Reflections of a working writer and reader
He had one of the rarest qualities in all literature, and it's a great shame that the word for it has been thoroughly debased by the cosmetic racketeers, so that one is almost ashamed to use it to describe a real distinction. Nevertheless, the word is charm - charm as Keats would have used it. Who has it today? It's not a matter of pretty writing or clear style. It's a kind of subdued magic, controlled and exquisite, the sort of thing you get from good string quartettes. Raymond Chandler on F. Scott Fitzgerald
Emmonsail’s Heath in Winter I love to see the old heath’s withered brake Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling, While the old heron from the lonely lake Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing, An oddling crow in idle motion swing On the half-rotten ash-tree’s topmost twig, Beside whose trunk the gypsy makes […]
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