Much contemporary writing fetishizes style, and the priority is felt as a constant anxiety. Prose has to sign itself, establish its showy authority in silvery cutlass swipes through the air: clever insights, brilliant metaphors, unusual words, sharp observation, perpetually buoyant dialogue.
---James Wood.
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All of a sudden, taking a break from munching down her sugar-saturated chocolate 'cereal', she turned to me, innocent as could be:
"Who makes water..y'know, if you want to drink some, how do people make it?
Me: "Well, it comes from rainwater"
the devil: " But who makes the rainwater?" And then she cocked her head to one side, closed one eye and grinned: "God makes the rainwater"
(if she'd been a southerner, an old woman with a crooked eye, she might have said: "God make da rainwater" or, better, "God make rainw'er")
Me: "Well, yes, I suppose that's true," I replied, not sure how to broach this subject and sensing that a trap was being set. "But some people say it comes from rain clouds" (just to keep the conversation open)
The devil, sensing the endgame, the first mover in her mind: "But who made the rain clouds? It was God who did so." And again, that sheepish grin, the smile of an inquisitor! I'm not having my faith put into question at 7.45 in the morning by a four year old kid!
Me: "Well, yes, I suppose so"
the devil: "Did God make the rain clouds or did the world?"
Me: "Finish your breakfast, sweetie."
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At the bank today there was a 'universal teller', a normal teller and a counter called 'Premium Red Carpet Banking'. I was half expecting a fortune teller (I hear Roxana and the Dougal groan). And there was actually a two foot red carpet and an aisle cordoned off with gold and red ropes. I kid thee not!
"Is this you?"
Me: "Yes, this is me."
"How can I help you?"
Me: ("Have you got a poster of Rita Hayworth?")
---James Wood.
|||
All of a sudden, taking a break from munching down her sugar-saturated chocolate 'cereal', she turned to me, innocent as could be:
"Who makes water..y'know, if you want to drink some, how do people make it?
Me: "Well, it comes from rainwater"
the devil: " But who makes the rainwater?" And then she cocked her head to one side, closed one eye and grinned: "God makes the rainwater"
(if she'd been a southerner, an old woman with a crooked eye, she might have said: "God make da rainwater" or, better, "God make rainw'er")
Me: "Well, yes, I suppose that's true," I replied, not sure how to broach this subject and sensing that a trap was being set. "But some people say it comes from rain clouds" (just to keep the conversation open)
The devil, sensing the endgame, the first mover in her mind: "But who made the rain clouds? It was God who did so." And again, that sheepish grin, the smile of an inquisitor! I'm not having my faith put into question at 7.45 in the morning by a four year old kid!
Me: "Well, yes, I suppose so"
the devil: "Did God make the rain clouds or did the world?"
Me: "Finish your breakfast, sweetie."
|| ||
At the bank today there was a 'universal teller', a normal teller and a counter called 'Premium Red Carpet Banking'. I was half expecting a fortune teller (I hear Roxana and the Dougal groan). And there was actually a two foot red carpet and an aisle cordoned off with gold and red ropes. I kid thee not!
"Is this you?"
Me: "Yes, this is me."
"How can I help you?"
Me: ("Have you got a poster of Rita Hayworth?")
2 comments:
i am not sure about groaning, but foxily mocking you, yes, that :-)
brilliant quote by James Wood, and my feeling when reading Rushdie right now (and being dissatisfied with him).
where on earth have you been, kid?!
:-)
yeah...it's a bit like Salter apologizing for being too lyrical in light years. the kind of showiness you talk about is something i can't stand. Which is why, I guess, i liked Alfred Hayes's novellas so much. Breece Pancake's short stories, too. Will post something on them soon. But more importantly..how are you?
b.
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