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Reflections of a working writer and reader

 

 

The Rhythm of Language

Style is a very simple matter: it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can’t dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it; and in writing (such is my present belief) one has to recapture this, and set this working (which has nothing apparently to do with words) and then, as it breaks and tumbles in the mind, it makes words to fit it.
Virginia Woolf

Quotations from other writers on the same subject are published in an article by Jennie Nash in HuffPost – Arts & Culture.

Political Education: Joseph Stalin in Hull

When I left Trinity House in 1956 I hung around Hull for a while because the universe was unknown to me, perhaps unknowable. I had to learn to discover where I was, to recognize the barriers from the opportunities. As far as I knew there were only a couple of possibilities for the lunch break. […]

Adios Madrid

Gracias for your beggars, ubiquitous as fear. The atonement of hand-washed tiles in the Metro. For tomatoes, scarlet with passion. Pocket-size dogs bred from a pinpoint of invisibility. For plazas of victory and defeat repeated in your bourgeois streets. For spare and quiffed shrieks of Modernity in the spaces set aside. For nightlife, candle-light, sangria, […]

The Inadequacy of our Symbolism

The last night I spent in London, I took some girl or other to the movies and, through her mediation, I paid you a little tribute of spermatozoa, Tristessa. A late show, a crowded cinema. The drunks all stubbornly remained unmoved and jeered, laughed and catcalled throughout your film though sibilantly hushed by pairs of […]

A girl mad as birds

Love In the Asylum A stranger has come To share my room in the house not right in the head, A girl mad as birds Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume. Strait in the mazed bed She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds Yet she deludes with walking the […]