Saturday, August 2, 2014

crop circles in the carpet

And there it seemed to end. She had reached the full close and had nothing more to say. She put down a tentative line or two and crossed them out. If the right twist would not come of itself, it was useless to manufacture it--anything added to that would be mere verse-making. Something might come of it some day. In the meanwhile she had got her mood on paper--and this is the release that all writers, even the feeblest, seek for as men seek for love; and, having found it, they doze off happily into dreams and trouble their hearts no further.
--Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night

Portrait of a Wordsmith:
Malleable phrases and tractable, moldable sentences flow from his firey forge.
He bends, twists, swirls the sharp liquid words around his instruments, tools used diligently and deftly. his craft is like none other--he exposes the beauty hidden in the torpid stream of fire and labels it--he gives each radiant spark that flies off his anvils a name, creates a new form and life for the wonders that populate his waking world.
His words filter through our brains and gild the folds of our grey matter. He has wrought magic within our very souls. Our slumbering hearts and minds awake--newly attuned to the call of his anvil; drawn by the ebb and flow of his melodious tides. The song he pens is hard and sure--as tough as fired gold, but as soft as the moss tucked beneath the quivering, tender branches of the silver birch and cinnamon sycamore.
The wordsmith's art is the painting of pictures in our minds. Pictures composed of poetry, of intoxicating influences of rhythm and the sway of symmetry. The pictures, beaten by hammers, molded into iron images have hardened into idols of inescapable and unbearable majesty.
The songs forged in the smithy fire blend together in a bittersweet harmony. The music breaks your heart and leaves you with questions they could never possibly answer:
Why is there so much beauty in sadness?
Why is there so much sadness in beauty?
Why is the deepest joy so full it breaks the heart?
How can heartbreak be so joyful?
To the tune of these mysteries, the wordsmith forges on, bending and breaking and burning and smelting and molding and shaping all the world's mysteries into digestible fragments of one-to-six syllables apiece.

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