Hereford Eye
June 4th, 2004, 09:06 PM
Reading these threads I am prompted to consider the following, each an excerpt from a published work, some more familiar to readers of sff than others but all written by recognized talent. When you read these, what is your first instinct? Do you want to grab the text and make it right? Can you accept that the words are just as they are supposed to be?
There are times, like the first, that I can, that I think 'wow' and wish I could match the talent. There are times like the third that I think "I do that and it is hard, isn't it, to follow the thought." The book it calls home won a Pulitzer Prize, deservedly I think.
The second seems to be several paragraphs rolled into one but Jack knew it was cold, didn't he? And the last is just plain delicious. DA had a way, didn't he?
“He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell; but scorned to beg her favour.” James Joyce Ulysses
“It was bitter cold. As the trail wound, a quarter of a mile brought them to the dancer’s cabin, by which time her moist breath had coated her face frostily, while his had massed his heavy moustache till conversation was painful. By the greenish light of the aurora borealis, the quicksilver showed itself frozen hard in the bulb of the thermometer which hung outside the door. A thousand dogs, in pitiful chorus, wailed their ancient wrongs and claimed mercy from the unheeding stars. Not a breath of air was moving. For them there was no shelter from the cold, no shrewd crawling to leeward in snug nooks. The frost was everywhere, and they lay in the open, ever and anon stretching their trail quickened muscles and lifting the long wolf-howl.” Jack London The Scorn of Women
“He barely looked at them. Things on his mind, Quoyle thought, like whether or not the roof would lift off. But he shouted answers. Tickle Motel. Six miles east. Third time the year the door was off. First time the sign was off. Felt snowly all morning, he bellowed as they pulled onto the highway. Waved them into side-blown snow.” Annie Proulx The Shipping News
“They walked quite near the watchers beneath the tree, swinging lanterns that made soft and crazy lights dance among the trees and grass, chattering contentedly, and actually singing a song about how terribly nice everything was, how happy they were, how much they enjoyed working on the farm, and how pleasant it was to be going home to see their wives and children, with a lilting chorus to the effect that the flowers were smelling and particularly nice at this time of year and that it was a pity the dog had died seeing as it liked them so much. Arthur could almost imagine Paul McCartney sitting with his feet up by the fire one evening, humming it to Linda and wondering what to buy with the proceeds, and thinking, probably, Essex.” Douglas Adams The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Any outrageous copy mistakes are mine and not the authors'. But, folks, most of what look like mistakes are exactly the way they were written and published.
There are times, like the first, that I can, that I think 'wow' and wish I could match the talent. There are times like the third that I think "I do that and it is hard, isn't it, to follow the thought." The book it calls home won a Pulitzer Prize, deservedly I think.
The second seems to be several paragraphs rolled into one but Jack knew it was cold, didn't he? And the last is just plain delicious. DA had a way, didn't he?
“He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell; but scorned to beg her favour.” James Joyce Ulysses
“It was bitter cold. As the trail wound, a quarter of a mile brought them to the dancer’s cabin, by which time her moist breath had coated her face frostily, while his had massed his heavy moustache till conversation was painful. By the greenish light of the aurora borealis, the quicksilver showed itself frozen hard in the bulb of the thermometer which hung outside the door. A thousand dogs, in pitiful chorus, wailed their ancient wrongs and claimed mercy from the unheeding stars. Not a breath of air was moving. For them there was no shelter from the cold, no shrewd crawling to leeward in snug nooks. The frost was everywhere, and they lay in the open, ever and anon stretching their trail quickened muscles and lifting the long wolf-howl.” Jack London The Scorn of Women
“He barely looked at them. Things on his mind, Quoyle thought, like whether or not the roof would lift off. But he shouted answers. Tickle Motel. Six miles east. Third time the year the door was off. First time the sign was off. Felt snowly all morning, he bellowed as they pulled onto the highway. Waved them into side-blown snow.” Annie Proulx The Shipping News
“They walked quite near the watchers beneath the tree, swinging lanterns that made soft and crazy lights dance among the trees and grass, chattering contentedly, and actually singing a song about how terribly nice everything was, how happy they were, how much they enjoyed working on the farm, and how pleasant it was to be going home to see their wives and children, with a lilting chorus to the effect that the flowers were smelling and particularly nice at this time of year and that it was a pity the dog had died seeing as it liked them so much. Arthur could almost imagine Paul McCartney sitting with his feet up by the fire one evening, humming it to Linda and wondering what to buy with the proceeds, and thinking, probably, Essex.” Douglas Adams The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Any outrageous copy mistakes are mine and not the authors'. But, folks, most of what look like mistakes are exactly the way they were written and published.