This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important.
Gary Provost (first seen here).
My thoughts on Bombay have changed. It maybe a good city to visit, not to stay. I have issues with large cities. Even in Australia, Sydney nauseated me. Brisbane seems to have it just right. Bombay has horrible weather, is bursting at the seams holding 12 million people with infrastructure for less than half that number. It is impersonal, it’ll chew you and spit you out. Over three quarters of people live in slums. All the lovesongs and self indulgent books written about Bombay romanticise it. The pleasures of Bombay are only for sale to the highest bidder. Its vanity is valorised by a small section of the bourgeois society. The problems are too many to deal with here. Also, it depresses me, so fuck that.
My love, I love your breasts, I love your nose.
I love your accent and I love your toes.
I am your slave. One word, and I obey.
But please don’t slurp your morning brew that way.