Quotes I

One is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when called upon to act in accordance to the dictates of reason.

~ Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist

To die or...to be found dead?
-an editing exercise

Jennifer's parents abandoned her when she was ten. A streetkid, she lived amongst the ruins in the south bronx with other wild orphans. They herded together for survival, preying on unsuspecting victims who pitied them and thus fell into their trap. Jennifer could have been a star on account of her beauty, but her life was wasted. She was found dead at the age of 12.

I shall comment on my choice of final sentence. I chose the passive form over "they found her dead when she was only 12" or "she died at the age of 12" because the former emphasised an unknown identity that nobody cares about (who are "they?") and the latter sounded melodramatic. There is something heroic about dying as if you had a choice (i.e dying in the active mode). To be found dead on the streets, an afterthought of the final sentence in a paragraph about your life, is unredeemed tragedy.

Story in the dark

Several of the lights along the corridor were out. They imparted a dingy aspect to the cream walls and the pseudo-terracott-tiled floor. Shoes dotted the corridor impertinently, like dogs that stop dead in their tracks after straying out the gate and forgetting how to return. Distant laughter from a block across the quadrangle faded to a distinct ringing in Stanley's ears. It was 3a.m.

Jason had asked him:

-do you know any stories about the multifunction room?
-What stories?
-Haven't heard anything?
-No.
-Then nevermind.

At 3a.m, this conversation floated into his mind with all the insistence of a B-movie script, so many of which looped endlessly in his mind when he was tired.

The lights flickered and something went bump in the dark.

Of all the randomest coincidences, this didn't even make the grade. Stanley failed to jump or feel afraid. He was already in front of the double glass door of the multifunction room. So pragmatic a label--one hand high--could hardly hide anything more than a handful of tables and chairs behind its impenetrable darkness.

He pushed the door open. Fumbling to his left, he hit the switches. A fluorescent glare flooded the room, all but one dark corner. He flipped the switches rapidly. Up, down, up down. Still it remained unlit.

Cold fingers wrapped themselves about his neck and a voice hissed his name with desperated urgency. Stanley jumped.

-What the hell are you doing? he asked.
- I just needed they key to the Games Room. Do you have it?

Jason again, that fellow of impeccable timing. Stanley disentangled the key from his carabiner and tossed it at him.

-Next time, just say hello or something.
-You were scared, weren't you?

Stanley did not reply, but headed into the room to begin his graveyard shift preparing materials for the Hall's annual parade float. Jason pressed on:

- Sometimes when the dancers practice here, they see an extra pair of legs in the mirror.

Stanley waved him away.

Personification

Worry is a diminutive fellow who takes an hour to dress and two to exit his front door. He gingerly approaches the entrance to an unpredictable outside world; between each step he pauses and strains his ears for the slightest whisper of wind that heralds an impending hurricane. Leaves drift in the door and the wail of a siren rattles the windowpanes. Worry is rooted to the spot, shifting over his own long shadow created by the morning sun. He twiddles his thumbs and awaits the outcome of so ominous a start to the day.