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07-24-2008, 04:35 PM

Examples of perfect prose

Please post any passages of prose you consider to be near (or

actually) perfect. It can be a single sentence or a paragraph; it can

be from a novel, a book on science, a newspaper article, a travel

book- anything you like.

Here a few pieces I think are examples of superb writing:

"There was an Ah! of satisfaction from the mob. Into the ring

suddenly rushed a smallish, dun- coloured bull with long flourishing

horns. He ran out, blindly, as if from the dark, probably thinking

that now he was free. Then he stopped short, seeing that he was

not free, but surrounded in an unknown way. He was utterly at a

loss"

(D H Lawrence, The Plumed Serpent)

"The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark green as to be almost black,

fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away

along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The

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Examples of perfect prose http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?36731-Exampl...

1 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam."

(Conrad, Heart Of Darkness)

"Calamy lay on his back, quite still, looking up into the darkness. Up

there, he was thinking, so near that it's only a question of reaching

out a hand to draw back the curtaining darkness that conceals it,

up there, just above me, floats the great secret, the beauty and

the mystery. To look into the depths of that mystery, to fix the

eyes of the spirit on that bright and enigmatic beauty, to pore over

the secret until its symbols cease to be opaque and the light filters

through from beyond- there is nothing else in life, for me at any

rate, that matters..."

(Aldous Huxley, Those Barren Leaves)

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07-24-2008, 05:05 PM

Does a speech count? I have always thought this one to be

absolutely beautifully written:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this

continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the

proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that

nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long

endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have

come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for

those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is

altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot

consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living

and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our

poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long

remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did

here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the

unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly

advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task

remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take

increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full

measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead

shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have

a new birth of freedom— and that government of the people, by

the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

--Abraham Lincoln

November 19, 1863

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

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07-24-2008, 08:37 PM

Wonderful thread, Wickes, I will definitely be back! Many times,

undoubtedly...

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2 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

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07-24-2008, 08:41 PM #4

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3 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

This is beautifully written. Lincoln was a master of prose.

Originally Posted by Chester

Does a speech count? I have always thought this one to beabsolutely beautifully written:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth onthis continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, anddedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether thatnation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can longendure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. Wehave come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final restingplace for those who here gave their lives that that nationmight live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should dothis.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannotconsecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men,living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, farabove our poor power to add or detract. The world will littlenote, nor long remember what we say here, but it can neverforget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to bededicated here to the unfinished work which they who foughthere have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to behere dedicated to the great task remaining before us—thatfrom these honored dead we take increased devotion to thatcause for which they gave the last full measure ofdevotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shallnot have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall havea new birth of freedom— and that government of the people,by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

--Abraham LincolnNovember 19, 1863Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

com-pas-sion (n.) [ME. & OFr. <LL. (Ec.) compassio, sympathy <compassus, pp. of compati, to feel pity < L. com-, together + pali, tosuffer] sorrow for the sufferings or trouble of another or others,accompanied by an urge to help; deep sympathy; pity

Dostoevsky Forum!

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07-25-2008, 06:12 AM

Thankyou ThousandthIsle.

Here are 3 great passages from Harold Bloom's magnificent book

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Originally Posted by ThousandthIsle

Wonderful thread, Wickes, I will definitely be back! Manytimes, undoubtedly...


4 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

on Shakespeare:

"The more one reads and ponders the plays of Shakespeare, the

more one realizes that the accurate stance towards them is one of

awe. How he was possible, I cannot know...the worship of

Shakespeare ought to be even more a secular religion than it

already is . The plays remain the outer limit of human

achievement: aesthetically, cognitively even spiritually. They abide

beyond the end of the mind's reach. We cannot catch up to them"

"The problem of having thought too well too soon seems shared by

Hamlet and Prospero, while Falstaff, a professional soldier who long

ago saw through chivalry and its glories, resolutely resolves to be

merry, and will not despair. Hamlet can be transcendent or ironic,

in either mode his inventiveness is absolute. Falstaff, at his funniest

or most reflective, retains a vitalism that renders him alive beyond

belief. When we are most wholly human, and know ourselves, we

become most like either Hamlet or Falstaff"

"Immanent Falstaff and transcendent Hamlet are the two largest

representations of consciousness in all Shakespeare, and indeed in

all literature...Falstaff denies that life is real or life is earnest, and

delivers us from the oppression of such nightmares, lifting us into

the atmosphere of perfect freedom"

Come on you lazy lot- you've only got to get your Nabokov or

Joyce down off the shelf. I want some perfect prose right now!

Last edited by WICKES; 07-25-2008 at 08:20 AM.

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07-25-2008, 06:30 AM

Joyce? Oh jeez, I've never read any of his stuff.. seems a bit

stuffy.. though I've heard the sermon on Hell in Portrait as a Young

Man is good. :P

When I am less sleepy I will think of something, though I can at

least say this, Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar has the best overall effect

on you after you've read it. There's no one sentence or paragraph

that strikes you, it's the sum of its parts.

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07-25-2008, 10:29 AM

* And as I sat there, brooding on the old, unknown world, I

thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out Daisy's light

at the end of his dock. He had come such a long way to this blue

lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close he could hardly

fail to grasp it. But what he did not know was that it was already

behind him, somewhere in the vast obscurity beyond the city,

where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

* Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year

by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter

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kelby_lake

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5 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

— tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And

one fine morning ——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly

into the past.

Two separate bits from, well it's pretty obvious where it's from.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta:

the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to

tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the

morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in

slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted

line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Again, preety obvious where it's from.

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07-25-2008, 08:19 PM

From Persuasion:

"Walter," cried Charles Hayter, "why do you not do as you are bid?

Do not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to

cousin Charles."

But not a bit did Walter stir.

In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of

being released from him; some one was taking him from her,

though he had bent down her head so much, that his little sturdy

hands were unfastened from around her neck, and he was

resolutely borne away, before she knew that Captain Wentworth

had done it.

Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless.

She could not even thank him. She could only hang over little

Charles, with most disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping

forward to her relief, the manner, the silence in which it had

passed, the little particulars of the circumstance, with the

conviction soon forced on her by the noise he was studiously

making with the child, that he meant to avoid hearing her thanks,

and rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last of

his wants, produced such a confusion of varying, but very painful

agitation, as she could not recover from, till enabled by the

entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make over her little

patient to their cares, and leave the room. She could not stay. It

might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and

jealousies of the four--they were now altogether; but she could

stay for none of it. It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well

inclined towards Captain Wentworth. She had a strong impression

of his having said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain

Wentworth's interference, "You ought to have minded me, Walter;

I told you not to teaze your aunt;" and could comprehend his

regretting that Captain Wentworth should do what he ought to

have done himself. But neither Charles Hayter's feelings, nor

anybody's feelings, could interest her, till she had a little better

arranged her own. She was ashamed of herself, quite ashamed of

being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it was, and

it required a long application of solitude and reflection to recover

her.

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6 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

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07-26-2008, 12:31 PM

'You don't eat an orange and then throw the peel away! A man is

not a piece of fruit!'

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07-26-2008, 03:46 PM

Ah, Chester, that really does still send shivers down the spine.

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Originally Posted by Chester

Does a speech count? I have always thought this one to beabsolutely beautifully written:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth onthis continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, anddedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether thatnation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can longendure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. Wehave come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final restingplace for those who here gave their lives that that nationmight live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should dothis.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannotconsecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men,living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, farabove our poor power to add or detract. The world will littlenote, nor long remember what we say here, but it can neverforget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to bededicated here to the unfinished work which they who foughthere have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to behere dedicated to the great task remaining before us—thatfrom these honored dead we take increased devotion to thatcause for which they gave the last full measure ofdevotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shallnot have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall havea new birth of freedom— and that government of the people,by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

--Abraham LincolnNovember 19, 1863Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

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7 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

07-26-2008, 04:08 PM

My favorite passages from Joyce

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one.

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock,

carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through

the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the

crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

- Ulysses [Proteus]

Begob he drew his his hand and made a swipe and let fly. Mercy of

God the sun was in his eyes or he'd have left him for dead. Gob, he

near sent it into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright

and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the

populace shouting and laughing and the old tinbox clattering along

the street.

The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. The

observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of the

fifth grade of Mercalli's scale, and there is no record extant of a

similar seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of

1534, the year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre

appears to have been that part of the metropolis which constitutes

the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface

of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch.

- Ulysses [Cyclops]

What I love about that above passage is Joyce's sense of humour.

What, in reality, is only a small little tin can thrown inaccurately at

Bloom and "clattering along the street" is suddenly blown up into a

disaster of epic proportions, with thousands dead and millions in

damages.

My favorite passage, however, is this one from Ithaca:

What relation existed between their ages ?

16 years before in 1888 when Bloom was of Stephen's present age

Stephen was 6. 16 years after in 1920 when Stephen would be of

Bloom's present age Bloom would be 54. In 1936 when Bloom

would be 70 and Stephen 54 their ages initially in the ratio of 16 to

0 would b as 17 1/2 to 13 1/2....

What events might nullify these calculations ?

The cessation of existence of both or either, the inauguration of a

new era or calendar, the annihilation of the world and consequent

extermination of the human species, inevitable but impredictable.

Something about the sheer matter-of-factness about that passage

just makes me laugh. Ulysses is truly a comic novel.

I know there's plenty of beautiful prose in A Portrait of the Artist,

Dubliners, and Finnegans Wake but I'll leave that to someone else.

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Originally Posted by mayneverhave

My favorite passages from Joyce

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take itup?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buyone. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge ofrock, carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Movingthrough the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailedup on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, asilent ship.

- Ulysses [Proteus]

Begob he drew his his hand and made a swipe and let fly.Mercy of God the sun was in his eyes or he'd have left him fordead. Gob, he near sent it into the county Longford. Thebloody nag took fright and the old mongrel after the car likebloody hell and all the populace shouting and laughing and theold tinbox clattering along the street.

The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect.The observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, allof the fifth grade of Mercalli's scale, and there is no recordextant of a similar seismic disturbance in our island since theearthquake of 1534, the year of the rebellion of SilkenThomas. The epicentre appears to have been that part of themetropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and parish ofSaint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roodsand one square pole or perch.

- Ulysses [Cyclops]

What I love about that above passage is Joyce's sense ofhumour. What, in reality, is only a small little tin can throwninaccurately at Bloom and "clattering along the street" issuddenly blown up into a disaster of epic proportions, withthousands dead and millions in damages.

My favorite passage, however, is this one from Ithaca:

What relation existed between their ages ?16 years before in 1888 when Bloom was of Stephen's presentage Stephen was 6. 16 years after in 1920 when Stephenwould be of Bloom's present age Bloom would be 54. In 1936when Bloom would be 70 and Stephen 54 their ages initially inthe ratio of 16 to 0 would b as 17 1/2 to 13 1/2....

What events might nullify these calculations ?The cessation of existence of both or either, the inaugurationof a new era or calendar, the annihilation of the world andconsequent extermination of the human species, inevitable butimpredictable.

Something about the sheer matter-of-factness about that


9 of 11 2/03/2013 11:18 PM

Thanks mayneverhave, very interesting. I don't know much about

Joyce and was hoping someone would post their favourite

passages. If you have a spare moment do please post something

you like from A Portrait Of the Artist or Dubliners.

passage just makes me laugh. Ulysses is truly a comic novel.

I know there's plenty of beautiful prose in A Portrait of theArtist, Dubliners, and Finnegans Wake but I'll leave that tosomeone else.

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07-27-2008, 08:07 AM

I agree- great thread, and I'll too be returning.

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07-27-2008, 09:23 AM

A nice thread!

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The source of any bad writing is the desire to be something more than aperson of sense--the straining to be thought a genius. If people would saywhat they have to say in plain terms, how much eloquent they would be.-S.T COLERIDGE

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07-27-2008, 06:04 PM

Here are a couple of passages from those two English masters of

comic prose (and of prose generally) Evelyn Waugh and P G

Wodehouse :

"He finished the watery dregs of his cocktail shaker and went into

the kitchen. He shut the door and the window and opened the door

of the gas oven. Inside it was very black and dirty and smelled of

meat. He spread a sheet of newspaper on the lowest tray and lay

down, resting his head on it. Then he noticed that by some

mischance he had chosed Vanburgh's gossip page in the Morning

Dispatch. He put in another sheet. Then he turned on the gas. It

came surprisingly with a loud roar; the wind of it stirred his hair

and the remaining particles of his beard. At first he held his

breath. Then he thought that was silly and gave a sniff. The sniff

made him cough, and coughing made him breathe, and breathing

made him feel very ill; but soon he fell into a coma and presently

died"

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