from Sergio@slrpnk.net to shortstories@literature.cafe on 12 Mar 02:18
https://slrpnk.net/post/19400946
He had never been in Corless’s but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.
threaded - newest
When I was taking writing classes several decades ago, people like Joyce were considered like a baseline. If all else failed, just try writing like him. Ernest Hemingway and Raymond Carver were in the same category.
I’ve been going to a series of readings by the MFAs of the nearby university. It’s amazing how they’re mostly still writing in the same style. wtf is up with that.