Motivation is a key-concept in psychology and in fiction. It is a man’s basic premises and values that form his character and move him to action—and in order to understand a man’s character, it is the motivation behind his actions that we must understand. To know “what makes a man tick,” we must ask: “What is he after?”
To re-create the reality of his characters, to make both their nature and their actions intelligible, it is their motivation that a writer has to reveal. He may do it gradually, revealing it bit by bit, building up the evidence as the story progresses, but at the end of the novel the reader must know why the characters did the things they did.
The depth of a characterization depends on the psychological level of motivation which a writer regards as sufficient to illuminate human behavior. For instance, in an average detective story, the criminals are motivated by the superficial notion of “material greed”—but a novel such as Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment reveals the soul of a criminal all the way down to his philosophical premises.
Consistency is a major requirement of characterization. This does not mean that a character has to hold nothing but consistent premises—some of the most interesting characters in fiction are men torn by inner conflicts. It means that the author has to be consistent in his view of a character’s psychology and permit him no inexplicable actions, no actions unprepared by or contradictory to the rest of his characterization. It means that a character’s contradictions should never be unintentional on the part of the author.
To maintain the inner logic of his characterizations, a writer must understand the logical chain that leads from the motives of his characters to their actions. To maintain their motivational consistency, he must know their basic premises and the key actions to which these premises will lead them in the course of the story. When he writes the actual scenes in which the characters appear, their premises act as the selectors of all the details and small touches he decides to include. Such details are innumerable, the opportunities for revealing a character’s nature are virtually inexhaustible, and it is the knowledge of what he has to reveal that guides the writer’s selections.
The best way to demonstrate what the process of characterization accomplishes, the means by which it is done, and the disastrous consequences of contradictions, is to illustrate it in action on a specific example.
I shall do it by means of two scenes reproduced below: one is a scene from The Fountainhead, as it stands in the novel—the other is the same scene, as I rewrote it for the purpose of this demonstration. Both versions present only the bare skeleton of the scene, only the dialogue, omitting the descriptive passages. It will be sufficient to illustrate the process.
It is the first scene in which Howard Roark and Peter Keating appear together. It takes place on the evening of the day when Roark was expelled from college and Keating graduated with high honors. The action of the scene consists of one young man asking the advice of another about a professional choice he has to make. But what kind of young men are they? What are their attitudes, premises and motives? Observe what one can learn from a single scene and how much your, the reader’s, mind registers automatically.
Here is the scene as originally written, as it stands in the noveclass="underline"
“Congratulations, Peter,” said Roark.
“Oh… Oh, thanks… I mean… do you know or… Has mother been telling you?”
“She has.”
“She shouldn’t have!”
“Why not?”
“Look, Howard, you know that I’m terribly sorry about your being…”
“Forget it.”
“I… there’s something I want to speak to you about, Howard, to ask your advice. Mind if I sit down?”
“What is it?”
“You won’t think that it’s awful of me to be asking about my business, when you’ve just been… ?”
“I said forget about that. What is it?”
“You know, I’ve often thought that you’re crazy. But I know that you know many things about it—architecture, I mean—which those fools never knew. And I know that you love it as they never will.”
“Well?”
“Well, I don’t know why I should come to you, but—Howard, I’ve never said it before, but you see, I’d rather have your opinion on things than the Dean’s— I’d probably follow the Dean’s, but it’s just that yours means more to me myself, I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m saying this, either.”
“Come on, you’re not being afraid of me, are you? What do you want to ask about?”
“It’s about my scholarship. The Paris prize I got.”
“Yes?”
“It’s for four years. But, on the other hand, Guy Francon offered me a job with him some time ago. Today he said it’s still open. And I don’t know which to take.”
“If you want my advice, Peter, you’ve made a mistake already. By asking me. By asking anyone. Never ask people. Not about your work. Don’t you know what you want? How can you stand it, not to know?”
“You see, that’s what I admire about you, Howard.
You always know.”
“Drop the compliments.”
“But I mean it. How do you always manage to decide?”
“How can you let others decide for you?”
This was the scene as it stands in the novel. Now here is the same scene, rewritten:
“Congratulations, Peter,” said Roark.
“Oh… Oh, thanks… I mean… do you know or… Has mother been telling you?”
“She has.”
“She shouldn’t have!”
“Oh well, I didn’t mind it.”
“Look, Howard, you know that I’m terribly sorry about your being expelled.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
“I… there’s something I want to speak to you about, Howard, to ask your advice. Mind if I sit down?”
“Go right ahead. I’ll be glad to help you, if I can.”
“You won’t think that it’s awful of me to be asking about my business, when you’ve just been expelled?”
“No. But it’s nice of you to say that, Peter. I appreciate it.”
“You know, I’ve often thought that you’re crazy.”
“Why?”
“Well, the kind of ideas you’ve got about architecture—there’s nobody that’s ever agreed with you, nobody of importance, not the Dean, not any of the professors… and they know their business. They’re always right. I don’t know why I should come to you.”
“Well, there are many different opinions in the world. What did you want to ask me?”
“It’s about my scholarship. The Paris prize I got.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t like it. But I know it’s important to you.”
“It’s for four years. But, on the other hand, Guy Francon offered me a job with him some time ago. Today he said it’s still open. And I don’t know which to take.”
“If you want my advice, Peter, take the job with Guy Francon. I don’t care for his work, but he’s a very prominent architect and you’ll learn how to build.”
“You see, that’s what I admire about you, Howard. You always know how to decide.”
“I try my best.”
“How do you do it?”
“I guess I just do it.”
“But you see, I’m not sure, Howard. I’m never sure of myself. You always are.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But I guess I’m sure about my work.”
This is an example of “humanizing” a character.
A young reader to whom I showed this scene said with astonished indignation: “He’s not awful—he’s just completely ordinary!”