In a world that rarely stops talking, the silence inside a novel can feel radical. It’s the pause between two characters who have run out of safe words, the white space after a chapter that ends not with a bang but a held breath. I’ve been chasing that particular quiet for years, both as a reader and as someone who asks questions for a living. So when I sat down with Dr. Miriam Sowell—novelist, critic, and lifelong student of narrative restraint—I wanted to know why silence on the page often says more than any dialogue ever could.
Miriam arrived with a copy of Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead tucked under her arm and an apology for being three minutes late. “I got caught up rereading a passage where nothing happens,” she said, and I knew we were about to have exactly the conversation I’d hoped for.
Eliza Gale: I’ll admit it—sometimes I skim the quiet parts.
Miriam Sowell: You’re not alone. Most of us are trained to read for plot, for the next turn. But literary fiction often asks us to slow down and sit with what isn’t being resolved. Silence in fiction isn’t absence—it’s a presence that’s just harder to name. Think of the long, wordless stretches in Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. Stevens doesn’t tell us he’s heartbroken. He straightens a doily and changes the subject. The silence is the grief.
I nodded, remembering a scene where a butler’s professional composure felt louder than any scream. “So silence as a character choice?” I asked.
“Precisely. A character’s refusal to speak—or an author’s refusal to let them—can be the most honest thing on the page. It mirrors how actual people avoid pain. We change the subject, we pour tea, we look out the window. Literary fiction honors that evasion.”
Eliza Gale: Your latest novel has an entire chapter with no dialogue. Were you nervous?
Miriam: Terrified. My editor asked if I’d forgotten to write the scene. But the protagonist, a widow named Cora, spends a morning in her garden after learning a secret about her late husband. To put words in her mouth would have been a betrayal. She needed to just be with the dahlias and the dirt. I trusted the reader to understand that her silence wasn’t emptiness—it was processing.
That image stayed with me—a woman among flowers, saying nothing, while the reader leaned in closer. I asked Miriam if she worries about losing readers during such stretches.
“Some will put the book down. That’s okay. The readers who stay are the ones I’m writing for. They understand that a novel isn’t just a delivery system for plot points. It’s an atmosphere. Silence is part of the weather.”
Eliza Gale: How do you teach silence to writing students?
Miriam: I assign them a scene with a strict rule: no one can say what they mean. Two siblings cleaning out their father’s house. A couple at a restaurant after a bad doctor’s appointment. They can talk about the weather, the salt shaker, anything but the actual thing. The real story happens in the gap between what’s said and what’s felt. That’s where literary fiction lives.
She paused, then added, “Hemingway called it the iceberg theory. Seven-eighths underwater. But I think silence is more than hidden mass. It’s the shape of what’s missing. The reader fills it with their own experience.”
Eliza Gale: I’m thinking about the silence between characters who love each other but can’t connect.
Miriam: Yes—the silence of estrangement. That’s almost a character in itself. In James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, what isn’t said between David and Hella is a roar. The unsaid builds the tragedy. As a writer, you have to be brave enough to let the tension sit there, unresolved, sometimes for pages. It’s uncomfortable, but so is real intimacy. So is real loneliness.
I thought about the times I’ve loved someone and chosen silence over the risk of being understood. “Do you think readers project their own silences onto the page?” I asked.
“Constantly. That’s the gift of it. A well-placed silence in a novel becomes a mirror. You bring your own unsaid things to it. That’s why two people can read the same quiet scene and have completely different emotional reactions.”
Eliza Gale: Are there silences that bother you as a reader?
Miriam: Oh, absolutely. Silence used as a gimmick. The brooding hero who won’t speak because it’s supposedly mysterious. That’s not silence; that’s a cardboard cutout. Real silence in fiction has texture and history. It’s earned. You need to understand why a character is quiet. Is it shame? Discipline? Fear? The silence in Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels is thick with class and gender and decades of resentment. It’s never empty.
“So you’re advocating for silence with context,” I said.
“Exactly. Context and consequence. The silence in a novel should change the air for everyone in the room. If it doesn’t, it’s just the author taking a break.”
Eliza Gale: Let’s talk about reading aloud. When I read a particularly quiet passage to myself, I almost hold my breath. Does the silence translate to spoken word?
Miriam: It’s a different creature. At a reading, a deliberate pause can be electric. But on the page, the silence is visual—the white space, the short paragraph standing alone. I’m obsessed with what the poet Jane Hirshfield calls “the mind’s silence.” In prose, a section break can be as eloquent as a line. You’re giving the reader room to feel something before you ask them to think again.
I confessed that I’d never considered section breaks as part of the narrative’s voice. “They’re the punctuation of pacing,” Miriam said. “A long chapter followed by a half-page of white space is the author saying, ‘Sit with that. Don’t rush.’”
Eliza Gale: Is there a book you return to when you need to remember what silence can do?
Miriam: Stoner by John Williams. It’s a quiet book about a quiet man, and yet it absolutely wrecked me. The protagonist’s inner life is so rich, but his outer life is almost mute. The silence isn’t failure; it’s a kind of dignity. That novel taught me that a character doesn’t need to be loud to be unforgettable. Sometimes the most memorable characters are the ones who leave the most unsaid.
We sat for a moment, neither of us speaking, and I think we both appreciated the irony. Then I asked my final question.
Eliza Gale: What do you hope readers take away from the silences you write?
Miriam: Permission. Permission to be quiet in their own lives without feeling empty. Permission to listen to what’s underneath the chatter. A novel’s silence can be a kind of companionship. It says, “I know you have things you can’t say yet. Me too. Let’s just be here together for a while.”
As I walked Miriam to the door, she turned and added, almost as an afterthought, “The best literary fiction doesn’t fill the silence. It teaches you how to live inside it.”
Frequently Asked Questions
Why is silence so powerful in literary fiction?
Silence in literary fiction mirrors the way people actually experience emotion—often without words. It allows readers to inhabit the unsaid tensions, grief, and love that characters can’t or won’t express. Instead of spoon-feeding you a feeling, a well-crafted silence invites you to bring your own emotional history to the page, making the reading experience feel personal and a little different for everyone.
How can I learn to appreciate quieter, slower-paced novels?
Start by shifting your expectations. Rather than chasing the next plot point, pay attention to what’s stirring inside the characters during the still moments. Notice the physical details—a character’s hands, the light in a room, what they choose not to say. Try reading a passage aloud, even just to yourself, and let the pauses land. Over time, you’ll start to feel the weight of the unsaid as a form of action all its own.
What are some examples of novels that use silence exceptionally well?
Many readers and critics point to Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, where the protagonist’s emotional restraint speaks volumes about regret and duty. Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead is rich with meditative quiet that reveals a father’s complicated love. John Williams’ Stoner proves that a seemingly passive life can hold immense inner depth, and Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels use charged silences to explore friendship, class, and identity.
Is silence just an absence of dialogue, or can it be something else on the page?
Silence in fiction goes far beyond missing quotation marks. It can live in the white space between sections, in a narrator’s refusal to comment on an important event, or in what a character notices instead of what they feel. It can be a structural choice, a thematic presence, or a form of characterization. When done well, silence becomes a texture—a weight you can feel on every page.
