Just in case there was something prior, More on words I dislike:
Eponymous. It seems so pretentious. Why not just say what it is? The title of whatever is the same as the person I’m writing about. Well OK, in fewer words. Or maybe it just annoys me as I had to look it up so many times as I kept forgetting what it meant. The word is just plain unfriendly.
Siblings. Hissssss. A cold word, an almost but not quite harsh word. It doesn’t sound at all like brother or sister. Maybe it’s good to use if you don’t like your family.
Facetious. Another pretentious word. It’s rarely spoken unless it’s the only three-syllable word someone knows. And then it’s used often.
And something to note about Yeats:
He is the only poet I’m aware of who has many poem titles longer than the poem.
I love & adore many of his short poems. There’s none better than “When You are Old,” “The Mask,” and “A Deep-sworn Vow.” “Leda and the Swan” is so powerful it can quite make you shudder. That poem is posted in full under “Myth and Mystery” in this blog.
Of course the Center Will Not Hold…there is no center. (This I discovered within Meditation.) Go ahead—look for your center.
And then, because there are no better words than those we receive from Rumi:
And thus it is I leave us for the day—to go sit on the patio, the dog and I—to watch the Thunderstorm, aye, by and by.
Winston Churchill loved paraprosdokians, figures of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected.
Where there’s a will, I want to be in it.
The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it’s still on my list.
Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
If I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.
War does not determine who is right – only who is left.
Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
They begin the evening news with ‘Good Evening,’ then proceed to tell you why it isn’t.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
I thought I wanted a career. Turns out, I just wanted pay checks.
In filling out an application, where it says, ‘In case of emergency, notify:’ I put “DOCTOR.”
I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street…with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy.
Behind every successful man is his woman. Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.
A clear conscience is the sign of a fuzzy memory.
You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure makes misery easier to live with.
There’s a fine line between cuddling and…holding someone down so they can’t get away.
I used to be indecisive. Now I’m not so sure.
You’re never too old to learn something stupid.
To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.
Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.
Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.
I’m supposed to respect my elders, but now it’s getting harder and harder for me to find one.
Wow. That’s a new word for a fun literary turn. These are usually found in something witty from a play, a true Theatre Play, as in Noel Coward. Or Oscar Wilde, or in the earlier centuries, such as the 17th and 18th. *Sigh* It used to be an experience going to the theatre, yes? In any case, these excursions into wit are rarely found these days, at the least not in conversation.
Which by-the-way reminds me, whatever happened to Salons? Didn’t I harp on that sometime in the past?
John Atkinson Grimshaw – Spirit of the Night (detail), 1879
Words. Fall in love with words—with their spirit, their story. “She was fascinated with words. To her, words were things of beauty, each like a magical powder or potion that could be combined with other words to create powerful spells.” Dean Koontz – Lightning
And then there are those things which are lovely once there, but made heavy on the approach. I’m not sure there’s a name for the trip you dread that becomes a most favored memory when left behind. It’s the going to and coming from that can be so different. It certainly seems as if there should be a word for that. If not, one should be created. It could be said the yin-yang of it, but that doesn’t quite capture the essence of the matter. It’s a mood whiplash sort of thing. But whiplash is too abrupt a descriptor. Hummm. Something to ponder. In any case, I don’t want two words, just one to nicely cover the phenomenon.
Imagine not wanting to go on a trip through the snow and cold to come upon the castle sight at the end of your journey. To have ale and wood fires burning, warmth and magic. Or to quote The Bard: when journeys end in lovers meeting.
“In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe.”
via Counterpoint Press
I didn’t mean to write about him, even think about him. —He was a hero of mine until I came to realize some things: what I really liked was the prose. Some of it just breathtaking. It was not about the plot or the story. And he died too late to circumvent the last novel. I don’t know if the prose came to life further into All That Is, I turned away before I could say one way or another. And he personally failed me. (I always take my writers personally.) — But I happened across “Why I Write” in Lit Hub and so I came to be here once more. So there’s the quote and there’s the photo, of a much younger Salter than the one we buried. Indeed. It is for the moment what you understand, and believe.