History Quotes / PurpleProse

1st May '16 11:48:20 PM MorningStar1337
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-> ''Poor [[WilliamFaulkner Faulkner]]. [[TakeThat Does he really think big emotions come from big words]]?''

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-> ''Poor [[WilliamFaulkner Faulkner]]. [[TakeThat Does he really think big emotions come from big words]]?''words?''



->''Some writers are convinced that since great modern authors like [[Creator/JamesJoyce Joyce]] and [[WilliamFaulkner Faulkner]] are difficult to understand, [[TrueArtIsIncomprehensible writing that is difficult to understand is therefore great writing.]] This is a form of magical thinking, analogous to the belief that [[SympatheticMagic the warrior who dons the pelt of a lion thereby acquires its strength and cunning.]]''

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->''Some writers are convinced that since great modern authors like [[Creator/JamesJoyce Joyce]] and [[WilliamFaulkner Faulkner]] are difficult to understand, [[TrueArtIsIncomprehensible writing that is difficult to understand is therefore great writing.]] This is a form of [[FalseCause magical thinking, thinking]], analogous to the belief that [[SympatheticMagic the warrior who dons the pelt of a lion thereby acquires its strength and cunning.]]''
17th Apr '16 7:25:57 AM Berrenta
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-> Exactly eleven thousand, eight hundred and seventy seven kilometres away from the spot Mr. Report Siht was writing his ultimate work of inane, ultraviolet works of literature, on the other end of our [[InsignificantLittleBluePlanet diminutive azure planet of no cosmic importance whatsoever]], a particular random, utterly unremarkable reader of literature who was usually referred to as Mister [[TheEveryman Jonas Quinn Averageson]], who had, at this current time of nine-forty-five at night just returned after an extremely large in length distance traversed in his black, very, ''very'' slightly rusted Honda Civic fossil fuel-powered automobile from his place of current occupation, where he is paid exactly nine-fifty an hour to detail, with {{egregious}} amounts of justifying edits, exactly which character in Series/DoctorWho he thought deserved to be called a [[DarthWiki/RuinedFOREVER show-ruiner]] extremely similar to [[TheScrappy a small puppy that called himself Scrappy-Doo, very exhausted and very frustrated after a particularly high in temperature argument with an]] [[PointyHairedBoss unreasonable, though low in intellect, figure of dubious authority who will very, very soon be replaced by a Mister Fast Eddie]] (completely forgetting that this overly particular slice of life factoid was probably in absolutely no way at all relevant to the [[MythArc grand scheme]] of this very "plot", though he, Jonas Quinn Averageson, probably at this moment in space-time was completely unaware that there was at the moment a certain troper living thousands of miles away narrating each and every little thought, no matter how trivial it seemed to be to everyone, for the sole purpose of adding word count to this already excessively long entry describing the use of over-flowery prose in various works of fiction, but never mind that), eyed Report's newborn magnum opus with [[HighPressureEmotion a sudden, hot-tempered fury building up at a sizeable alacrity]]. "This disgusting piece of pretentious trash is [[UnusualEuphemism frakking]] inconceivable and it is an insult to all literature, even Fanfic/MyImmortal, that this pierce of gamma-ray prose filled shiat would ever get [[VanityPublishing published]]," he immediately [[strike:[[HaveAGayOldTime ejaculated]]]] exclaimed with an incomprehensible amount of quickly-rising exasperation, his half-rouge, half-emerald orbs of eyes still scanning the two-thousand, five hundred and sixty six piece of trash-er, I mean, slice of literary heaven. "I really, really, '''''REALLY''''' wish with all of my cardiac muscles in my heart that person who's work I am currently reading attempted, no matter how impossible that task would seem to be for the person I am currently referring, to actually [[GetOnWithItAlready get to the point in a reasonable number of compendious sentences]] without using [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness excessively flowery and annoyingly lengthy expressions]], because if I'm hypothetically forced to proceed any further with this complete and utter nightmare of an encyclopaedia entry, it may quite possibly drive me to the point where my emotional state causes me to [[ExpospeakGag rapidly lose eye-liquid]]!"

to:

-> Exactly eleven thousand, eight hundred and seventy seven kilometres away from the spot Mr. Report Siht was writing his ultimate work of inane, ultraviolet works of literature, on the other end of our [[InsignificantLittleBluePlanet diminutive azure planet of no cosmic importance whatsoever]], a particular random, utterly unremarkable reader of literature who was usually referred to as Mister [[TheEveryman Jonas Quinn Averageson]], who had, at this current time of nine-forty-five at night just returned after an extremely large in length distance traversed in his black, very, ''very'' slightly rusted Honda Civic fossil fuel-powered automobile from his place of current occupation, where he is paid exactly nine-fifty an hour to detail, with {{egregious}} amounts of justifying edits, exactly which character in Series/DoctorWho he thought deserved to be called a [[DarthWiki/RuinedFOREVER show-ruiner]] extremely similar to [[TheScrappy a small puppy that called himself Scrappy-Doo, very exhausted and very frustrated after a particularly high in temperature argument with an]] [[PointyHairedBoss unreasonable, though low in intellect, figure of dubious authority who will very, very soon be replaced by a Mister Fast Eddie]] (completely forgetting that this overly particular slice of life factoid was probably in absolutely no way at all relevant to the [[MythArc grand scheme]] of this very "plot", though he, Jonas Quinn Averageson, probably at this moment in space-time was completely unaware that there was at the moment a certain troper living thousands of miles away narrating each and every little thought, no matter how trivial it seemed to be to everyone, for the sole purpose of adding word count to this already excessively long entry describing the use of over-flowery prose in various works of fiction, but never mind that), eyed Report's newborn magnum opus with [[HighPressureEmotion a sudden, hot-tempered fury building up at a sizeable alacrity]]. "This disgusting piece of pretentious trash is [[UnusualEuphemism frakking]] inconceivable and it is an insult to all literature, even Fanfic/MyImmortal, that this pierce of gamma-ray prose filled shiat would ever get [[VanityPublishing published]]," he immediately [[strike:[[HaveAGayOldTime ejaculated]]]] exclaimed with an incomprehensible amount of quickly-rising exasperation, his half-rouge, half-emerald orbs of eyes still scanning the two-thousand, five hundred and sixty six piece of trash-er, I mean, slice of literary heaven. "I really, really, '''''REALLY''''' wish with all of my cardiac muscles in my heart that person who's work I am currently reading attempted, no matter how impossible that task would seem to be for the person I am currently referring, to actually [[GetOnWithItAlready get to the point in a reasonable number of compendious sentences]] sentences without using [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness excessively flowery and annoyingly lengthy expressions]], because if I'm hypothetically forced to proceed any further with this complete and utter nightmare of an encyclopaedia entry, it may quite possibly drive me to the point where my emotional state causes me to [[ExpospeakGag rapidly lose eye-liquid]]!"
14th Feb '16 1:48:05 AM bwburke94
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-> Exactly eleven thousand, eight hundred and seventy seven kilometres away from the spot Mr. Report Siht was writing his ultimate work of inane, ultraviolet works of literature, on the other end of our [[InsignificantLittleBluePlanet diminutive azure planet of no cosmic importance whatsoever]], a particular random, utterly unremarkable reader of literature who was usually referred to as Mister [[TheEveryman Jonas Quinn Averageson]], who had, at this current time of nine-forty-five at night just returned after an extremely large in length distance traversed in his black, very, ''very'' slightly rusted Honda Civic fossil fuel-powered automobile from his place of current occupation, where he is paid exactly nine-fifty an hour to detail, with {{egregious}} amounts of justifying edits, exactly which character in Series/DoctorWho he thought deserved to be called a [[DarthWiki/RuinedFOREVER show-ruiner]] extremely similar to [[TheScrappy a small puppy that called himself Scrappy-Doo, very exhausted and very frustrated after a particularly high in temperature argument with an]] [[PointyHairedBoss unreasonable, though low in intellect, figure of dubious authority who will very, very soon be replaced by a Mister Fast Eddie]] (completely forgetting that this overly particular slice of life factoid was probably in absolutely no way at all relevant to the [[MythArc grand scheme]] of this very "plot", though he, Jonas Quinn Averageson, probably at this moment in space-time was completely unaware that there was at the moment a certain troper living thousands of miles away narrating each and every little thought, no matter how trivial it seemed to be to everyone, for the sole purpose of adding word count to this already excessively long entry describing the use of over-flowery prose in various works of fiction, but never mind that), eyed Report's newborn magnum opus with [[HighPressureEmotion a sudden, hot-tempered fury building up at a sizeable alacrity]]. "This disgusting piece of pretentious trash is [[UnusualEuphemism frakking]] inconceivable and it is an insult to all literature, even MyImmortal, that this pierce of gamma-ray prose filled shiat would ever get [[VanityPublishing published]]," he immediately [[strike:[[HaveAGayOldTime ejaculated]]]] exclaimed with an incomprehensible amount of quickly-rising exasperation, his half-rouge, half-emerald orbs of eyes still scanning the two-thousand, five hundred and sixty six piece of trash-er, I mean, slice of literary heaven. "I really, really, '''''REALLY''''' wish with all of my cardiac muscles in my heart that person who's work I am currently reading attempted, no matter how impossible that task would seem to be for the person I am currently referring, to actually [[GetOnWithItAlready get to the point in a reasonable number of compendious sentences]] without using [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness excessively flowery and annoyingly lengthy expressions]], because if I'm hypothetically forced to proceed any further with this complete and utter nightmare of an encyclopaedia entry, it may quite possibly drive me to the point where my emotional state causes me to [[ExpospeakGag rapidly lose eye-liquid]]!"

to:

-> Exactly eleven thousand, eight hundred and seventy seven kilometres away from the spot Mr. Report Siht was writing his ultimate work of inane, ultraviolet works of literature, on the other end of our [[InsignificantLittleBluePlanet diminutive azure planet of no cosmic importance whatsoever]], a particular random, utterly unremarkable reader of literature who was usually referred to as Mister [[TheEveryman Jonas Quinn Averageson]], who had, at this current time of nine-forty-five at night just returned after an extremely large in length distance traversed in his black, very, ''very'' slightly rusted Honda Civic fossil fuel-powered automobile from his place of current occupation, where he is paid exactly nine-fifty an hour to detail, with {{egregious}} amounts of justifying edits, exactly which character in Series/DoctorWho he thought deserved to be called a [[DarthWiki/RuinedFOREVER show-ruiner]] extremely similar to [[TheScrappy a small puppy that called himself Scrappy-Doo, very exhausted and very frustrated after a particularly high in temperature argument with an]] [[PointyHairedBoss unreasonable, though low in intellect, figure of dubious authority who will very, very soon be replaced by a Mister Fast Eddie]] (completely forgetting that this overly particular slice of life factoid was probably in absolutely no way at all relevant to the [[MythArc grand scheme]] of this very "plot", though he, Jonas Quinn Averageson, probably at this moment in space-time was completely unaware that there was at the moment a certain troper living thousands of miles away narrating each and every little thought, no matter how trivial it seemed to be to everyone, for the sole purpose of adding word count to this already excessively long entry describing the use of over-flowery prose in various works of fiction, but never mind that), eyed Report's newborn magnum opus with [[HighPressureEmotion a sudden, hot-tempered fury building up at a sizeable alacrity]]. "This disgusting piece of pretentious trash is [[UnusualEuphemism frakking]] inconceivable and it is an insult to all literature, even MyImmortal, Fanfic/MyImmortal, that this pierce of gamma-ray prose filled shiat would ever get [[VanityPublishing published]]," he immediately [[strike:[[HaveAGayOldTime ejaculated]]]] exclaimed with an incomprehensible amount of quickly-rising exasperation, his half-rouge, half-emerald orbs of eyes still scanning the two-thousand, five hundred and sixty six piece of trash-er, I mean, slice of literary heaven. "I really, really, '''''REALLY''''' wish with all of my cardiac muscles in my heart that person who's work I am currently reading attempted, no matter how impossible that task would seem to be for the person I am currently referring, to actually [[GetOnWithItAlready get to the point in a reasonable number of compendious sentences]] without using [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness excessively flowery and annoyingly lengthy expressions]], because if I'm hypothetically forced to proceed any further with this complete and utter nightmare of an encyclopaedia entry, it may quite possibly drive me to the point where my emotional state causes me to [[ExpospeakGag rapidly lose eye-liquid]]!"
17th Jan '16 10:39:52 PM Gideoncrawle
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->In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for "eloquence"; it was his pet, his darling. He would be eloquent, or perish. And he recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid, the tempestuous, the volcanic. He liked words--big words, fine words, grand words, rumbling, thundering, reverberating words; with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound, but not otherwise. He loved to stand up before a dazed world, and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and shake himself with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes. If he consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but he would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock's eloquence-- and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the pattern common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time in one respect: his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did not mar the sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. For example, consider this figure, which he used in the village "Address" referred to with such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted--"like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower." Please read it again; contemplate it; measure it; walk around it; climb up it; try to get at an approximate realization of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to be found in literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living or dead, drunk or sober? One notices how fine and grand it sounds. We know that if it was loftily uttered, it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers; yet there isn't a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it.

to:

->In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for "eloquence"; it was his pet, his darling. He would be eloquent, or perish. And he recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid, the tempestuous, the volcanic. He liked words--big words, fine words, grand words, rumbling, thundering, reverberating words; with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound, but not otherwise. He loved to stand up before a dazed world, and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and shake himself with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes. If he consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but he would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock's [=McClintock's=] eloquence-- and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the pattern common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time in one respect: his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did not mar the sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. For example, consider this figure, which he used in the village "Address" referred to with such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted--"like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower." Please read it again; contemplate it; measure it; walk around it; climb up it; try to get at an approximate realization of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to be found in literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living or dead, drunk or sober? One notices how fine and grand it sounds. We know that if it was loftily uttered, it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers; yet there isn't a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it.
6th Oct '15 7:19:58 AM DaibhidC
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->Steer clear of “thee” and “thou” and “waxing wroth” unless you are a genius, and use adjectives as if they cost you a toenail. For some reason adjectives cluster around some works of fantasy.

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->Steer ->''Steer clear of “thee” and “thou” and “waxing wroth” unless you are a genius, and use adjectives as if they cost you a toenail. For some reason adjectives cluster around some works of fantasy.''
6th Oct '15 7:19:29 AM DaibhidC
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->Steer clear of “thee” and “thou” and “waxing wroth” unless you are a genius, and use adjectives as if they cost you a toenail. For some reason adjectives cluster around some works of fantasy.
-->-- '''Creator/TerryPratchett''', ''Notes from a Successful Fantasy Author: Keep It Real''
13th May '15 4:05:25 PM Adept
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-->'''Creator/GeorgeEliot''' telling it like it is in ''SillyNovelsByLadyNovelists''

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-->'''Creator/GeorgeEliot''' telling it like it is in ''SillyNovelsByLadyNovelists''
''Literature/SillyNovelsByLadyNovelists''
22nd Oct '14 3:12:00 PM Argon2
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->''"You desire to recruit me?" His azuline orbs twinkled at her utterance, and the tabby knew she had been correct in her assumption. All the Dark Forest had come to take her... home? From the caliginous recesses of the multitude of those passed on, emerged the bellicose Tigerstar, flanked by Thistleclaw and Darkstripe. His amber eyes were ablaze; each step was made with a certain celerity. Her muscles tensed as the macabre legend approached, a dark twinkle in his eye.''

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->''"You desire to recruit me?" His ->''His azuline orbs twinkled at her utterance, and the tabby knew she had been correct in her assumption. All the Dark Forest had come to take her... home? From the caliginous recesses of the multitude of those passed on, emerged the bellicose Tigerstar, flanked by Thistleclaw and Darkstripe. His amber eyes were ablaze; each step was made with a certain celerity. Her muscles tensed as the macabre legend approached, a dark twinkle in his eye.''


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->''Pitfalls galore, tumbling endlessly with the weight of melancholy counterbalanced with the spitting vitriol of condescending, thudding, smothering doubt.''
-->-- The fic ''[[https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10774034/1/You-Are-Not-Alone You Are (Not) Alone]]''
3rd Oct '14 5:28:52 AM Argon2
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3rd Oct '14 5:27:47 AM Argon2
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->''"You desire to recruit me?" His azuline orbs twinkled at her utterance, and the tabby knew she had been correct in her assumption. All the Dark Forest had come to take her... home? From the caliginous recesses of the multitude of those passed on, emerged the bellicose Tigerstar, flanked by Thistleclaw and Darkstripe. His amber eyes were ablaze; each step was made with a certain celerity. Her muscles tensed as the macabre legend approached, a dark twinkle in his eye.''
-->-- ''[[https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10731949/2/severed-hearts severed hearts]]'', a ''Literature/WarriorCats'' fic

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