The flamboyant prose of old is buckling under the stultifying pressure of the diminutive utterances of our times. Salvos of alliterations fraught with inexactitude permeate discourse across all fora. The battle for the soul of English has hit a crescendo following the explicit insult that was the publication of fifty shades of grey
Unparalleled indiscretions of mass media go on with impunity and masqueraders are ordained as writers (hyena). “Give us more indistinguishable, insipid, uninspiring literature” is the chorus. The efforts of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Ludlum (et al) to affect the brand of consumable literature have achieved naught. Indelicate suppositions are a mainstay of social platforms and are glorified over thoughtful, rich properly conceived ones presumably because they elicit considerably less mental exertion. The suffocation of prose laced with panache is underway, but not sans a fight to the death. The game is afoot.
(Too much?)
