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Purple Prose/Quotes: Difference between revisions
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{{trope}}
{{quote|
|'''Ernest Hemingway'''}}
{{quote|Some writers are convinced that since great modern authors like [[James Joyce|Joyce]] and [[William Faulkner|Faulkner]] are difficult to understand, [[True Art Is Incomprehensible|writing that is difficult to understand is therefore great writing.]] This is [[Sympathetic Magic|a form of magical thinking]], analogous to the belief that the warrior who dons the pelt of a lion thereby acquires its strength and cunning.
|''[[How Not to Write A Novel]]''}}
{{quote|[[Hypocritical Humor|Eschew surplusage]].
|'''Mark Twain'''}}
{{quote|In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for "eloquence"; it was his pet, his darling. He would be eloquent, or perish. And he recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid, the tempestuous, the volcanic. He liked words--big words, fine words, grand words, rumbling, thundering, reverberating words; with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound, but not otherwise. He loved to stand up before a dazed world, and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone into the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and shake himself with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes. If he consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but he would have his eruption at any cost. Mr. McClintock's eloquence-- and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the pattern common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time in one respect: his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did not mar the sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. For example, consider this figure, which he used in the village "Address" referred to with such candid complacency in the title-page above quoted--"like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower." Please read it again; contemplate it; measure it; walk around it; climb up it; try to get at an approximate realization of the size of it. Is the fellow to that to be found in literature, ancient or modern, foreign or domestic, living or dead, drunk or sober? One notices how fine and grand it sounds. We know that if it was loftily uttered, it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers; yet there isn't a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it. |'''[[Mark Twain]]''', "[http://www.mtwain.com/A_Cure_For_The_Blues/0.html A Cure for the Blues]"}}
{{quote|"Alright [[Aerith and Bob|John]]? Hows it going, alright? Yeah. How's the kids. Alright? See ya later."
|'''Greg Davies''', ''[[Mock the Week]], "Deleted Lines from a Fantasy Film"''}}
{{quote|"Don't let the Devil torture the God. Kill the Devil, and let the God show you the way."
|'''A Very bemusing hint given''', ''[[Afraid of Monsters]]''}}
{{quote|The sun becomes "that round orb of day" (as opposed, I expect, to those square orbs you see about so much lately); maple syrup is "Springtide's liquid love gift from the heart of the maple wood"; the forest, by a stroke of inspiration, turns out to be "a cathedral of stately grandeur and never ceasing wonder and awe" (argue, if you will, for "cloying quicksand" as the phrase superb, but me, I'll hold out for "stately grandeur"); the ocean - you'll never guess - is "a broad expanse of sparkling silver" [...] It is difficult to say whether Mrs. McPherson is happier in her crackling exclamations or in her bead-curtain-and-chenille-fringe style. Presumably the lady is happy in both manners. That would make her two up on me.
|'''Dorothy Parker''' reviewing Aimee Semple McPherson's autobiography}}
{{quote|Something was pouring from his mouth. He examined his sleeve. Blood!? Blood. Crimson copper-smelling blood, his blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. And bits of sick.
|''[[Garth Marenghi's Darkplace]]''}}
{{quote|The slightest matters have their vulgarity fumigated out of them by the same elevated style. Commonplace people would say that a copy of Shakspeare lay on a drawing-room table; but the authoress of "The Enigma," bent on edifying periphrasis, tells you that there lay on the table, "that fund of human thought and feeling, which teaches the heart through the little name, 'Shakspeare.'" A watchman sees a light burning in an upper window rather longer than usual, and thinks that people are foolish to sit up late when they have an opportunity of going to bed; but, lest this fact should seem too low and common, it is presented to us in the following striking and metaphysical manner: "He marvelled–as man will think for others in a necessarily separate personality, consequently (though disallowing it) in false mental premise, - how differently he should act, how gladly he should prize the rest so lightly held of within." A footman–an ordinary Jeames, with large calves and aspirated vowels–answers the door-bell, and the opportunity is seized to tell you that he was a "type of the large class of pampered menials, who follow the curse of Cain–'vagabonds' on the face of the earth, and whose estimate of the human class varies in the graduated scale of money and expenditure…. These, and such as these, O England, be the false lights of thy morbid civilization!" We have heard of various "false lights," from Dr. Cumming to Robert Owen, from Dr. Pusey to the Spirit-rappers, but we never before heard of the false light that emanates from plush and powder.
|'''[[George Eliot]]''', ''[[Silly Novels by Lady Novelists]]''}}
{{quote|Purple prose rained down like a bad metaphor.
|'''lizard''', ''[http://www.rpg.net/news+reviews/columns/lizard18apr02.html Condensation of All Game Fiction]''}}
{{quote|Yes, I can translate haughty phrasings like "ill-conditioned persons" ({{=}} jerks) and "the life-matrimonial" ({{=}} marriage) and "in no inconsiderable degree" ({{=}} a lot). Yes, I can step around unnecessary appositives ("in this place") and splash through attempts at the ablative absolute ("the honeymoon being over"). Yes, I could look up what on earth "the Fives' Court" is (though I didn't bother). Yes, I can navigate my way around thirteen commas and two semicolons on the way to the end of a sentence in which nothing is even happening. But I don't want to. That's too much like work.
|'''[[Adam Cadre]]''', on [http://adamcadre.ac/calendar/13467.html Nicholas Nickleby and Wuthering Heights]}}
{{quote|"As someone who has helped others with their writing, I'm often amazed at how much detail some writers insist on giving about trivial features of their characters, and [[Broad Strokes|how]] [[They Just Didn't Care|disinterested]] they are in [[Internal Consistency|sticking to them]]. Or maybe they don't realize that "Watchful eyes the shade of distant mountains" is not the same as "Mercurial irises as black and mysterious as the dark side of the moon."<ref>Two years helping with a writing workshop at the local library. NEVER. AGAIN.</ref>"
|[http://carnage.bungie.org/haloforum/halo.forum.pl?read{{=}}1084836 Response] to a dismissal of the importance of [[Internal Consistency]]}}
== David Eddings ==
Line 30 ⟶ 39:
"Though I have been desolate to have been absent from your midst for the past lonely months," she began, "I have not summoned ye here solely for this joyful reunion, glad though it makes my heart. Ye have gathered at my request and with my dear sister's aid--" She gave Sephrenia a smile of radiant love "--so that I may impart unto ye certain truths. Forgive me that I must touch these truths but lightly, for they are the truths of the Gods, and are far beyond your grasp, I do fear, for much as I melt with love for each of ye, I must tell ye, not unkindly, that even as I have appeared as a child to ye, so ye know appear to me. Thus I will not assault the outer bounds of your understanding with matters beyond your reach."
She look around at their uncomprehending expressions. "What ''is'' the matter with you all?"
Sparhawk rose to his feet, crooked a finger at the little Goddess, and led her off to one side.
"What?" she demanded crossly.
"Are you in the mood for some advice?" he asked her.
"I'll listen." Her tone made no promises.
"You're stupefying them with eloquence, Aphrael. Kalten looks like a poleaxed ox at the moment. We're plain men, little Goddess. You'll have to speak to us plainly if you want us to understand."
She pouted. "I worked for weeks on that speech, Sparhawk.
"It's a lovely speech, Aphrael. When you tell the other Gods about this--and I'm sure you will--recite to them as if you had delivered it to us verbatim. They'll swoon with delight, I'm sure. For the sake of brevity--this night won't last forever, you know--''and'' for the sake of clarity, give us the abbreviated version. You might consider suspending the 'thees' and 'thous' as well. They make you sound as if you're preaching a sermon, and sermons tend to put people to sleep."
She pouted slightly. "Oh, very well, Sparhawk," she said, "but you're taking all of the fun out of this for me.
"Can you ever forgive me?"
She stuck her tongue out at him and led him back to rejoin the others.
"This grouchy old bear suggests I get to the point."
== Homestuck ==
{{quote|"[[Hypocritical Humor|My introduction]] [[Lampshade Hanging|will be]] [[Blatant Lies|sparse]]. There will be no majestic prose blustering into the sails of a galleon as we embark on this voyage together. Nor will there be any hamfisted prose whipping its limbs under a bedsheet like a retarded ghost, for that matter. I won't set the stage, or dim the lights. The mood, you will see, will be set soon enough."
|Introduction of '''[[The Smart Guy|Rose Lalonde]]''''s [[Game FAQs]] walkthrough of [[The Game Plays You|Sburb]], ''[[Homestuck]]''}}
{{quote|{{color|purple| Frigglish bothered his beard, as if unkinking a hitch in a long silk windsock. A more pedestrian audience would parse the exhibit as nervous compulsion. Behavior to petition contempt among the reasonable. He was however not surrounded by the reasonable, but the ''wise'', a distinction in men that would forever be the difference in history's garland of treasured follies. As a matter of fact, his cadre of fellow wizards were all putting similar moves on their beards as well. The practice would evince thoughtfulness - sagacity, even - if they didn't do it all the time. Standing in line at the bank. Shooing squirrels from bird feeders. Few occasions were safe.}}
{{color|purple| Zazzerpan inspected the clue. A single piece of evidence cradled in his coriaceous old man palms. It was a human bone, not striking in the tale it told alone so much as that told by the thousands like it festooning the marshy soil of the mass grave. The grisly expanse bore the texture of a decadent dessert, like one of Smarny's formidable custard trifles wobbled out on wheels for the holidays, to the dismay of a small nation.}}
{{color|purple| "You're certain of this?" asked Frigglish. Despite what he was doing with his beard, he was, in fact, immersed in meaningful contemplation.}}
{{color|purple| "I am afraid I am becoming more so with each terrible tick groused by that gaudy timepiece slung around your neck." In case it wasn't clear, Frigglish wore a clock Zazzerpan didn't care for. It was magic. "The massacre of Syrs Gnelph was not as written."}}
{{color|purple| "What has you convinced it was the hand of our disciples in this blackness?" Executus chimed in.}}
{{color|purple| "I believe... I..." a fat face stammered, eyes darting with the guilt of a thief in the throes of an unraveling alibi. "I can summon a... more ''pressing'' line of inquiry..." No, Smarny. Nobody was in the mood for a sticky bundt loaf just now.}}
{{color|purple| Zazzerpan's ears fell insubstantial to any line of inquiry, pastry-oriented or otherwise. His abstruse contour carved a pondering shape in the fog carpeting centuries-dead. His eleven contemporaries too embraced the muted consternation of their great Predicant Scholar. Few wizards kept sharper adumbratives or read them with such lucidity. When Zazzerpan treated men with silence it was seldom unrepaid by the wise and reasonable alike.}}
{{color|purple| It was harrowing to entertain. Zazzerpan the Learned's storied Complacency of Wizards was marked for grander descendence. Disciples hand-picked, vetted by Ockite the Bonafide and tested by Gastrell the Munificent. The twelve sweetest, most studious children a pair of elderly eyes could give their sparkle. Not the ragged guttersnipe so oft-harvested by the common Obscenity, those vituperative little beggars with hearts to corrupt as dropped bananas brown. That these chosen youngsters would turn was not merely unthinkable, but something of a roundhouse to the temporal bones of the Upper Indifference's high chamber of Softskulled Prophets.}}
{{color|purple| His wisdom-savaged brow pruned further with recount of his many lessons to wouldbe successors. Lessons to advance humanity's elucidation and prosperity, an outcome this bleak trail now painfully obviated. There were few puzzles The Learned could not suspend and dissect in the recondite manifold beneath his extremely expensive pointy hat. Daring to pitch his cherished pupils in with the foul melange of history's rogues, the heretofore abstract scourge that built up civilizations with ungodly magic and tore them down with joyful malice, would prove an intellectual trespass to make his calcium-deficient bones quake.}}
{{color|purple| And more daring yet was the only question that now mattered. Could a bunch of bearded, scraggly old men in preposterous outfits hunt them down? He didn't have an answer. Only a simple observation so blunt and uncharacteristically jejune for the lauded sage it was breathtaking in its selfevidency.}}
{{color|purple| [[Gonna Need More Trope|"We're going to need more wands."]] (Wow. Think of something better.)}}
|Rose Lalonde's '''"[http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s{{=}}6&p{{=}}003752 Complacency of the Learned]"''', ''[[Homestuck]]''}}
== EPIC ==
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{{quote|This series of oral sounds or glyphic images takes its birth from the writings of Horace, that illustrious personage of the Rome of ages past, who at one moment in time-space thusly unto a student in the craft of literary pursuits: "[[Sophisticated As Hell|Bitch]], your story is okay, only [[Totally Radical|chill out]] with the whole [[Buffy-Speak|flowery language thing]]. You ain't sewing purple patches onto your clothes, man."}}
{{reflist}}
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