What’s in a Title
Alec Cizak, the editor of Pulp Modern, inspired this post. Last week on Facebook, he asked: Do you title or number your chapters? Like most writers, I number, it’s easier. Years ago, however, I briefly contemplated chapter titles for my first science fiction book. The titles were clever at first, then quickly turned contrived, and ended being a boring chore. Sensibly, I gave up on them. It’s hard enough to find a title for a book or a story, imagine figuring out a punchy starter for thirty or forty chapters.
I grew up reading 19th-early 20th century French novelists, and they all titled their chapters—Alexandre Dumas, Paul Féval, Gaston Leroux (of Phantom of the Opera fame, without the songs), Victor Hugo … Dickens also titled his chapters. Most of these books were first published as “serials” which contributes to explain the practice (Charlotte Brontë doesn’t have titles for Jane Eyre’s chapters but the book wasn’t serialized.)
Starting the week’s episode with a headline like “A Hard Bishopric for a Good Bishop” as Hugo does on top of Chapter III of Les Misérables is a lot more impactful than a humble number 3. It also serves as a teaser.
One of the authors responding to Alec’s question wrote that he didn’t title his chapters because it would give something of the story away. Fair comment if like Dumas you dare slap a header on the page like “La Femme d’Athos”. Drop that on the reader unexpectedly! What? The guy has a wife? Who the hell is she? I bet that episode of The Three Musketeers sold like hot cakes. Which certainly was the entire point.
With the possible exception of the above cliffhanger in reverse that made my young eyes pop with curiosity and anticipation, chapter titles don’t have a significant effect on my reading experience. I scan them and move on. By the second page of the chapter I’ve forgotten there was even a title. So I’d say to writers that wonder if it’s worth the effort: don’t bother.
Digging through old volumes to put this newsletter together, made me want to read some of them again. It also brought back memories of beach vacations with the family and hauling a sack of books that would have pushed my luggage over the weight limit. Luckily, we didn’t fly to our destinations, we drove.
I was (still am) very fond of big books that I could disappear into for days at a stretch—“une brique” or “un pavé” in French, literally a cobblestone, slang for doorstopper. The 19th century writers, paid by the line, fed my appetite. They didn’t produce slender and compact volumes to be savored one word at a time. Most of them wrote unapologetic pulp, in the fun, propulsive, plot-heavy, trashy sense of the term. Victor Hugo with his searing political and social agenda never lost sight of the entertainment aspect of the books. The message gets delivered more efficiently that way. I was sixteen when I read Les Misérables for the first time and the fevered pages on the students’ revolt left a lasting impression on me (the blah love story, not so much).
Talking about the boundless fun of trashy pulp, one of my most frequent re-reads is Dumas’ Les Trois Mousquetaires, already mentioned above. My take on the book has evolved over time. I was ten when I discovered it. The nastiness of the story flew well over my head. I enjoyed the adventure, the flamboyance, the energy, basically what you see in the countless and oversimplified Hollywood regurgitations.
It took me a few more years to realize that the book was chockfull of drunken binges, theft, adultery, treason, sexual favors traded for sartorial finery and war horses (the equivalent of a sports car), armed gangs protecting their turf, brutal vigilante justice … and that’s from the good guys! The other side has, among other niceties, a femme a lot more fatale than Phyllis in Double Indemnity, political assassination, and conniving that would put our current influence peddlers to shame. Add to the pulp pile, murders very foul indeed and a few memorable blood-dripping gothic passages. There’s a beheading scene at night, on the banks of a river, that’s tattooed on my brain.
In retrospect it’s amazing Dumas skated around censorship. And he got away with it repeatedly. He produced a cycle of novels set before and during the French Revolution that are not for the faint of heart.
The man had his finger on the reading public’s pulse and kept it steady. A lot of fun was had and continues to be had to this day.
Alexandre must have felt a shiver of pleasure go through his ashes (interred at the Panthéon in Paris) when La Reine Margot (1994, Patrice Chéreau) hit movie screens. After decades of disneyfication, here was an adaptation that got it right, and with bloody bushels more. The kicker is that the original book is rather mild, considering it takes place during the 16thcentury Wars of Religion that killed between 2 and 4 million French people; the notorious St. Bartholomew's Day massacre being part of the frenzy. I always felt that Dumas missed an opportunity to go big, bold, and wildly transgressive with that one—unless he feared he’d finally get the censors’ ax. Chéreau definitely didn’t hold anything back. Make sure you watch the full-length version (162 minutes), not the 20 minutes shorter one that eviscerates the plot instead of the doomed characters.