Word: prosing
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...While Aw's prose remains as luminous as in his debut novel - evoking a wonderfully textured world of streets and shantytowns - there is greater emotional heft in this new work. The tender relationship of the brothers before they are separated, and their sundering, is told in a timed-release fashion, reaching an unbearably moving climax. If there is a sag in the middle of the novel brought about by a too expository account of Indonesian politics, it is more than redeemed by the way Aw debunks every expectation one has of the postcolonial novel: questions of identity and belonging...
...meaning is poetry, then science must be mere prose. But where does that leave us? With my own sophomore year winding to a close, I think of the infinite possibility those Harvard men must have felt, believing that they were contributing to making the world a better place. To deny the Grant Study its ambitious objective to pinpoint the causes of happiness has a whiff of the wet blanket about it. But there’s something even more miserable about thinking that our happiness can be defined by the jobs we choose, or what we eat for breakfast...
Pygmy is written in a very unique, fractured dialect. After reading it, I couldn't stop thinking in that dialect. What was it like to write in it? It really was a blast, it was like writing poetry instead of prose. There were so many rules for what I was doing intentionally wrong. For example, I couldn't use the prefix un- - unhappy, unconscious. With Pygmy it was no happy or no conscious. I found myself saying no conscious a lot. You end up internalizing all that language and it lingers in your head and alters the way you think...
...question Pope Benedict XVI's good will, nor the eloquence of his prose. But for the second time in three years, the Pope has delivered a highly anticipated discourse on the Holocaust that was moving but, by its silence on specific subjects, missed an opportunity of historic proportions...
...other way distract her focus from the figure kneeling on the opposite bank. The dark shape across the water grew elongated, also standing. They faced one another with the Feather River in between. In two or three more hours? they would kneel again and drink.”Among prose stylists, Denis Johnson has few living equals. His finest moments bristle with beauty and potential; words blossom inward toward the enigmatic center of the story, disclosing possibility rather than meaning. Sentences line the pages like bombs waiting to detonate. Johnson’s economy is the economy of Hemingway...