THE UNITIES OF ACTION, TIME AND PLACE in the short story

THE UNITIES OF ACTION, TIME AND PLACE in the short story

THE UNITIES OF ACTION, TIME AND PLACE in the short story

as we turn more particularly to the technique of short fiction, we discover limitations both of subject and method which present problems somewhat different from those of the novelist. These we must now consider.

That the reader shall derive the maximum of interest with the minimum of attention we may assume to be an ideal of all writing. The reader wishes entertainment, identification of himself with imaginary characters and their fortunes, but this easily, without conscious effort. The writer must, therefore, determine what he may attempt with reasonable likelihood of success

within the space granted him, and, conversely, what is certain to be a failure.

A highly unprofitable and hazardous theme for a short story is, for example, the development of a character through a considerable period of time. Tolstoy's Resurrection and Fielding's Tom Jones, utterly different as they are, have this common purpose—but these are long novels. Perhaps the larger part of character novels are devoted to this problem of development, the slow modification of a personality by the accidents of existence. To treat of this effectively requires ample room. As the action of time is' slow and seldom revolutionary in its immediate effect, so must the writer have space in which to record with deliberateness the series of incidents which, singly trivial, are in the aggregate of vast effect; so that, at the end of the story a character may be far other than at first, yet the change be so gradual as to excite not incredulity, but acceptance.

In a few thousand words a character cannot be so developed with any degree of convincingness, for the simple reason that there is insufficient room for the necessary detail. The skilful writer seizes instead upon someone series of incidents which leads to a crisis of character development. Whereas the entire life of a man is a series of crises, the theme for a short story is.

most effectively, but one of these. This may be treated with the fullness of detail adequate to its delineation were it but one of many in a, longer narrative. The writer merely eliminates what precedes and follows this group of incidents. And though he limits his field he gains thereby in concentration and emotional intensity. These virtues, were his selection less exacting, he would be almost certain to lose.

His scenes then, if of character, must not be those necessitating slow development over a long period, but instead be significant turning points—significant in that the character makes some decision or enters upon some new relation which alters the course of his life. The decision may be momentous or trivial as the nature of the story may demand; this is technically unimportant. But it is highly important that the writer carefully limit his selection of incidents to those which will make the turning-point fully intelligible, but no more. The principle is, again, that of selection; art and cunning are revealed in the rejection of the superfluous. This selection becomes increasingly exacting as the space which the author aims to fill becomes less.

Consider, as an illustration, Stevenson's story, Markheitn. The theme is a crisis in the life of a weak man—one doomed to failure. The author has selected that group of incidents which involves the character in murder, and then leads him to a recognition of his true self and to confession. The story, because of its shortness, can make no attempt, as would a longer story, to trace the slow disintegration of character to the point with which, in this story, we begin. With these earlier steps of his downward career we have no concern save as they are suggested in the delineation of character necessary to make the man intelligible to us. The incidents relating to his crime and confession are, however, told with great fullness. We must have insight into the man's psychology if the new conditions of life which he faces are to be convincing. But, once he is set unmistakably on the new path, the story is done. Our imaginations may supply supplementary details, but with these the author is not concerned.

Such a turning-point in character development may well be likened to a crossroads. The man has been proceeding on a straight road for some time past; at the crossroads he hesitates, and his choice of possible paths is fraught with moment. It is in the immediate decision that we are interested; for, though this involve but the slighter affairs of life, it is important by reason of the significance which the choice of direction implies.

We may generalize, then, thus much: the

shorter the series of vitally related incidents involving a crisis of character, the shorter the space in which we may convincingly portray that crisis. In a story of two or three thousand words the incidents must be few indeed; in five thousand words we may do more.

Limited as must be our choice of incidents relating to a single character, it follows that we can scarcely portray in a brief narrative two or more decisions or turning-points of either one or more characters. The first difficulty is one of space, as we have seen. Equally vital is a second, that of divided attention. Economy of the reader's interest demands that we tell but one story at a time. To divide our space between two crises or two characters is to dissipate the interest in either. This is true to some degree, also, in longer works of fiction; but there the division of attention is in part compensated by the possibility of greater individual development both of character and situation. The long novel may properly be regarded as a group of related stories, each of interest in itself, and taking on new significance by their relation one to another. In a short narrative there is possibility neither of so great individual elaboration nor of the significance due to correlation.

We demand in a short story unity of action. It should concern itself with some crisis, some

turning-point in the life of a single character. Though this crisis may, it is true, involve others to a lesser degree, still it is primarily the story of one person and only incidentally includes others as they affect him

This definition of unity of action is, however, misleading in so far as we have spoken solely in terms of character. In many stories character is of minor importance, and our interest is mainly in the incidents themselves. The principle here is none the less binding. Let us consider Poe's famous story, The Gold Bug.

Though The Gold Bug is commonly regarded as a masterpiece, and though it is, undoubtedly, a vivid and compelling story, I am not sure but there is a rather pronounced flaw in its construction. My reason for so thinking is this. In casting about for a suitable illustration of unity of action, my mind reverted to this story. It is, I remembered, a capital tale of adventure in which the decipherment of a parchment leads to the discovery of buried treasure. I recalled the treasure hunt vividly, particularly that gruesome detail of the skull nailed to the limb of the tree, and the gold bug which the negro dropped through the eye-socket. A capital, highly unified yarn! But when I turned to Poe, what was my surprise to find that the recovery of the treasure comes at a point considerably

prior to the end of the story. What follows has to do with the means whereby the mysterious parchment was deciphered. To Poe the story was primarily a mystery story; his interest lay in the solution of the problem. To me, the reader, the interest lies chiefly in the adventure.

Is the story, then, unified? To me it seems two stories, inseparably bound up, to be sure, but none the less in so far distinct that my interest flags once the treasure is found. Suppose, then, that the order of narration were reversed, and the parchment deciphered for us as preparation for the treasure hunt. Were this the case, the solution of the mystery would be but a step to the treasure; there would be no sense of anticlimax Poe, to whom mysteries, problems, and cryptograms afforded the keenest joy, reversed what to me seems the true narrative order for the purpose of heightening our interest in the riddle; and in so doing he has made two stories of what is but one, and so has dulled our interest in the second.

Whether or not you agree with me in this judgment, the point raised illustrates what is meant by unity of action in a story of incident. We may derive further illustrations from the same story. Suppose that Poe, after the modern manner, had sought to add a love-affair. The simplicity of his story would then have become

obscured, for our interest would have been distracted somewhat from mystery and adventure. You will observe that Poe is careful to avoid any such mistake. Moreover, though the story is told by a minor participant in the action, we know little about him. Our attention is riveted to the one chief character and his adventures. Note, too, that characterization and background are permitted but minor parts, for the story's concern is with action. To emphasize these would again be to disconcert us.

This unity of action of which we speak is really nothing more than a form of simplicity born of singleness of purpose. Illustrated in a good story (we may cite again The Cask of Amontillado) it is obvious enough. In actual story construction it is not so easy to put into practice. To excise superfluous incidents conceived in the fine vividness of imagination and in themselves entertaining, is a task calling for some heroism and much clear-sightedness. It is an obligation the beginner finds most difficult. He is perhaps enamored of decorative details and unable to appreciate the beauty of a naked simplicity. Thus he clutters the simple machinery of his tale with superfluous incident—related to the action, to be sure, and interesting, but, in the highest sense, irrelevant. In so doing he fails to achieve a true unity.

UNITY of Time

The necessity of economizing the reader's attention gives rise also to the problem of time. How long a period should the action of a story cover? We can lay down no absolute rule, but can say promptly the shortest time compatible with the effective narration of the necessary incidents. The reason is not hard to discover. If between incidents two and three of my story there intervenes the space of a year, my reader will find it difficult to conceive those incidents to be vitally related. Both experience and imagination tell him that the vitality of any incident is weakened by the passage of so long a time. The most absorbing episode of a year ago is to him now of lesser consequence than many an experience of the last few days, less truly important. Between two story incidents widely separated in time there is a hie weakening of interest. And if considerable intervals occur between various incidents, the total effect will be limp indeed. Incidents, to have the true relation of cause and effect, as we have seen they must, should seem to happen in short space. They must give the illusion of experience itself, which is an uninterrupted flow. The writer therefore endeavors, first of all, to begin his story as near as possible to its point of highest interest, relating antecedent

events necessary to our understanding of the story by various means which we shall discuss in detail in a subsequent chapter. But what of the incidents which remain? For these the writer telescopes his action. Let us see what is meant by the figure.

We shall assume that the writer has in mind a story based upon experience, modified, of course, and provided with a suitable and logical denouement, but in essence a "true story. " He first carefully cuts away extraneous incidents, those not logically necessary to the growth of the action. In so doing he has removed the story from the realm of life, in which logical sequence of events is overlaid and obscured by irrelevancies and he has made it to some degree art, selected and related incident with a purpose. As he examines the skeleton which he has so carefully laid bare by his process of omissions he is conscious of rather long time-intervals between certain of the steps of his story. The incidents are well enough related logically, but they occur over a considerable period of time. Could this be shortened there would be a gain in intensity; his story would be without the enfeebling delays of which we spoke. Therefore he reduces the time intervals as much as he dares, bringing the related parts of his story into more immediate connection. If a week in fact intervened between incidents four and five, and if this interval may be safely shortened to a day, or better, an hour, he makes the alteration, for he gains thereby in effectiveness. Or, it may be, he merely avoids, in so far as possible, all specific references to time-intervals, and emphases action, seeking to intimate the flow of time only indirectly. The reader is then unconscious of definite time-intervals, though aware in general that time has passed.

There is, however, a check upon this foreshortening process. It may be that between the incidents selected some considerable interval is necessary if the second is to be accepted as springing from the first, as, for instance, one indicating a radical development of character. People are usually slow to alter; time must be given them that influences may have effect. If the story relates the hero's meeting with the heroine, his conversation with her, some service he may do, a second meeting, his growing love, and his proposal of marriage, we need some little time to elapse if we are to accept the character change as convincing. The incidents might be arranged so as to occur within a single day or evening, but did they do so we should not believe the hero truly in love. Such sudden infatuations take place in real life, but they are exceptional, and a story must be true not of

exceptional experience but of typical experience. If between the same series of incidents there be permitted to elapse a slightly longer time, if they be spread over a week or two, we shall be far more likely to accept them as plausible.

The writer, then, telescopes his incidents as much as he dares, his knowledge of life serving as a check upon the extreme exercise of his artistic method. He may, indeed, overstep the bounds of naturalness somewhat. The reader will excuse a considerable degree of foreshortening as a convention of the art if thereby the story's action is made more rapid. But there exists always the danger of going too far. Good sense, experience, and the study of good fiction must all aid the writer in his determination of the golden mean.

An extreme example of foreshortening artistically managed, is Stevenson's The Sire de Mali-troll's Door. In this the hero meets the heroine one evening and marries her the next morning. But to render his solution plausible the writer has carefully devised various compelling and extenuating circumstances. These cause us to accept his assurances without great effort. Swiftness of action and a reasonable degree of credibility are both achieved.

It is desirable, then, that a story cover asshort a time as is compatible with the reader's

acceptance of it as typical of human experience. There are many stories, however, which by their very nature cannot be so hurried. Intervals of time must elapse if the story is to include certain of its essentials. Let us take an extreme case, Maupassant'sThe Necklace. In this the major part of the action occupies but a day or two. Then occurs an interval of ten years, which is summarized in a paragraph. After this the action is concluded within a few minutes. The actual story incidents cover, it is true, but two or three days. What of the ten years' interval, however, which the author not only does not ignore, but actually emphasizes? It is upon our imaginative acceptance of this long period of time that the whole power of the story depends. Our minds must be staggered by it. We must not, however, dwell so long upon it and its happenings that the early incidents of the story lose any of their vividness, for it is in contrast with them that the last incidents exercise their power of pathos. The author very nicely bridges the difficulty. He gives our imaginations a moment to grasp the significance of so long a period of the life which in a few sentences he summarizes. But he permits no specific incidents of the period; for to do so would be to divert us from the incidents previously narrated. He takes advantage of the seeming difficulty, and yet maintains

the unity of his story. But it is rather an exceptional instance, and the generalization we have laid down is none the less binding.

A less unusual instance of a story which, of necessity, covers a considerable period of time, is Kipling's Baa, Baa, Black Sheep. Here the action requires several years, for the story is concerned with the modification of a child's character amid unwholesome surroundings. A shorter period would not produce the indelible effect desired. Let us note several specific instances of the author's skill in bridging the necessary intervals. I quote the transitional passages:

Punch said it accordingly and for a month, hugely against his will, stumbled through the brown book. . ..

. . . The shiny brass counters in the Office where Uncle Harry went once every three months with a slip of blue paper and received sovereigns in exchange. . ..

As soon as Punch could string a few pot-hooks together he wrote to Bombay demanding by return of post "all the books in the world. "

"I shall be there soon, " said he to Black Sheep, one winter evening, when his face showed white as a worn silver coin under the lights of the chapel-lodge. . . . A month later, he turned

sharp round, ere half a morning's walk was completed. . ..

They put him to bed, and for a fortnight the shadow of his sickness lay upon the house. . ..

Of Judy he saw very little. She was deeply religious—at six years of age. [At the beginning of the story we learned she was but three. ]

As time went on and the memory of Papa and Mania became wholly overlaid. . ..

The weeks lengthened into months, and the holidays came. . ..

The books lasted for ten d, ays. . . . Then came days of doing absolutely nothing. . ..

Holidays came and holidays went. The weeks were interminable.

For the next three weeks Black Sheep was strictly allowed to do nothing.

Aunty Rosa withdrew and left Mama kneeling between her children, half laughing, half crying, in the very hall where Punch and Judy had wept five years before.

The instances cited are only the more obvious. Numerous little touches less easily detached from their context serve to keep the flow of time unchecked. The open references are the mile-posts upon the way. And all are possessed of one

obvious characteristic: they do not disguise the passage of time; indeed they mark it openly, as is essential to the story. But never do they indicate a break in the narrative. Always, in the transitional sentence, some phrase links the thought with that which has preceded. The reader, keenly interested in the action, follows first the thread of narrative. Only incidentally does he make a mental note of the time covered since the last specific reference. A series of these marginal comments, and the reader accepts within a few pages the passage of months. The logic of the narrative is never broken to indicate the flight of time. That is incidental in so far as it attracts attention, though vital to the story's progress.

The artistic handling of time discovers, perhaps, its most striking illustration in Othello. The play demands the utmost closeness of narrative logic. Incident must crowd upon incident. Yet there must seem to be a lapse of sufficient time to permit the slow growth of Othello's jealousy. The two, rapid action and slow modification of character, are antagonistic. Yet both are so artistically conceived that it is possible to plan two time schemes for the play. In one the play covers seemingly a period of but a few days. In the other the action requires not days but months. The reader accepts both unthinkingly, and both exercise their due effect upon him It is paradoxical that this should be so, but there it is for any writer of stories to emulate. A study of other of Shakespeare's plays will reveal the same good artistry, though in few cases to so striking a degree as in Othello.

We may summarize: Make the time covered by the action as short as is compatible with convincingness. If the indication of the passage of time is essential—and often it must be definitely given—subordinate it; do not let it mar the even flow of the narrative.

UNITY OF PLACE

As in action and time, so in place, the writer seeks to dissipate the attention of the reader as little as possible. In a short story, if the action occurs in too many and diverse places, the imagination will be fatigued, if not bewildered, by the shifts demanded. If the scenes in every instance must be definite, and if these are many, there will, too, be little room for adequate descriptive detail. The writer must, therefore, economize, as in the instance of time, and bring his story to pass in but few places. With some contrivance he should, in most instances, be able to do this. It should be his practice to make but one change of scene when his first inclination prompts him to two. Several scenes,

if set in a single town or city, are usually more effective, because easier to visualize, than are those far apart and dissimilar; that a single house or room be the scene of action is better still. Do not misunderstand; as in the manipulation of time, there is here no inflexible law. An examination of good stories will show merely no unnecessary changes of scene; usually there are even fewer shifts than the average reader could follow readily without confusion or loss of interest. Unity of place is seldom absolute. With rare exceptions some slight change of scene is inevitable in the shortest of stories; and the longer the story the more changes there will usually be; certainly the more changes there may be without loss of effectiveness.

Yet to enumerate the changes of scene in several famous short stories will be to illustrate the general truth that the skilful writer makes very few. Thus in Poe's Purloined Letter we have but a single change, that from the apartment of the narrator to the hotel of the minister D. The scene in the latter place is noteworthy for its simple artistry in the treatment both of time and place; it is really two scenes occurring on two successive days. Observe the transitional sentences:

I. . . took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff box upon the table.

The next morning I called for the snuff box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day.

The reader who has visualized the scene is not called upon to wipe the picture from his imagination and shortly to recreate it, despite the fact that in the interval between the visits have occurred incidents necessary to the narrative. These the author brings in later in the following fashion:

In the meantime, I stepped to the card rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile (so far as regards externals) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings. ..

In the same passage mention is made of the scene in the street without, to which the attention of one of the characters, not the centre of interest, is attracted. But as this, too, is subordinate in interest, care is taken to minimize it, and the reader's visualization of the room and the action therein is unmarred.

In other of Poe's stories the observant will note the same care to avoid unnecessary change of place. In some, indeed, as in The Pit and the Pendulum, the place is absolutely fixed; the action occurs within the walls of a single room. Like attention to this obvious principle is to be noted in stories by other famous writers. They

do not always, it is true, confine the action to a single place, for the incidents selected will not always so permit; it is merely a principle to which they conform as nearly as possible. But before we consider such stories and the means by which transitions of place, when necessary, can be made most effectively, we should consider stories in which the place of action is not fixed at any time but is constantly moving, so that we can scarcely say that the story occurs even in a number of places. Our illustration is Poe's Cask of Amontillado.

In this the story progresses from the street in carnival time to a house, from the house to the cellars, and from the cellars to the catacombs. The place is never fixed: that is, the scene ceases to change only when we reach the very end of the story. Immediately, as we read, we are struck with the likeness of the flow of scene to that of time, which we saw to be characteristic of well-constructed stories. In these there were no appreciable breaks in the flow of action, no unabridged intervals of time—this by reason of a well-contrived coherence of incident. What is the position of the reader, the imaginary onlooker, as he follows the story's characters in the present instance?

He, of course, visualizes them in their progress from the street to the catacombs. It is true he

does not see everything which they actually observed; he sees instead a series of selected and blended objects. It is as though he passed by these at a pace faster than that of reality, a pace too rapid to permit the observation of all details, but not so fast that significant details, those by which the progress from one chamber to another is made quite dear, may not be recorded. The reader fancies that he walks with the characters at a normal pace, though in fact his progress is greatly accelerated. It is this effect of reality at which the writer aims. Omissions, inevitable to selection, are unnoted. Because of the suspense which the story creates, our progress seems even slow, and we hurry over the lines impatient of the end.

Because of this flow of scene so perfectly and uninterruptedly maintained, it is legitimate to declare the unity of place constant throughout. Certainly, there is no strain upon the imagination of the reader, no radical change which a sudden shift of setting would necessitate. We may regard the reader as one witnessing a procession. Or again, the incidents are like the changing panorama seen from a smoothly flying train: the countryside, not the observer, seems to move. The writer in fixing so firmly the view-point of his reader has achieved the effect of perfect unity of place in the story itself.

The problem in Poe's story is, we say, simple. The time is short, and the change of place, covered at an even speed, is, in the aggregate, slight. The illustration avoids the difficulties which are met with in a story of diverse scenes, those actually far apart and different in kind, which must be fused in a single narrative. But before we proceed to an examination of a story typical of this problem, let us pause for a moment to consider the psychology underlying the whole question of change of scene.

From what we have already learned in our consideration of place, and from analogies which we made to the problem of time, we may lay down a few generalizations. I fancy we shall be psychologically sound if we regard change in time and place as much the same in their effect upon the reader. If a narrative is broken, either to indicate the passage of time or a change of scene, the effect upon the reader is identical in kind, however different in degree: he is momentarily awakened from the story illusion, the essence of which is an unbroken flow of impression. In other words, he has again to take up the thread of the story. The time-interval is, however, more easily bridged than a change in place, for the nature of the incidents on either side the time gap may be the same; whereas to change from one scene to another requires a fresh creative act of the imagination rather than the resumption of a state of mind already created.

We may then suppose that change in place, requiring more imaginative power in the reader than the acceptance of a time-interval, would be less seldom permitted by a skilful writer, and, when unavoidable, either would not so often be successful or the artistic devices to efface the fracture would be the more refined and subtle. That the unity of place is more exacting and less often achieved than the unity of time is, I think, true. A story may cover a considerable period of time and still be unified. But if in Baa Baa Black Sheep there were as many specific indications of a change of scene as there are of the passage of weeks or months, the story would be far from creating its unified impression. What changes of place must be, are either bridged by the device of emphasizing the coherence of the action—which we saw was true also in the case of time-intervals--or resort is had to the flow of scene, the device of The Cask of Amontillado.

There is, however, another method, closely analogous to the flow of scene, which will often serve, wholly or in part, to obviate difficulties. When the scene is not vital to the intelligibility or vividness of the action, the writer may tell his story with but slight suggestion of definite

background, just as, in time, there may be no definite indication of time-intervals. The story enacts itself in such case as though freed from the restraints of time and place; the flow of incident creates the illusion of reality. It occurs nowhere in particular, and the reader, conscious of no sharply defined setting for any specific episode, is called upon for no effort to change the scene in imagination. His attention here is concentrated upon action or character; place is of no importance.

Yet another practice of good writers is to economize in scene by recurring, when change is inevitable, to a scene which has already been employed for previous incident. The reader recreates the setting with facility for the reason that he is aided by memory. The sense of familiarity which this practice evokes is also highly valuable in impressing the reader with the truth of the story; it is as though he returned to the scene of a former experience. Maupassant's story, The Piece of String, will illustrate not only this last method of effecting transitions, but, as well, the others previously mentioned.

The story begins with a description of Norman peasants coming to town on market-day; the scene here is a flowing one. A definite place is first indicated in the description of the square to which the incoming peasants have led us.

From one of the doorways opening on this square Master Malandain observes Master Hauchecome pick something from the mud. The scene and setting are definite and static.

The story then turns to the life of the square, and the transition to the next scene is made in the following fashion:

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus struck midday those who lived too far away to go home betook themselves to the various inns.

At Jourdain's the common room was full of customers, as the great yard was full of vehicles of every sort. . ..

The inn is then described, and those seated at dinner. They are aroused by the drum of the town crier and rush to the door to hear his news (anticipatory of the next incident). A little later, Master Hauchecome, dining with the rest, is summoned to appear before the mayor. The transition is thus made:

He started off repeating

"Here I am sir. "

And he followed the brigadier. The mayor was waiting for him.

After this scene the place does not again become definite for a considerable space. We

follow the man to his home, but this is it described, for it is of no importance to the story.

The incidents immediately following, though they cover a week and occur in a variety of places, are thus summarily dismissed

All day long he talked of his adventure; he told it in the road to people who passed; at the wine-shop to people who were drinking; and after church on the following Sunday.

No place is allowed to assume more than a momentary and most casual definiteness.

The next transition is:

On Tuesday of the next week he went to market at Goderville. . . . Malandain standing in his doorway began to laugh. . ..

Here the scene, though short, is definite; but it is identical with the first fixed scene of the: story. The next is of like sort:

When he was seated at the table of Jourdain's inn. . ..

The last transition is: He returned home.

Again there is no definiteness of scene, either here or in subsequent incidents.

Throughout the story there are but three definite scenes—those in the square, in the inn, and

the mayor's office. The first two are again briefly echoed, the writer revealing in these his economy of materials by refusing to devise new settings. Our imaginative pictures are confined therefore to these parts of a single village. The incidents which do not occur here might happen anywhere, do happen anywhere, for they are attached to no specific place. The fleeting references to wine-shop and church produce but a momentary picture; these in no sense can be said to constitute scenes. We should note, also, the simple transitions from place to place, From the reference to dinner we are whisked to the dining-room at Jourdain's. When the hero is summoned to the mayor's, it is said: "He followed the brigadier. " He is then there, and our imaginations make no difficulty of the transition. But though content for the most part to picture the flow of events as unattached to a specific background, the writer is careful to attach the most vital incidents to a definite setting. It is as though the stream of incident crystallized at crucial moments, and in so doing made clear the place of action. Then the action dissolves, later to crystallize again. The writer is careful not to make these pauses too frequent, and as we recall the story we see only the square with the tragic picture of the old peasant as he picks up his piece of string, or as he is taunted by his

enemy; or the inn, whence, bewildered, he is summoned to the mayor and where, later, he is angered and hurt as his fellows twit him with his supposed theft.

A few general principles emerge from our rather long discussion of the unity of place: it is well to present but few definite scenes, and these coincident with the most vital episodes of the story, serving thus to emphasize and make memorable such incidents. For the rest there need be no definite place; the incidents need be attached to no specific setting. Or the scene may be a flowing one and not static at all. Last and most important, transitions in scene must be so deftly made that the reader's thought and imagination easily bridge the gap—this by reason of the coherence of the narrative.