Part Of My Mind Is Working On

I Don't Believe, In The End, That There Is Any Such Thing As No Style. Even A Very Neutral, Plain Style, One That Doesn't Use Colloquialisms, Lyrical Flourishes, Heavy Supplies Of Metaphor, Etc., Is A Style, And It Becomes A Writer's Characteristic Style Just As Much As A Thicker, Richer Deployment Of Idiom And Vocabulary.

We Feel An Affinity With A Certain Thinker Because We Agree With Him; Or Because He Shows Us What We Were Already Thinking; Or Because He Shows Us In A More Articulate Form What We Were Already Thinking; Or Because He Shows Us What We Were On The Point Of Thinking; Or What We Would Sooner Or Later Have Thought; Or What We Would Have Thought Much Later If We Hadn’t Read It Now; Or What We Would Have Been Likely To Think But Never Would Have Thought If We Hadn’t Read It Now; Or What We Would Have Liked To Think But Never Would Have Thought If We Hadn’t Read It Now.

If I Was Writing About An Academic Or A More Difficult Person, I Would Use The Latinate Vocabulary More, But I Do Think Anglo-saxon Is The Language Of Emotion.

The Style Developed Over Decades, Really, But I Started Out Writing Pretty Traditional Stories, Then Became Impatient. It Was A Writer Named Russell Edson Who Showed Me That One Could Write In Any Way At All.

Nearly Every Morning, A Certain Woman In Our Community Comes Running Out Of Her House With Her Face White And Her Overcoat Flapping Wildly. She Cries Out, "emergency, Emergency," And One Of Us Runs To Her And Holds Her Until Her Fears Are Calmed. We Know She Is Making It Up; Nothing Is Has Really Happened To Her. But We Understand, Because There Is Hardly One Of Us Who Has No Been Moved At Some Time To Do Just What She Has Done, And Every Time, It Has Taken All Our Strength, And Even The Strength Of Our Friends And Families, Too, To Keep Us Quiet.