prose

Speak without words. Know the weight of words

As his dark closet shows, Bluebeard was a collector at heart, and even after dispatching a wife, could not let her fully depart.

Bottom line, when someone defensively says their way of writing is their style, then that usually means they're making an excuse for poor prose.

The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.

I have learned that love is often strongest where it is most threatened. Where it is most terrorised is where it most profusely grows.Lillian WhiteI Would Send You Poppies

Juliet!' I whip around but not quickly enough. She's swallowed by the crowd, the gap that allowed her to break for the door closing just as quickly as it opened, a shifting Tetris pattern of bodies...

She stopped then and turned her face toward him and the hateful wind.

A good sentence in prose should be like a good line in poetry, unchangeable, as rhythmic, as sonorous.

But what humans forget, cells remember. The body, that elephant

Rain woke him, a slow drizzle, his feet tangled in coils of discarded fiberoptics. The arcade's sea of sound washed over him, receded, returned. Rolling over, he sat up and held his head.

Iverson glanced down at my white-knuckled grip, then at my eyes. A hint of a smile more subtle than a single flick of snow crossed his face, and his eyes nodded approval.

How might you measure men beneath our skies? The shear depth of the human heart and her capacity for humbleness?Like a scientific fraction huh, but I am born of these times so forgive me that. Under this grey skied dream which has already been, already dreamt. Already past? Might everything be just hindsight? Already known gone faded the sun too, so nothing like that to be worried about? AndEngland when did she fall or might she never have begun? Withered earth before the withered Sun? Your forever field will forever be in my heart; alas here I am bold content and never knowing.

The punter sweated on top of Marina, his lips all over her young body, his tongue slipping out from rows of crooked teeth, pushing hungrily from between his shrivelled lips like a clam from a shell, a bottom feeder searching for salty nutrition.

You know that sickening feeling of inadequacy and over-exposure you feel when you look upon your own empurpled prose? Relax into the awareness that this ghastly sensation will never, ever leave you, no matter how successful and publicly lauded you become. It is intrinsic to the real business of writing and should be cherished.

A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.

Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.

There was a wildness inside him; someday he would capture it. Not to be tamed, but to be released. For only by understanding his mind could it be freed.

She had married him in order to be safe from the chaos. He had married her, she now understood, for the same reason. They were the last two people on earth who could make anyone safe from anything.