A Little Chewy is the Day

Reading Scott Fitzgerald (I used to just call him Gerry, but nobody ever knew what I was talking about) has put something of an icy chill on my confidence as a writer. His judo grip on the English language terrifies me at times.

There were other letters among whose helpless caesuras lurked darker rhythms.

or even

Mountain-climbing cars are built on a slant similar to the angle of a hat-brim of a man who doesn't want to be recognized.

My own efforts at the old take hold of words end up coming of as snarky or often as little more than a dainty fop plucking expensive swiss chocolates out of a faux velvet box, or oddly enough sometimes both (I reread this paragraph a few minutes ago and thought to myself, "what the fuck was that shit!").

I shall write as though what I was saying were both a little more and a little less than common sense: a little more because it will endeavor to know the sorts of things no one really wants to and a little less because it will ignore the kinds of things obviously everyone knows; for as much as it pains me, I absolutely must surpress the urge to identify "the little chap with warts, second from the left in the front row."

That last quote is a reference to an article by Kenneth Quinn in which he indirectly chastises classicists for their tendency to ignore much of the text they're reading in a vain attempt to solidly identify some person who is only mentioned in passing.

And it's nice to see the Japanese actually reporting on a probelm they largely ignore besides covering something absolutely ridiculous. Many a night I sit with baited breath hoping I'll see something on the 7 o'clock news besides the latest celeb divorce rumors.