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Thread: Prose authors who show a clear influence from poetry

  1. #16
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    lol. Kavan's most famous work is dystopian post apocalyptic sci fi.

  2. #17
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    How would you know? It's unreadable

  3. #18
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    How do you think I found that out?

  4. #19
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    Hardy - novels and poetry.
    Kipling - short stories and poetry
    Edward Thomas - Non fiction and poetry
    Plath - Bell Jar and poetry

    early Ondaatje is good on poery/prose

    By Grand Central Station - Elizabeth Smart

    must be others - contemporary writers like Ben Lerner and Maggie Nelson claim to be poets but I've not read enough to be convinced.

  5. #20
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    The Peregrine by JA Baker - dear god, the prose is good. Cos I can't be bothered to go get the book and type something out, this will have to stand for many other worthy quotations:
    "“I have always longed to be part of the outward life, to be out there at the edge of things, to let the human taint wash away in emptiness and silence as the fox sloughs his smell into the cold unworldliness of water; to return to town a stranger. Wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival"

    that great 'how to make friends with crows' article that Sufi posted earlier this year is surely an echo of this book too
    Last edited by baboon2004; 29-08-2017 at 09:15 PM.

  6. #21
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    Surprised nobody's mentioned Joyce yet. Perhaps too obvious?

    Cormac McCarthy's style in 'Blood Meridian' strikes many as being portentous and even ridiculous, but whether or not it works for you, it's obviously poetic - highly intense, full of quasi/psuedo Biblical intonation. I suppose McCarthy belongs to a tradition of American authors writing in a consciously poetic and archaic way - Faulkner, Melville, et al. (Not to mention Conrad.)

  7. #22
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    cod-king james and faux-folksiness (forest gump) are the two main modes of american literature.
    both equally stupid though the latter is more irritating.

  8. #23
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    “So I wonder what it is this need to tell.
    To animate somehow the deathly stillness of the profoundest beauty. Breathe life in the telling.”

    -----

    “I think now that maybe true sweetness can only happen in limbo. I don't know why. Is it because we are so unsure, so tentative and waiting? Like it needs that much room, that much space to expand. The not knowing anything really, the hoping, the aching transience: This is not real, not really, and so we let it alone, let it unfold lightly. Those times that can fly.”

    -----

    “I woke sometime in the middle of the night and lay in the hammock, wriggled my foot out of the sleeping bag into the chill and found the rough ground with my bare foot and rocked myself back and forth. And watched the stars swim against the mesh of leaves. Like a fish nosing a net.

    This is what we are, what we do: nose a net, push push, a net that never exists. The knots in the mesh as strong as our own believing. Our own fears.”

    -----

    “Something like laughter. That a flower could be this small, this fleeting, that a snowflake could be so large, so persistent. The improbable simplicity. I groaned. Why don't we have a word for the utterance between laughing and crying?”

    -----

    “You can't metabolize the loss. It is in the cells of your face, your chest, behind the eyes, in the twists of your gut. Muscle, sinew, bone. It is all of you. When you walk you propel it forward....Then it sits with you. The pain puts its arm over your shoulders. It is your closest friend, steadfast. And at night you can't bear to hear your own breath, unaccompanied by another. And underneath the big stillness like a score, is the roaring of the cataract of everything being and being torn away. Then, the pain is lying beside your side, close. Does not bother you with the sound even of breathing.”

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  10. #24
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    “Suppose within each book there is another book, and within every letter on every page another volume constantly unfolding; but these volumes take no space on the desk. Suppose knowledge could be reduced to a quintessence, held within a picture, a sign, held within a place which is no place. Suppose the human skull were to become capacious, spaces opening inside it, humming chambers like beehives.”

    -------------------

    "The fate of peoples is made like this, two men in small rooms. Forget the coronations, the conclaves of cardinals, the pomp and processions. This is how the world changes: a counter pushed across a table, a pen stroke that alters the force of a phrase, a woman’s sigh as she passes and leaves on the air a trail of orange flower or rose water; her hand pulling close the bed curtain, the discrete sigh of flesh against flesh."

    ------------------

    "As the word of God spreads, the people's eyes are opened to new truths. Until now, like Helen Barre, they knew Noah and the Flood, but not St Paul. They could count over the sorrows of our Blessed Mother, and say how the damned are carried down to Hell. But they did not know the manifold miracles and sayings of Christ, nor the words and deeds of the apostles, simple men who, like the poor of London, pursued simple wordless trades. The story is much bigger than they ever thought it was."

    -----------------

    “It's the living that turn and chase the dead. The long bones and skulls are tumbled from their shrouds, and words like stones thrust into their rattling mouths: we edit their writings, we rewrite their lives.”

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