Describing Reality

"This is a reconstruction. All of it is a reconstruction. It's a reconstrustion now, in my head, as I lie flat on my single bed rehearsing what I should or shouldn't have said, what I should or shouldn't have done, how I should have played it. If I ever get out of here--

... When I get out of here, if I'm ever able to set this down, in any form, even in the form of one voice to another, it will be a reconstruction then too,and yet another remove. It is impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because what you say can never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavours, in the air or on the tongue, half colours, too many."

(Atwood, 126)

It's odd to consider that all the stories we've ever heard or read are missing pieces. There's no way they could be told with every detail of the occurence intact. As Atwood says there are "too many flavours", there's too much our senses can perceive. This realization makes me consider the world around me, and how I would describe it. I'm in my room, and I can easily tell you the primary colours -- black and white -- but not all of them in all their shades. I can tell you that the air is slightly stagnant, but sweet in a way, it's the way my room usually is. I'm accustomed to it, but to someone who is not, it is impossible for me to describe in perfect clarity my bedroom.

Then again, why would anyone want to know, in finite detail, all the aspects of the world around them? It would be terrible to hear or read a story that went in to elaborate description of every minute fact. I believe it is better for an author to leave a fair amount to the audience, and allow them to paint their own landscape to place the writer's characters in. A good story tells the reader what to imagine, but a great story would inspire the reader and allow them to utilise their imagination.

"All right," I say. I go to him and place my lips, closed, against his. I smell the shaving lotion, the usual kind, the hint of mothballs, familiar enough to me. But he's like someone I've only just met.

He draws away, looks down at me. There's the smile again, the sheepish one. Such candour. "Not like that," he says. "As if you mean it."

He was so sad.

This is a reconstruction, too."

(Atwood, 132)