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As long as it is done skillfully, I don't see a problem with it. I actually like some forms of prose poetry that is often accused of being "purple" (Annie Proulx, Cormac McCarthy). I think too many writers associate it with a certain form of pulp literature and then denounce it all. Purple prose, masterfully done, tends to sound more unique than minimalist prose done equally as well (Cheever, Hemingway, Hempel, and to a certain extent Munro).
I assume, for some, the problem is that it isn't being direct and instead is waxing poetic. I think it boils down to aesthetic difference but it seems mundane to say many things directly (especially in terms of metaphysics and geography).
Two examples of skill from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian
I assume, for some, the problem is that it isn't being direct and instead is waxing poetic. I think it boils down to aesthetic difference but it seems mundane to say many things directly (especially in terms of metaphysics and geography).
Two examples of skill from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian
"The truth about the world he said, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.
The universe is no narrow thing and the order within it is not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man's mind can compass, the mind itself being but a fact among others."
“See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a last few wolves. His folk are known for hewers of wood and drawers of water but in truth his father has been a schoolmaster. He lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. The boy crouches by the fire and watches him. Night of your birth. Thirty-three. The Leonids they were called. God how the stars did fall. I looked for blackness, holes in the heavens. The Dipper stove. The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name, the child does not know it. He has a sister in this world that he will not see again. He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man.”
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