Larding

"Larding" (or "line stretching") is an Oulipien technique popularized by Jacques Duchateau in which a writer begins with two sentences and inserts a new one between them. The writer then takes the pairs of sentences that result–i.e. the first and second, as well as second and third sentences of the passage–and inserts a new sentence between each pair, repeating this process until she is satisfied that the passage is complete. Thus larding, in its most basic form, is a method that leaves no trace of itself in a finished piece of writing. Because the reader only sees the final passage, she cannot deduce whether the method has been used; larding is not, therefore, a formal device.

Below is an example of larding, with the intermediate steps shown:

"Socrates"

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. There was no pulse. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. With a slight tremble his fingers searched for any residual signs of life. There was no pulse. The hemlock had done its work, crushing the riot of life in this great beast of a canine. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. The Lyceum was so close to its goal now that he could barely breathe. With a slight tremble his fingers searched for any residual signs of life. ‘We appreciate your sacrifice, Socrates,’ he whispered. There was no pulse. Satisfied, he pulled out the scalpel. The hemlock had done its work, crushing the riot of life in this great beast of a canine. Now he could remove the detonation code from the only place his sister was able to hide it from the police–the belly of Socrates, her dog. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. Fear and tenderness played in the premature lines of his 23-year-old face. The Lyceum was so close to its goal now that he could barely breathe. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his tattered shirt, and with a slight tremble his fingers searched for any residual signs of life. ‘We appreciate your sacrifice, Socrates,’ he whispered. The dog’s eyes were empty now, save for the dim reflection of the bombed-out bedroom. There was no pulse. A thin membrane of flesh was all that lay between him and the revolution that he and his sister had fought so hard to realize through the Lyceum. Satisfied, he pulled out the scalpel. His incision met no resistance from the dog’s still-warm carcass. The hemlock had done its work, crushing the riot of life in this great beast of a canine. Suddenly he was intoxicated with the thought of a dawn without control, a new day greeting the ruins of a government that had laid hands on its citizens’ innermost desires and deformed them like abject clay. Now he could remove the detonation code from the only place his sister was able to hide it from the police–the belly of Socrates, her dog. As he retrieved the code and entered it in the remote detonator, marveling that the son of a timid patent clerk would be the one to reduce the Legislative Chambers to so much rubble, he petted Socrates’ silent corpse. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

Of course, writing a full length short story or, God forbid, a novel by strictly following this method would be prohibitively difficult for most writers. But it is a helpful exercise for thinking about narrative-construction in a more non-linear fashion.