“There is an essential … distinction between stories, on the one hand, which have, as their goal, an end, completeness, closure, and, on the other hand, information, which is always, by definition, partial, incomplete, fragmentary.”

-Susan Sontag

Reading Maria Popova before Hilton Als is like gorging on an assemblage of raw ingredients before tasting a well-seasoned meal. Popova, a writer for the online, cultural criticism database, brainpickings, reviews Susan Sontag’s post-humous anthology, At the Same Time: Essays and Speeches as part of a lengthy presentation of Sontag’s overarching, literary contributions. In a failed attempt to summarize the entirety of Sontag’s advice to writers, Popova’s article ironically contradicts Sontag’s prioritization of narrative over information. In thinly laying out a wide range of Sontag’s primary material, Popova opts for a parade of information over a thematic argument. Like beaming projections of broken quotes, the article moves through me like a slightly harmful, radioactive wave—in one way, out the other, and feeling a little worse off for it. Hilton Als, a cultural critic for The New Yorker, exemplifies Sontag’s imperative for narrative, while ironically juxtaposing Popova’s presentation of such message. In his critique of Barry Jenkins’ latest film, Moonlight, Als critically examines the work’s plot and style while simultaneously exploring his personal experiences as a fellow gay, black man. Consequently, while chronologically leading his readers through the film’s story, Als balances narration with strong personal, aesthetic and historical critiques.

The two articles use broadly similar formats, but while Popova’s article is uncoordinated, confusing and static, Als’ is fluid, logical and arched. In an attempt to capture all corners of Sontag’s diverse anthology, Popova ineffectively skims across the material’s surface. While she chronologically presents the content in order of the anthology’s presentation, because she lacks adequate transitional and contextual prose, the diverse range of subjects seem to awkwardly topple on each other, without good reason. In an approximately 1,000 word article, Povova addresses: general advice to writers, the stakes of writing well, the complexity and knowledge that is fundamental to writing, a writer’s responsibility to moral judgement, a writer’s process of story selection, the reactionary norm of criticism, the difference between storytelling and information funnelling, the disadvantages of writing via the internet, and finally, Sontag’s “timeless” advice as a fellow human being. I admit, though each topic seems to be an area I would like to further explore, because the article so quickly presents and abandons them, I feel overwhelmed, confused and angry. With two to three sentence blocks between each topic’s quote-based presentation, I did not understand the quotes’ contexts—historically and within the anthology itself. Therefore, the quotes dangle like forgotten and dying kitchen plants—once beautiful, but with little proper attention and care, reek of past vigor. In an attempt to present the information in a hands off manner, Popova’s lack of intermediary narration detracts from the material itself. Als chrnolonogically pairs his format to that of the film; however, while Popova slaps me with a succession of devalued primary material, Als uses dynamic and personal narration to pull me down with him and experience the film from his particular perspective. Before transitioning into Moonlight’s first scene, Als writes: “Did I ever imagine, during my anxious, closeted childhood, that I’d live long enough to see a movie like “Moonlight,” Barry Jenkins’s brilliant, achingly alive new work about black queerness? Did any gay man who came of age, as I did, in the era of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and aids, think he’d survive to see a version of his life told onscreen with such knowledge, unpredictability, and grace?” The two questions masterfully connect his personal stakes, the film’s most general content, the film’s historical significance, and a descriptive, overarching critique. Thus, before delving into the chronological details, I, as a reader, feel that my invested time is stabilized by context, and justified by significance. In addressing the film’s aesthetic, personal and historical stakes—all in two casually eloquent questions—I can assume curiosity and actively follow the material, knowing that it plots to explain how and why. Thus, I can embrace his stylized narration and strong analysis because I fundamentally understand that: 1) he is chronologically taking me through the plot, and 2) he is unpacking what he believes is aesthetically powerful, historically innovative and personally meaningful.

The texts’ radically different writing styles demonstrate two distant points in prose—one hyperbolic and formal, the other thoughtful and casual. Popova, mixing approximately two-thirds quotes with one-third narration, remains separate from the content. Using Sontag’s primary material to speak for itself, her role as author is simply to formally comment, and (ineffectively) move the reader through the topics. Strangely though, Popova then pairs this primary text-based focus and formal writing style, with hyperbolic terminology. For example, in concluding the article she writes: “At the Same Time is an indispensable read in its entirety — an eternally nourishing serving of wisdom from one of the most expansive and luminous minds humanity ever produced.” The grandiose words just don’t mean anything to me. “Eternally nourishing?” While eternity implies timeless existence, a static state, nourishing implies growth and change, and an inevitable cycle between life and death. Her description of Sontag as “…the most expansive and luminous minds humanity ever produced,” rings as particularly arrogant. Who is Popova to decide our objectively greatest minds? And humanity? Has Popova really studied all of humanity to determine its best?

Als’ prose, on the other hand, is sharp, passionate and conversational. The distance between the reader and narrative is bridged by his writing style’s casual, journal-like intimacy. In describing the films’ first scenes he writes: “ Inside, in a dark, silent space, the kid stares at Juan, and Juan stares at the kid. There’s a kind of mirroring going on. Maybe Juan is looking at his past while the boy looks up at a future he didn’t know he could have.” Als’ writing fluxes between the casual, the descriptive and the philosophical—a balance key to enhancing and supporting the weight of his personal convictions. In the first sentence, he mixes the descriptive—“dark, silent space,” with the casual terminology, “kid.” The second sentence does the same, mixing the description, “mirroring,” with the slang, “kind of.” The first two sentences’ personal, yet poignant descriptions conversationally bolster the third’s sentence’s exploration of interpretation and meaning. In balancing the casual with the descriptive, I embrace the third sentence’s wanderings, comforted by the style’s informality, and allured by its descriptive specificity.

I find a dynamic debate surrounding the communicative effectiveness of storytelling versus information funneling. Though Popova’s information was substantial, I reject its room for thought simply because of poor presentation. The lack of the personal and the lack of the detailed provides little more than, as Sontag writes, “partial, incomplete, fragmentary” pieces of stuff. In examining two pieces of varying approaches and qualities, I hold that the quality of information can only be so good as the quality of its mediated narrative.