Posting again
Most people just bickered that every book, if it were good, would help you improve your prose. I disagree. Not all good books have beautiful prose. I am currently reading Guliver's Travels; the novel is classic; the prose is not beautiful. etc
I feel compelled by beautiful prose/poetry to write, not every book necessarily does that to me. If you disagree just stay out of the thread.
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the romantics
whom do you prefer
Why them?
Prose is a meme.
It’s not. Please leave.
Read the butler translation of the illiad and the odyssey
carlyle's french revolution
John Updike
Vladimir Nabokov
William H. Gass
Don Delillo
>Don Delillo
I'm surprised to see him mention. I wasn't as impressed by his prose but i admittedly haven't seen much at all, just a small bit of White Noise. Do you have an exerts?
Check out The Triumph of Death, the prologue to Underworld
James Salter
>Certain things I remember exactly as they were. They are merely discolored a bit by time, like coins in the pocket of a forgotten suit. Most of the details, though, have long since been transformed or rearranged to bring others of them forward. Some, in fact, are obviously counterfeit; they are no less important. One alters the past to form the future. But there is a real significance to the pattern which finally appears, which resists all further change. In fact, there is the danger that if I continue to try, the whole concert of events will begin to fall apart in my hands like old newspaper, I can’t bear to think of that. The myriad past, it enters us and disappears. Except that within it, somewhere, like diamonds, exist the fragments that refuse to be consumed. Sifting through, if one dares, and collecting them, one discovers the true design.
Wow. Exquisite.
Yeah it's really good, also has some really sexy parts and it's short. His similes and metaphors are very unorthodox, sometimes they can feel a little ridiculous but other times its just perfect. And he purposefully uses fragmented sentences sometimes. Interesting style.
I read The Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton recently. I don't know what I expected, but the prose style really surprised me. This is the first page.
>"On the last day of January 1915, under the sign of the Water Bearer, in a year of a great war, and down in the shadow of some French mountains on the borders of Spain, I came into the world. Free by nature, in the image of God, I was nevertheless the prisoner of my own violence and my own selfishness, in the image of the world into which I was born. That world was the picture of Hell, full of men like myself, loving God and yet hating Him; born to love Him, living instead in fear and hopeless self-contradictory hungers.
>Not many hundreds of miles from the house where I was born, they were picking up the men who rotted in the rainy ditches among the dead horses and the ruined seventy-fives, in a forest of trees without branches along the Marne.
>My father and mother were captives in that world, knowing they did not belong with it or in it, and yet unable to get away from it. They were in the world and not of it — not because they were saints, but in a different way: because they were artists. The integrity of an artist lifts a man above the level of the world without delivering him from it.”
>The integrity of an artist lifts a man above the level of the world without delivering him from it.
any trad published book will have been gone over by an editor, line editor, alpha and beta readers
Nabokov
Lawrence
Shaw