I think it's important to pay particular attention to beautiful writing on a sentence level, and really dissect what works (and doesn't) in other authors' writing. I have taken 10 sentences from my recent reading and analyzed why they are as fantastic as I think they are. As I write essays, I want to pay more attention to my writing on a sentences level, and learn how to craft beautiful sentences.
1. “Through the broken casements we watch the
flitting shadows of the dead, and the saddest shadows of them all are the
shadows of our own dead selves.” (“On Memory,” Jerome K Jerome. Quotidana.) I really love the mouthfeel of this sentence. Reading it out loud
emphasizes the alliteration of the s, as
well as the repetition of the word “shadows.” Typically when I end up repeating a
word three times in one sentence, it just sounds like I couldn’t think of any
other word to use or any better phrasing. Jerome, on the other hand, seems to
repeat intentionally—and I think he is successful because of his adjectives
(“flitting,” “saddest”), which in and of themselves may not be the most
original or astounding adjective, but the combination of the words together
leaves an eerie chill in my mouth as I picture the shadows of my dead self.
Excellent.
2. “Such, thought I, shall be my method this
evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of
such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two shall
be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over all the melancholy
circumstances of this kind which have occurred to me in my whole life.” (“An
Hour or Two Sacred to Sorrow,” Richard Steele. APE.) First, I could probably dedicate a whole annotation like this
to the phrase “sacred to sorrow,” which just kills me with its beauty. “An hour
or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory.” Really, though? How can he
have written something so beautiful? I don’t know that I could even tell you why it entrances me so, except that the
pairing of “sacred” with “sorrow” is genius. Besides that phrase, I love the
flow of the sentence. It seems to start and end with an almost business-like
precision, leading to and falling away from the climax of the sentence, which
is, of course, my favorite part.
3. “It was not the least of the satisfactions
in my survey, to go up stairs, and pass the shops of agreeable females; to
observe so many pretty hands busie in the foldings of ribbands, and the utmost
eagerness of agreeable faces in the sale of patches, pins, and wires, on each
side the counters, was an amusement, in which I should longer have indulged my
self, had not the dear creatures called me to ask what I wanted, when I could
not answer, only to look at you.” (“Twenty-Four
Hours in London,” Richard Steele. APE.)
I always admire long (correct) sentences. I always try to write long flowing
sentences, and I’m never quite sure if I succeed or not. This sentence is
delightful because I can picture perfectly what Steele is observing, and I can
sense a fondness in his tone for the women he is observing. The style is
charming yet almost strictly observatory in nature, making it a good example
for what I’d like to achieve in my “Observation and Analysis” essay.
4. “So I saw things, but never about
myself. I saw a meteor light up the sky for an instant, saw two tons of
butter carved into an astronaut, saw nine bald eagles sitting on a bank by a
river. I saw a pork tenderloin as big as my face, saw two hundred crows
in a tree beside a sandwich shop, saw a field look green where all that yellow
met all that blue.” (“Still Things,” Amy Butcher. Brevity 38.) This is more
than one sentence, but I felt that all three depended on each other for maximum
impact. The reason I like these sentences is the juxtaposition of images held
within: the meteor, butter carved into an astronaut, eagles, pork, crows, and a
field. Each of these images is interesting in and of itself, like the carved
butter, but put together the writer achieves a mesh of startling images that
the reader imagines as they go through the list. What is most effective is that
the list of items is preceded by “I saw things, but never about myself.” As I
read what follows, I can imagine the author seeing these things—observing the
outside world, but for some reason not able to see herself.
5. “High on the walls mirrors with blind
patches were hung, multiplying the flickering of the firelight and reflecting
shifting images.” (“Dr. Henry Selwin,” W.G. Sebald. The Emigrants.) Sebald’s writing can be so entrancing, and this
sentence exemplifies this perfectly. As I read this sentence, I close my eyes
and see the scene he describes, see the light refracting as it passes through
the mirrors, distorted by the blind patches but still reflecting the images.
His use of the passive voice is interesting, and I typically try to edit out
most of the passive voice in my writing and my students’ writing, but in this
sentence I feel that the passive voice is preferable because it puts emphasis
on the mirrors themselves, not whoever hung them. On top of all that, I feel
this sentence encapsulates much of Sebald’s writing; it’s almost like his
essays were the mirrors with blind patches, reflecting images that are
shifting, not stagnant, and multiplying the influence of whatever he’s writing
about.
6. “The silent symbolic notes that are sounded
in the heart by the gesture of laying a dead infant on a swan’s wing and
placing it thus cushioned in the grave, play gently over a range of comforting
tones with unobtrusive virtuosity.” (“Swan Song,” Chris Arthur. Words of the Grey Wind.) Chris Arthur is
a beautiful sentence rock star, if you ask me. This particular sentence is
interesting because it subtly uses music to carry the reader through the image:
“notes that are sounded in the heart…play gently over a range of comforting
tones.” He is dealing with the topic of death so very gently, and his words are
crafted as carefully as the scene he describes where a dead infant is buried on
a swan’s wing. He is able to pack so much punch into this one image of the
infant on a swan’s wing that the image carries the entire essay. Love it.
7. “To me there is no room for naifs or solemn
primitives in the essay; it's a performance of extreme sophistication, the
argument rising or falling on the basis of verbal nuance, persona pirouette,
exposure of unconscious contradiction in oneself and others.” (“A
Resurgence of the Essay,” Phillip Lopate. Random
house: <boldtype>.) I like
this sentence for its concision and straightforwardness. Despite its concision,
though, it’s not plain or undecorated. Phrases like “persona pirouette” and
“exposure of unconscious contradiction” color the sentence and add interest to
the matter-of-fact tone that Lopate creates throughout this essay. Also, his
diction is subtly consistent: he uses “performance of extreme sophistication”
and “persona pirouette,” and I suddenly see the essay as a dance. Also, I
really like the word “naïf.”
8. “Besides, this is what is practiced every
day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more usual than to see a couple of
lawyers, who have been tearing each other to pieces in the court, embracing one
another as soon as they are out of it.” (“Nicolini and the Lions,” Joseph
Addison. APE.) Although Addison and
Steele’s essays are grouped together in APE
(I’m not really sure why), it’s amazing how different their styles are.
Here is a perfect example from “Nicolini and the Lions” of how subtly hilarious
Addison is. Upon first glance, it seems so matter of fact that it couldn’t
possibly be funny, but upon revisiting the sentence, you really can’t help but
smile. The comparison between squabbling lawyers and lions tearing each other
apart and then embracing is delightfully executed.
9. “This is a mystery I am content to witness
without understanding, like my toaster, my computer, my wife’s love, my
children’s wonder, my father’s long wisdom, and the ways we resist and rely on
each other, we grow and emphasize, meet another soul along the way, and
resonate.” (“Buying a Bass,” Patrick Madden. Wabash, Fall 2011). I couldn’t help but include a sentence from
this essay that I completely enjoyed. I remember Patrick Madden saying once that
“beautiful writing is correct writing,” and I haven’t really gotten it out of
my head since. This sentence takes on a sprawling, Brian Doyle-esque quality,
but still maintains grammatical correctness and precision. Besides being
sprawling and correct, I love the transitions and tone shifts in this sentence.
From “my computer” to “my wife’s love, my children’s wonder, and my father’s
long wisdom,” the sentence deepens in meaning. It subtly goes from
lighthearted, from a computer to a toaster, to sincere, and I love it.
10. “Before perhaps she’s even developed ears,
she resonates sound in her bones and tissue, her whole body trembling like a
tuning fork to the everyday noise of our lives—the howling passing of trains,
the white noise of the 180 and 41 freeways, barking dogs, the nightly
oscillating drone of the police helicopters, and on better nights the soft
sounds of her brother reading to his mother’s belly, talking into the button,
his voice vibrating through the amniotic drum.” (“All of a Dither,” Steven
Church. AGNI.) This sentence kills
me. I don’t even know if I could put into words all that I love about it. It’s
another long sentence, sprawling and still correct, so I admire that about it,
but just like the previous sentence, the beautiful structure of the sentence is
only the skeleton, and what fills in between the cracks—“howling passing of
trains,” “nightly oscillating drone,” “soft sounds of her brother reading,”
“voice vibrating through the amniotic drum”—is what gives it punch. With the
last two sentences, I love the fact that they both talk about family in a way
that resists sentimentality and portrays love without being sappy. This is
something I’d love to incorporate into my essays because I want to write about
family and I want to write optimistically without being naïve or sentimental.
As these last two sentences show, I have examples to help me in that endeavor.
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