I knew that it’s the largest body of fresh water in the world, that it contains about twenty percent of the world’s fresh water, that it’s 1,637 metres (more than a mile) deep at its deepest, that it was created by continental landmasses moving apart, that is has species of fish found only here. But, beyond its facts, Baikal really does have a magic to it. Travellers who wrote ecstatically about it in the past were not exaggerating. Most of Russia’s inland water is sluggish, swampy, inert; Baikal’s is quick. For sparklingness and clarity it’s the opposite of swamp water. The surrounding hills and cliffs that funnel winds along it keep it jumping. It reflects like an optical instrument and responds to changes in the weather so sensitively that it seems like a part of the sky rather than of the land.
From Ian Frazier’s “Travels in Siberia-II” from the August 10, 2009 issue of The New Yorker.
We’re about to enter Paragraph Party season again so I’m featuring this beaut to get us back in the mood.
One of the things we talk about in the Paragraph Party is the concept of Enter, Develop, Exit.
We use these words to avoid vague language like Beginning, Middle, End and to keep us far, far away from the confines of Topic Sentence, Supporting Sentence, Concluding Sentence.
Enter, Develop, Exit is about getting the reader in, making things happen, and then (delightfully) kicking them out. Frazier’s graf about Baikal shows this principle at work while also nicely illustrating how even basic scene-setting can be magical.
First, I absolutely love the Enter on this graf. Frazier starts out with some Best of Wikipedia tidbits, but he does a couple of things that rescue him from sounding like a 5th grader giving a geography report.
First, the phrase “I knew that” is wonderfully dismissive. It has a “as you may have heard” ring to it without calling attention to itself. You forgive him for his indulgence without even realizing it’s happening.
Second, Frazier breaks your will with details. A typical writer would just tell you that Baikal was the largest fresh water body of water in the world. Frazier keeps on you until the enormity of this lake really sinks in. If you’re not impressed with the high percentage of global fresh water, then he’ll take you a mile(!) under the surface, and if that’s not enough then he’ll give you special fish and continental drift.
The Develop section of the graf is the weakest, but Frazier still does a nice job of creating a bridge between the facts in the beginning and the beautiful imagery of the final line. I would’ve appreciated a quotation from one of those ecstatic former travelers, but I respect the choice to keep things clean.
What I do like is how Frazier puts Baikal in context with the rest of Russia’s inland water. “For sparklingness and clarity it’s the opposite of swamp water” is kind of a weird sentence, but you need it to build the overall image of Baikal (quick, jumping, etc.).
Now we’re ready to Exit.
“[I]t seems like a part of the sky rather than of the land” is just lovely. I especially appreciate that Frazier didn’t write this sentence so it ended on the word “sky” although I admit that on the first read I felt like this was a missed opportunity. What writer doesn’t want to lead their reader into the wild blue yonder?
Then I went back and figured out why I was wrong and Frazier was right. You’ll find the reason in beginning of the first line of the next graf. I’ll leave it up to you to figure it out:
“When a wave rolls in on Baikal, and it curls to break . . . .”
I found the switch from past tense “I knew” to present tense “it’s the largest” in the first sentence awkward, but in the end it made me really want to see this lake, the whole point of travel writing.
Hi Cat–I’m far from a grammarian (is that even a word?) but interesting point above. It never occured to me, thinking that “I knew”–to have prior knowledge–that it “is” (presently) follows logically. Anyway no big deal. How come you found it awkward? Thanks.
The second graf starts on the shoreline. Ending on “land” allows the mind’s eye to remain low and eases the transition to the next image, instead of yanking the reader back down from the sky.
Lars is exactly right. Well done.
Some of you might be wondering if it matters that much. It matters that much.
As for grammar question, I don’t think you would have found it awkward in the context of the entire piece, which is in the past tense.
huh. Maybe my mind works backwards (or perhaps I need remedial graf work….pretty sure that’s true) but I had a very different response to the last couple sentences, and the first sentence of the next paragraph.
What I responded to was an open and upward feel; the “winds” “optical,” “sensitive,” ” part of the sky,” left me swirling up in the air, and the next sentence (2nd graph), left me there: I imagined the waves rolling and breaking as a very celestial thing, like clouds or air swirling. It didn’t conjure, for me, the shoreline (not sure why).
I don’t know if this has anything to do with the fact that I have seen Baikal. But it is true that my lasting impression is that it spreads wide in a landscape of vast open sky, so maybe I brought a preconceived picture.
Dunno.
What’s wonderful about this graf is that there’s room for both Lars and Nancy to be right.
We end on land to bring us logically back to earth for the next graf.
But the poetry of that last line allows for sky and surf to co-mingle.