Beyond the Pale
Timmy,Your novella is redemptive, has a happy ending (??) and employs shorter words than my novel. Grrrr... I am jealous.
nobody beats me at six words, dude. nobody.alternate:gosh mr clark, i bet you could come up with shorter words real easy
Timmy,I must bow to your superior brevity.The unfortunate too-long-words habit which has doomed me as a novelist has plagued me since winning the Chicago Daily News school kids' spelling bee in 1949. It's all been a terrible downhill slide since then.For many years I hid away in shame over my long words problem in a cottage in the small Welsh town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.One day I almost took a bus to Gorsafawddachaidraigodanheddogleddollonpenrhynareurdraethceredigion, but at the last minute thought better of it. I migrated then to the town of Tetaumatawhakatangihangakoauaotamateaurehaeaturipukapihimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuaakitanarahuin New Zealand.Years went by.Finally I settled here in Thailand, in the remote village of Krungthepmahanakornamornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnopparatrajathaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimaravatarnsathitsakkattiyavisanukamprasit.Things have gone better here. I no longer speak at all. I have however come down with a worrying case of Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis.
Wonderful account of your polysyllabic travels (and travails), Tom!SHORT STORYHe wonderedif perhapsand then thoughtno
Zeph,The brilliant indecisiveness of SHORT STORY is, in brief, overwhelming.
Genious must end with lunacy. Great fox, I really liked it.It is hard to choose the few words that describe something, and you made it acuratelyTake care my friend
Mariana,Thanks for enjoying the fox. He is a character out of Goethe and a close cousin of Reynard the Fox, the trickster of the forests in much magical European folklore.Also: I suppose the idea that genius must end in lunacy would not go over well with most geniuses--how would we know? would they tell us, mired in their lunacy as they inevitably in the end are?The poet Wordsworth, who in his youth penned works of genius, must have had some prescient inkling on this subject when he wrote:We poets in our youth begin in gladness;But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.Of course "in the end" Wordsworth, who perhaps simply made the mistake of living too long, became not a lunatic (which might have been good for his poetry, if not for him) but a rather stodgy civil servant... and, dare one say it, an Old Bore.Caught on the horns of this dilemma, what is the poetic genius to do?
I like the quote that you wrote about the poet called Wordsworth, it is so true most of the times.I think that great artists shouldn't live to be very old, because they lose their rebel spirit, their magic powers, but mostly they loose momentum when they are gone. They end up being remembered as in the crazy decadents oddballs they becamebefore they where gone.This witter reminded me of the following thought:“ A poet confessing to mental illness is like a weight-lifter admitting to muscles ” - Roddy LumsdenWhich is think it is almost always true. There for if your art is this one you 'd better to take precautions at least for not sleeping in a bench.Thanks for the postMariana
Mariana,Well, I will admit to often pausing for rest upon a bench. But not sleeping (so far). Perhaps this simply means I have not yet established my personal benchmark?
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