Ray Bradbury on the Existential Yearning of Editing

This morning I came across this beautiful passage in Ray Bradbury’s A Graveyard for Lunatics (1990):

I moved up the stairs toward the flickering firefly light and the stuttering chatter of the Moviola as the shadows blinked on her high ceiling.

I stood for a long moment in the night, gazing in at the one place in all this world where life was sliced, assembled, then torn apart again. Where you kept doing life over until you got it right. Peering down at the small Moviola screen, you turn on the out-board motor and speed along with a fierce clacking clap as the film slots through, freezes, delineates, and rushes on. After staring into the Moviola for half a day, in a subterranean gloom, you almost believe that when you step outside life itself will reassemble, give up its moron inconsistencies, and promise to behave. Running a Moviola for a few hours encourages optimism, for you can rerun your stupidities and cut off their legs. But the temptation, after a time, is to never step out in daylight again.

Of course, Bradbury is talking about video editing (the Moviola being an outdated tool for editing physical film), but I think the underlying psychological dynamic applies to any form of editing. I particularly like the final line about the almost addictive properties of editing.

I’ve been an editor for about four years. I do a bit of it all — copyediting, line editing, developmental editing, proofreading, etc. I suppose I primarily identify as a copyeditor (focusing on sentences and paragraphs).

My sense is that editors often think about their choice to enter the field as a reflection of their love for language or ideas. On the surface, of course that’s the case. One wonders, however, about the underlying psychological motivation behind the choice to engage in editing (as a profession, hobby, or arguably even general human activity).

Seen from that perspective, a focus on text editing (rather than video and/or audio) might simply be a matter of choice of vehicle to scratch an underlying existential itch regarding the immutability and incomprehensibility of the world.

Thinking of the Bradury quote, one wonders not only about the existential satisfaction that can come from editing but also that which can be fueled by it. On the one hand, editing allows for the chance to pick apart the material and reorient it in a way that smooths over the rough edges. One doesn’t often get that chance in life, and it can be satisfying on a deep level to have that opportunity.

On the other hand, I guess Bradbury is hinting at the potential disappointment that can follow from that experience. The causality could also go the other way: the ability to rework the world of the text is intensely satisfying — perhaps so satisfying that it could have a blowback effect. The experience might be so out of step with the realities of life that on some subconscious level it might lead to feelings of disappointment or disenchantment with the intractability of the world outside of the editable sphere.

I’m not sure exactly if or how any of this plays out. I can say, however, that I certainly wish the world were more amenable to my edits. One of the common inquiries I put in the margins of documents I’m editing is “Please clarify” before highlighting some ambiguous facet of the text (e.g., “Please clarify: is the antecedent of this pronoun X or Y?”).

I wish I could put that question in the margins of the text of the world and be able to reasonably expect a response.

Indeed, please clarify.