Sunday, 16 April 2006

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On the Art of Finishing a Chapter & Other Minor Abominations About said art I know little, having finished a whopping two to this point. As I refine the document on the right side of my screen by retyping the unpolished nonsense everywhere apparent in the draft open on the left, I'm consistently struck by the inelegance of my prose. Will a reviewer one day argue for the usefulness of my work "despite its minor abominations of style," as Francis Sumner once said of Vernon Kellogg's. Will he or she say the style of the work is seriously marred by the cumbersomeness of many of the sentences. The writer tells us how thoroughly he has delved in the German evolutionary literature of the day. And of this his own style bears abundant witness. The pages abound in lengthy and involved sentences, and parenthetical clauses, so much so as to threaten with aphasia the unfortunate one who many venture to read them aloud. (495) Will he or she laugh when I write "a paragraph of twenty lines, constituted by a single sentence, composed of 17 words and containing two parentheses." And while he or she is "mentioning these petty blemishes," will the "frequent dissonances in the word combinations employed . . . 'curiously nearly completely subjective'; 'more or less nearly entirely'; 'influence of extrinsic influences,' followed by a third 'influence' in the same sentence; 'readily directly'; 'practically generally'" among them, fall before my hypothetical reviewer's sharpened wit? If I don't spend the next 48 hours vigorously revising, I fear all signs my Magic 8-Ball returns will point to a perpetual "Yes."

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