THE PUNCTUATION NAZIS
; ... It's called a semicolon. And I use too many of 'em ... or so I'm told by those who fancy themselves keepers of the sacred laws of punctuation: that immutable and intractable text handed down in granite from the summit of Mount Sinai. (Praise be to Strunk & White!) Ask six English professors about the semicolon and you'll get seven different opinions. Ask Kurt Vonnegut and he would've told you never to use the goddamn things. Ask John Irving (Vonnegut's student) and he'll tell you it's the most undervalued and underused punctuation mark in writing. Had you asked Hemingway, or Shakespeare, or your 5th grade composition teacher, I'm sure they all would've had an opinion too.
But "The Keepers of the Punkt" ... "The Knights Templar of the Grave Accent" ... the referees and whistle-blowers ready to call FOUL on anyone who forgoes a comma to lend elasticity to their syntax, or (F**K NO!) uses the verboten ellipsis!? They who live not only fastidiously by the rules, but solely and exclusively for them. The same garden variety, chronically-unimaginative, tight-ass bores who once hollered, YO! ... You can't do that Hendrix! ... You can't do that Pollock! ... You can't do that Whitman! ... RULES ARE RULES!!! And hey, we can all thank our lucky stars the heads of those giants loomed too far above the clouds to notice the chirp of the crickets they trod upon.
It'll happen to you fellow scribe. Play fast 'n' loose with your semicolons; swap a dash for a period, and you can bet Auntie Pearl's jam, some beady-eyed twerp is gonna pop out of the woodwork waving a dog-eared copy of The Chicago Manual of Style hollering, GOTCHA!!! ... Gotcha Pynchon! ... Gotcha Kerouac! ... Gotcha Joyce! ... You're not following the RULES!!! Yep! When they do, take a page from yours truly. Cup your hand and place it firmly under your armpit, then squeeze off a few extra loud ones. 'Cause that's all it is Cuz ... a resounding brain fart produced by a flatulent, gasbag-of-a-mind. Continue on your way. Hold your nose and move away from the stench.
It's only the pikers, the hacks, the know-nothings who cling to the rules like a life preserver. And why not? It's all they've got! Sure as an Israelite hung from the cross, they don't possess a DNA strand's worth of genuine talent or imagination. You and I, the ones with vision; the ones without blinders; the ones who can see not only forest and trees, but the spider spinning a web on a withered leaf; a ham sandwich in the outline of a cloud, or like Michelangelo, perhaps even the face of GOD. We got the great, cosmic memo: IT'S ART AND THERE AIN'T NO FRIGGING RULES!
But "The Keepers of the Punkt" ... "The Knights Templar of the Grave Accent" ... the referees and whistle-blowers ready to call FOUL on anyone who forgoes a comma to lend elasticity to their syntax, or (F**K NO!) uses the verboten ellipsis!? They who live not only fastidiously by the rules, but solely and exclusively for them. The same garden variety, chronically-unimaginative, tight-ass bores who once hollered, YO! ... You can't do that Hendrix! ... You can't do that Pollock! ... You can't do that Whitman! ... RULES ARE RULES!!! And hey, we can all thank our lucky stars the heads of those giants loomed too far above the clouds to notice the chirp of the crickets they trod upon.
It'll happen to you fellow scribe. Play fast 'n' loose with your semicolons; swap a dash for a period, and you can bet Auntie Pearl's jam, some beady-eyed twerp is gonna pop out of the woodwork waving a dog-eared copy of The Chicago Manual of Style hollering, GOTCHA!!! ... Gotcha Pynchon! ... Gotcha Kerouac! ... Gotcha Joyce! ... You're not following the RULES!!! Yep! When they do, take a page from yours truly. Cup your hand and place it firmly under your armpit, then squeeze off a few extra loud ones. 'Cause that's all it is Cuz ... a resounding brain fart produced by a flatulent, gasbag-of-a-mind. Continue on your way. Hold your nose and move away from the stench.
It's only the pikers, the hacks, the know-nothings who cling to the rules like a life preserver. And why not? It's all they've got! Sure as an Israelite hung from the cross, they don't possess a DNA strand's worth of genuine talent or imagination. You and I, the ones with vision; the ones without blinders; the ones who can see not only forest and trees, but the spider spinning a web on a withered leaf; a ham sandwich in the outline of a cloud, or like Michelangelo, perhaps even the face of GOD. We got the great, cosmic memo: IT'S ART AND THERE AIN'T NO FRIGGING RULES!
No comments have been added yet.
