Some sentences tell us a great deal, not because of their essential information, but because of the way they are phrased, or their context. It is possible to learn something new from a book even if it does not present you with any new facts, because of the way the facts are assembled and because of the phrasing used in presenting the facts. I found the following sentences, from Samuel P. Huntington's The Clash of Civilizations , quite piquant: In the nineteenth century successful industrialization and emigration reduced the political impact of young populations in European societies. The proportions of youth rose again in the 1920s, however, providing recruits to fascist and other extremist movements.
I've just read a little of this article in the Times Literary Supplement , written by one of the cultural scions of Messrs Strunk and White: Plain Speaking - How to Write Well I do have some sympathy with writing plainly and maximising the virtues of the demotic Anglo-Saxon (in a way that I have not done in this sentence), but I can't help thinking there's a pathology posing as common sense in a lot of this hand-wringing about simplicity. For instance, from the opening paragraph: "Our teacher is a seasoned journalist who insists that we learn how to edit our own prose ruthlessly. (If he saw this paragraph, he would cut 'seasoned' – a cliché – as well as all the words ending with -ly.)" She goes on to say that her teacher would eschew not only obvious jargon, but anything "long and Latinate". Is this not a kind of stylistic hair shirt, the pursuing of rules for their own sake? Just take the first sentence of the article's first para...
I was discussing, with a friend, Mishima Yukio's prose style -- specifically, whether or not it might be characterised as beautiful. We were not focusing necessarily on stereotypically beautiful effects, but also on all that is atmospheric, lyrical and so on. My friend was saying that Mishima's style is largely neutral, though finely executed. I was looking for counter-examples to this and for some reason thought of the opening to The Temple of the Golden Pavilion ( Kinkakuji ). Having the book close to hand, I began to read out the first paragraphs. Ever since my childhood, Father had often spoken to me about the Golden Temple. My birthplace was a lonely cape that projects into the Sea of Japan north-east of Maizuru. Father, however, was not born there, but at Shiraku in the eastern suburbs of Maizuru. He was urged to join the clergy and became the priest of a temple on a remote cape; in this place he married and begot a child, who was myself. "Hmm. Maybe you'r...
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