enough to get him through the opening credits and first onslaught of sponsors’ important messages. Now let’s face it: this is a gimmick. The impact of the teaser is short: you may bite, but a teaser does no good if the story that follows fails to set the hook, so to speak. But that doesn’t thereby make it worthless. It has done its job by getting you past the commercials.

Likewise, a teaser in a short story may be called for if there is an unusually large amount of static exposition needed for the story to make sense. A common example of this is the flashback prologue: the reader is shown a climactic moment out of context, followed by the legend “24 Hours Earlier” (or two weeks or two years or whatever), heralding a sequential account of events leading up to that climactic moment.

Along the same lines, there is the historic prologue. In this type, the reader is shown an event that occurred sometime before the the main story that has an eventual impact on the story, as if The Maltese Falcon‘s first scene were set in Istanbul at the heist of the bird instead of with Miles Archer’s murder in San Francisco. Obviously, in The Maltese Falcon, such a prologue would have been ridiculously superfluous, especially since the bird itself is only a MacGuffin. On the other hand, it can save tedious exposition if used judiciously. The film version of Murder on the Orient Express very effectively used this exact device—the first thing the audience is acquainted with, long before Hercule Poirot enters the scene, is the kidnapping and murder of the Armstrong baby. Because the solution to the crime depends on a knowledge of this heinous act, it becomes necessary for the audience to be aware of it and all the circumstances attending it, or else Poirot would be in the position of explaining it all at the dénouement, turning the whole sordid tale into an unsatisfying deus ex machina.

Then there is the character prologue, a species of historic prologue that has more to do with development than with plot exposition. This shows some traumatic experience or otherwise significant moment in the life of one of the characters. It has no bearing on the plot except to explain certain behavior on the part of the character during the Main Event. Robert Crais’s 2000 novel Demolition Angel offers such a prologue, albeit designated as Chapter One—three years before the action of the novel, the heroine, bomb squad cop Carol Starkey, is severely wounded and her lover killed when their attempt to defuse an explosive goes awry. This colors her every action and reaction during a bombing spree three years later, commencing with Chapter Two. I suppose it would have been possible to fold it in as a series of flashbacks or as exposition, but I think it’s much more visceral the way he wrote it.

Finally, there is the Sheherazade Approach—the story (or stories) are justified by a prologue that frames what follows. Two examples of this leap to my mind.

The first is the 1911 comic opera “Ariadne auf Naxos” by Richard Strauss (music) and Hugo von Hofmannsthal (libretto). The story is von Hofmannsthal’s. In Act One, we are introduced to a bevy of characters preparing to perform for an 18th century nobleman. A young composer has prepared an opera seria based on the myth of Ariadne, the Cretan princess who aided Theseus in killing the Minotaur, but whom he abandoned on the Aegean island of Naxos, eventually to be rescued by the great god Bacchus. To the composer’s horror, he discovers that his tragic opera is to be followed by a low comedy headlined by the flirtatious and world-wise Zerbinetta, a commedia dell’arte trouper. Just before the curtain falls, we learn that the noble has determined that both performances should be presented at the same time, because he wants them both to be finished by the time fireworks are to be displayed at nine o’clock. Act Two is the opera pastiche, which Hofmannsthal presents as a fable on love and fidelity. “Ariadne auf Naxos” is a masterpiece and one of my favorite Strauss operas (me being a hardcore Strauss partisan), full of rich melody and soaring moments of equally represented humor and pathos.

The second example is the late American author John Gardner’s wonderful 1980 novel Freddy’s Book. In the first part, the narrator, presumably Gardner himself, is on a lecture tour, and is invited to stay at a colleague’s home during his stay in Madison, Wisconsin. The colleague has a son named Freddy, who it turns out is a giant, monstrously obese and pathologically shy. While trying to draw Freddy out of his shell, the narrator learns that Freddy has written a book. The narrator asks to read it, more out of compassion than out of any genuine interest. After he goes to bed, he hears a noise outside his room, opens the door, and finds Freddy’s manuscript lying before the threshold. The second part, actually the latter two-thirds, comprises Freddy’s novel, King Gustav and the Devil, which turns out to be a brilliant fairy tale recounting a rustic Swedish knight’s contest with the Prince of Darkness in the early 16th century.

Now, in both these cases, the prologues are very long—but they are still prologues. They serve not only to frame the stories they introduce, but also to prepare the reader for the themes that the tales were written to explore. Which leads me to my conclusion concerning prologues and their utility.

All of the effective uses of prologues cataloged above have some things in common. First, they achieve a particular and deliberate purpose. For a prologue to be effective, it must have a reason for existing, and it must serve that reason better than any other means available. Reasons may differ—when I use a prologue, it’s usually because it’s the most economic means at my disposal for getting my point across, saving me verbiage I would otherwise have to spread out through the story in hopes that it didn’t slow down my narrative to a trickle. Second, they contain essential parts of the story. All too often a prologue doesn’t, but is included merely as a cheap means to get the party started, as meaningless and clichéd as putting a lampshade on your head to break the ice.

As it happens, Rob Lopresti had the same idea with regard to writing about prologues this week. You can see his take on the subject on Wednesday—I can say in advance that it is vintage Lopresti, complete with wit and pointed intelligence—but with a radically different conclusion.