I'm deji, and in this fourth leg of the running tutorial, I'll be exploring as the sub-heading indicated 'knowing when the climax comes' especially in relation to 'Understanding the Unseen' among others.
In grasping the meaning of a printed page, there's yet another thing which contribute more to the reader's understanding and pleasure.
And that's the climax or simply climaxing.
What then is climax?
In imaginative writing or speech delivery, climax is the point when the writer's or the speaker's emotional and dramatic intensity peaked.
Rarely a one off thing but transitional
It could happen many times over in a printed page just like when driver of mass transit bus stopped over at designated terminal for commuters to disembark.
It the point when the hearer or the reader is called not just to action but in highlighting what matter most to the writer and to which every other details in the narrative are subordinated.
Something akin to orgasmic experienced by lovers, if you get the drift.
And it doesn't just happen.
It is the by-product of a deliberate process initiated and slowly followed through by the author aimed at arresting quickly the reader's or interpreter's attention.
It objectives are lofty and worth every reader's attention.
It is the surging, forceful, and rhythmic summit of all interesting activities the writer slowly builds up through the series of words, phrases and adjectives.
A classic example is from the Roman orator, Cicero:
"To put a Roman citizen in chain is a misdeed; to scourge him is a crime; to kill him is almost a parricide; to crucify him- what shall I say? For so nefarious an act there is no word"
Equally worth a mention is this illustration of mine:
"As a people our patience, understanding and perseverance by now are never in doubt; but those who resolve behind the scene to prolong our misery and suffering by denying what truly belong to us through the use of force or other ungodly tactics shall pretty soon be met strength for strength; power for power and might for might."
Whether the selection you're reading is a novel, drama or poem, be sure to expect it.
It is an important thread that runs through the fabric of every worthwhile imaginative literature.
But when there's a sudden drop from the important to the less important in imaginative writing anticlimax is what you get.
It could either be intentional or unintentional.
And it's not without its effects too.
In any case, it is for the sake of humour or simply being funny as in this example of mine:
"The everyday Nigerians understood perfectly what hardship is all about; this they daily express with their deluge of angst and complains and award winning happiness"
In many a novel, drama, short story or poem you might have read the author holds it jealously in focus and don not for anything let the cat out of the bag; he subordinated his narrative to it and patiently wait for the right moment to swing it with power.
Going through scripted pieces, the interpreter is therefore encouraged to pay close attention to how the writer achieve the climax as may occur in his literary creatures.
Otherwise the reader’s understanding of a printed page hovers only around the half way mark until this aspect is taken care of.
Finally, as an exercise in knowing when the climax comes, we turn once more to the reading of my own poem titled: The
In the selection, the reader can see how I slowly build up the climax which comes especially at the end of the poem...
The Business Register
They were your ideas of a dignified old couple,
Perfect perceptible to eyes,
Index by conservative piety;
There’s a matrimony in heaven consummated you say.
Needles the overstated narratives the sail was long
And arduous and many a storm swift
Arose to wreck their marital ship; Survived,
Now they proudly berthed at life nocturnal shores.
And subsequent a household name the community wide.
They were your standard reflections of the cross;
Mouthpieces of the good news;
They worshiped faithfully as the clock:
Many at the marble-porch parishes;
Many at their humble home;
And not a little nags or fight or bedlam was heard from their floor.
Except perhaps omniscient nature do record some
Behind closed door, of hearts bruising unseen, untold.
The proud parents of lovely sons and daughters;
Perfumed emissaries to our stuffy-aired world;
And how as morning stars they brightly shone through
Firmaments of social and religious engagements;
Like they use to say, to know a great family,
Into the children all must look. The husband
A perfect gentleman widely likable,
Who kept an open door to children not even his from far and near;
Even wayward nondescript were welcome;
And at his table he feeds them equal all;
Quick with rod at his right hand
To prove justice is love to their aberrations;
And with the left draws them close for soothing sermons;
A good man known also gospel by inheritance: His dwelling,
Though a small home with walls unbuilt;
And bath and kitchen
And detached crude convenience unroofed;
And ventured borehole and chairs and canopies now on threshold disrepair;
Like they use to say,
A man who raised himself a room apartment,
Has proved an achievers’ grade,
Ceases to be a member of the renters' club.
But sudden died, first, Lord of the house as is often the case;
When from vigil an ailment struck to cast in haste;
And tributary wailing and mourning rend the chamber's air;
Next entered widow Shoboe as heir apparent to estates bequeathed;
A dame hearty lightly built to sail with all winds;
For whatever they were worth, she has her honors too:
As sings the Sunday's choir a dancing Ikoto;
A leading light among the class of good women;
An ever charming sight for her years advanced;
Her gifts munificent she bestows more on the haves
Than the haves not; while a typical widow would her failings blame
On a dear deceased, wax lyrical his multitude of virtues,
Lineage; such alive rarely acknowledge; shrewdly appreciate.
Accentuating the truism: "till gone don’t know what you have got".
But Shoboe is an atypical widow who by the day more disgruntled became.
Piping to ears unsolicited her vexed notes of ascending murmurs:
Of how meagre the patrimonies, empty the vault;
Of how little accomplished her suggestions profound never took;
Of how once he brought a strange woman, their matrimonial bed defiled;
Of how she could have been history, save God and man;
Of how the union really was a patchwork through the years;
And of how-this how-that poorly fixed never fixed;
Often all these she spit fired faced down the narrow balcony
Where beloved Kith and Kin hollowed the dead a marbled rest home;
Not even once did his paean sublime from her mouth freely flowed;
His fate sealed a worst mortal of all, unworthy a husband;
Now five years the thriftless dowager reigned;
Her stewardship to none but self alone rendered;
As ever a working bee save the hive's empty;
Pouched the year's round rents and rates collected;
And in defaulters ears the reminder she crooned
On the go dusk or dawn; in trade all rivalling,
Even tenants struggling starters;
Every known article, she vowed to trade
In not too distant future; Inquire one not on her wooden-stall
And with lightning speed ordered, bungling yet the arithmetic
Of the gains; at threescore and more life seemed just began
And in it simply revels; a party freak her ears everywhere
Went for the breaking news; denied invitation the concerned
Mantle sooner arrived with her grievances. Their plea accepted;
Her avail next time she vouched. So consumed to splurge on
Things mundane that not a line or circle or square drawn.
Nor a shade of color splashed;
Nor a brick added as improved re-inventions to the wheel-heirloom
She's been so critical, mauled denigrate all these years.
NOTE: Ikoto is a shell of some mollusc.