What is good dialogue?

Idiom, ideology, temperament, and incident.

I was asked this question at a salon recently. Here’s my brief answer.

Good dialogue distinguishes the characters so clearly that you need no “said Susan” to tell you whose line it is. When reading a script, you ought to be able to hear that it is Falstaff or Garry Essendine speaking without needing to be told. Think of the characters of a drama as being huddled together and the drama being made of the tensions between them as they move away from their huddle: dialogue should get them as far apart as possible, without breaking the connections, so that tension and clarity are mutually maximising.

The two novels that have been most successfully transferred to television are Pride and Prejudice and Brideshead Revisited, which is because the dialogue is exceptional. Evelyn Waugh is probably the greatest writer of dialogue among the English novelists. At this point someone usually claims P.G. Wodehouse, but Wodehouse perfected a narrow art; Waugh wrote a splendid Wodehouse pastiche in Scoop, but there is nothing in Wodehouse to compare to the better pages of Vile Bodies, let alone Charles Ryder’s father. I’ll quote a long passage.

“My dear boy, they never told me you were here. Did you have a very exhausting journey? They gave you tea? You are well? I have just made a somewhat audacious purchase from Sonerschein’s—a terra-cotta bull of the fifth century. I was examining it and forgot your arrival. Was the carriage very full? You had a corner seat?” (He travelled so rarely himself that to hear of others doing so always excited his solicitude.) “Hayter brought you the evening paper? There is no news, of course—such a lot of nonsense.”

Dinner was announced. My father from long habit took a book with him to the table and then, remembering my presence, furtively dropped it under his chair. “What do you like to drink? Hayter, what have we for Mr. Charles to drink?”

“There’s some whiskey.”

“There’s whiskey. Perhaps you like something else? What else have we?”

“There isn’t anything else in the house, sir.”

“There’s nothing else. You must tell Hayter what you would like and he will get it in. I never keep any wine now. I am forbidden it and no one comes to see me. But while you are here, you must have what you like. You are here for long?”

“I’m not quite sure, Father.”

“It’s a very long vacation,” he said wistfully. “In my day we used to go on what were called ‘reading parties,’ always in mountainous areas. Why? Why,” he repeated petulantly, “should alpine scenery be thought conducive to study?”

“I thought of putting in some time at an art school—in the life class.”

“My dear boy, you'll find them all shut. The students go to Barbison or such places and paint in the open air. There was an institution in my day called a ‘sketching club’—mixed sexes” (snuffle), “bicycles” (snuffle), “pepper-and-salt knickerbockers, holland umbrellas and, it was popularly thought, free love.” (Snuffle) “Such a lot of nonsense. I expect they still go on. You might try that.”

“One of the problems of the vacation is money, Father.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about a thing like that at your age.”

“You see, I’ve run rather short.”

“Yes?” said my father without any sound of interest.

“In fact I don’t quite know how I’m going to get through the next two months.”

“Well, I’m the worst person to come to for advice. I’ve never been ‘short,’ as you so painfully call it. And yet what else could you say? Hard up? Penurious? Distressed? Embarrassed? Stony-broke?” (Snuffle) “On the rocks? In Queer Street? Let us say you are in Queer Street and leave it at that. Your grandfather once said to me, ‘Live within your means, but if you do get into difficulties, come to me. Don’t go to the Jews.’ Such a lot of nonsense. You try. Go to those gentlemen in Jermyn Street who offer advances on note of hand only. My dear boy, they won’t give you a sovereign.”

“Then what do you suggest my doing?”

“Your cousin Melchior was imprudent with his investments and got into a very queer street. He went to Australia.”

You can see in the passage above that it is hard to say what is incident, what character; the two are all the same. In ‘The Art of Fiction’, Henry James says that the distinction between character and incident is over-stated.