Tag Archives: Faulkner

Random Reading, Rabid Writing.

Believe it or not, there is one cliché that I don’t like:


Who said that? Faulkner? The nerve of him.


I’m confused about these two pieces of writing.

On a cold windswept street, this was a warm, cheerful place with a big stove in winter, tables and shelves of books, new books in the window, and photographs on the wall of famous writers both dead and living. The photographs all looked like snapshots and even the dead writers looked as though they had really been alive.

~ Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

… and …

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

~ Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford

Somebody, please refresh my memory: Exactly how is the first paragraph supposed to be better than the second paragraph?

Thanks! 😉



Filed under Literature, Uncategorized, Writing