Dash it all!
As many of you (yes, you – the teeming mass of UFFblog readers) know already, I have no qualms about suspending a sentence, not that I’m a judge or magistrate of any kind, by the gratuitous insertion of pointless asides. And what other sort of asides are there? The dramatic effect of this style is rather overbalanced by the tendency for me to forget what on earth I was trying to say. I have now finished half my course on Building Great Sentences, and here I stand fully equipped with a new set of rules to bend and break. The Professor is an excellent reader, capable of exposing the intended beat of a piece of prose, to pick out the feet of the rhythm that marches across the page, to make each word ring true. I like listening to him. It gives me ideas.
His morse eyes, his dotted cheeks, his dashed mouth implored. There was a gentle fall of his words as of heavy mist or light rain, a sway to his broad shoulders and narrow waist as he spoke, but neither could disguise his silently flashed cry: Help, help, please!
He was sentenced to be front loaded, loaded in a way that was loose, almost structureless yet somehow compound, modified in gently folded layers, a worrying thought that came back to him regularly, regularly in a way that could only be called periodic, having a recurrence that made his life less boring, more suspenseful.
Okay, jokes that can be hidden in serious sounding writing are my speciality. The first three sentences are in the form dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot. That is Morse code for the emergency signal: S.O.S. The second sentence is a paradox. It is both front loaded and periodic. Or at least it is if I have been listening carefully enough in class.