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Definition of Tone
The tone of a piece of writing is its general character or attitude, which might be cheerful or depressive, sarcastic or sincere, comical or mournful, praising or critical, and so on. For instance... read full definition
The tone of a piece of writing is its general character or attitude, which might be cheerful or depressive, sarcastic or sincere, comical or mournful, praising or critical... read full definition
The tone of a piece of writing is its general character or attitude, which might be cheerful or depressive, sarcastic or sincere, comical... read full definition
Chapter 6: North Carolina
Explanation and Analysis:
The tone of The Underground Railroad is often unsentimental and clear-eyed. The novel’s use of powerful imagery frequently communicates the scale of slavery’s brutalities without indulging in excessive emotion. As narrator, Whitehead plays multiple roles. His use of free indirect discourse allows the reader to engage directly with the characters, but also creates a sense of casual dialogue. The second-person, conversational “you” mediates an intimate relationship between reader, writer, and the story’s characters.
In its account of history, the narrator also actively intervenes to provide contextual details. Whitehead makes use of his present-day historical knowledge, for instance, to poetically predict that “one day the system would collapse in blood.” During Cora’s stay in North Carolina, he fills the reader in on other developments, such as Nat Turner’s rebellion:
Before the Southampton rebellion was smothered, Turner and his band murdered sixty-five men, women, and children. Civilian militias and patrollers lynched three times that in response—conspirators, sympathizers, and innocents—to set an example.
But at the same time, the narrator keeps emotion at an arm’s length. Whitehead often observes and depicts violence with a feeling of wry ambivalence. The actions—lashed captives, violated women, runaways burned alive—speak for themselves. This refusal to dramatize often makes for understated narration, such as the moment before Martin and Ethel’s capture:
In the end, Martin and Ethel thought better of inviting people over, so the only guests were the uninvited ones that stepped out of the crowd at the start of the coon show.
The regulators wanted to search the house.
The novel even prefaces the attack on the Valentines' farm—the novel’s climactic moment of destruction—with a cool, detached meditation on the moment’s significance:
Perhaps they were on the verge of some new order, on the verge of clasping reason to disorder, of putting all the lessons of their history to bear on the future. Or perhaps time, as it will, lent the occasion a gravity that it did not possess, and everything was as Lander insisted: They were deluded.
The result is a narrative voice that is as cynical as it is poetic, tired but also hopeful at the same time. It straightforwardly assesses slavery at the same time as it lingers over the deeply felt experience of the injustices. The Underground Railroad works at both of these extremes, to a deeply mixed emotional effect.
Related Themes:
Chapter 10: Indiana
Explanation and Analysis:
The tone of The Underground Railroad is often unsentimental and clear-eyed. The novel’s use of powerful imagery frequently communicates the scale of slavery’s brutalities without indulging in excessive emotion. As narrator, Whitehead plays multiple roles. His use of free indirect discourse allows the reader to engage directly with the characters, but also creates a sense of casual dialogue. The second-person, conversational “you” mediates an intimate relationship between reader, writer, and the story’s characters.
In its account of history, the narrator also actively intervenes to provide contextual details. Whitehead makes use of his present-day historical knowledge, for instance, to poetically predict that “one day the system would collapse in blood.” During Cora’s stay in North Carolina, he fills the reader in on other developments, such as Nat Turner’s rebellion:
Before the Southampton rebellion was smothered, Turner and his band murdered sixty-five men, women, and children. Civilian militias and patrollers lynched three times that in response—conspirators, sympathizers, and innocents—to set an example.
But at the same time, the narrator keeps emotion at an arm’s length. Whitehead often observes and depicts violence with a feeling of wry ambivalence. The actions—lashed captives, violated women, runaways burned alive—speak for themselves. This refusal to dramatize often makes for understated narration, such as the moment before Martin and Ethel’s capture:
In the end, Martin and Ethel thought better of inviting people over, so the only guests were the uninvited ones that stepped out of the crowd at the start of the coon show.
The regulators wanted to search the house.
The novel even prefaces the attack on the Valentines' farm—the novel’s climactic moment of destruction—with a cool, detached meditation on the moment’s significance:
Perhaps they were on the verge of some new order, on the verge of clasping reason to disorder, of putting all the lessons of their history to bear on the future. Or perhaps time, as it will, lent the occasion a gravity that it did not possess, and everything was as Lander insisted: They were deluded.
The result is a narrative voice that is as cynical as it is poetic, tired but also hopeful at the same time. It straightforwardly assesses slavery at the same time as it lingers over the deeply felt experience of the injustices. The Underground Railroad works at both of these extremes, to a deeply mixed emotional effect.
Related Themes:
