NationStates Jolt Archive

My friends and I were discussing the difference between these three writers, one of them came up with this. (Tries to remember all of it)

Hemingway:
Jim went to the store. He bought some cake and ate it. It was quite delicious.

Dickens:
He was a young man, not more than twenty-five years of age. He had a full head of hair; hair as black as they night which had been his cruel mistress for all these yearstormented him so. It haunted his lonely dreams and slowly turned him into a montrous beast. He had become contemptable and it was easily seen in his eyes, his eyes which were always on the sea which he once called his home. They had the ability to see past someone's soul. Whatever young Jim, he was namesd after his uncle's mother's half-sisters, third cousin (twice-removed) on his side, saw, it was always a reflection of himself. He made his way down the long, winding road, the road which he had travelled in happier times not more than three days ago. He made his way to the store to which he had been going his entire life. He opened the glass doors and went down the aisles, each filled with sweet delights which he ignored. He had only one desire. That desire was cake. He took from the white shelf a small cake and went to the counter. The clerk was a man of thirty-three. He had little hair and his eyes were unable to look at anyone eles's, for to him they revealed his own failure in life; his failure to attend a suitable university. Jim took the cake and consumed of its insides. He found it to be most satisfactory.

Faulkner:
Jim, Jim who had fought in the war so many years ago;he war had destroyed everything he owned, there was nothing left and the war ravanged the landscape and left him alone on the cold earth; he was but an orphan with no means with which to provide for himself, he was left to depend upon the charity of others; Others who had been beneath him, both socially and economically (He pitied them once, but that time was over) Those he had once mocked now took care of him and attempted to rebuild his soul, his soul had been crushed, along with his car, in the crash;the crash shattered his dreams left him with no one, no one but his female companion, Stacy (Stacy was a whore, she loved Jim, not in a husband-wife sort of way, but the way one loves a brother or an unruly animal that just made a mess all over the carpet), Jim then remebered that he had to buy something, something for Stacy ( He made his way up the road which he used to love to tread), Then he remembered the party was Thursday and not Tuesday, it was quite delicious, the cake that is: It made him happy, happier then he had ever been these past seven minutes; Jim loved to touch himself: The cake was delicious.

That's just the sort of fun exercise I indulge in with my significant other - the difference being which authors we're talking about.

That's just the sort of fun exercise I indulge in with my significant other - the difference being which authors we're talking about.
Don't you think Dickens just goes on, and on, and on?

My friends and I were discussing the difference between these three writers, one of them came up with this. (Tries to remember all of it)

Hemingway:
Jim went to the store. He bought some cake and ate it. It was quite delicious.

Dickens:
He was a young man, not more than twenty-five years of age. He had a full head of hair; hair as black as they night which had been his cruel mistress for all these years. It tormented him so. It haunted his lonely dreams and slowly turned him into a montrous beast. He had become contemptable and it was easily seen in his eyes, his eyes which were always on the sea which he once called his home. They had the ability to see past someone's soul. Whatever young Jim, he was namesd after his uncle's mother's half-sisters, third cousin (twice-removed) on his side, saw, it was always a reflection of himself. He made his way down the long, winding road, the road which he had travelled in happier times not more than three days ago. He made his way to the store to which he had been going his entire life. He opened the glass doors and went down the aisles, each filled with sweet delights which he ignored. He had only one desire. That desire was cake. He took from the white shelf a small cake and went to the counter. The clerk was a man of thirty-three. He had little hair and his eyes were unable to look at anyone eles's, for to him they revealed his own failure in life; his failure to attend a suitable university. Jim took the cake and consumed of its insides. He found it to be most satisfactory.

Faulkner:
Jim, Jim who had fought in the war so many years ago. The war had destroyed everything he owned. There was nothing left and the war ravanged the landscape and left him alone on the cold earth. He was but an orphan with no means with which to provide for himself. He was left to depend upon the charity of others. Others who had been beneath him, both socially and economically. He pitied them once, but that time was over. Those he had once mocked now took care of him and attempted to rebuild his soul. His soul had been crushed, along with his car, in the crash. Thr crash shattered his dreams left him with no one. No one but his female companion, Stacy. Stacy was a whore, she loved Jim, not in a husband-wife sort of way, but the way one loves a brother or an unruly animal that just made a mess all over tghe carpet. Jim then remebered that he had to buy something. Something for Stacy. He made his way up the road which he used to love to tread. Then he remembered the party was Thursday and not Tuesday. It was quite delicious. The cake that is. It made him happy, happier then he had ever been these past seven minutes. Jim loved to touch himself. The cake was delicious.

That is awesome. Were I not working on law school apps right now and had time to dig up an English to Quenya translator on the web, I'd throw in something from Tolkien.

Except Faulkner would make his all one sentence :p

Except Faulkner would make his all one sentence :p
:D So true!

K, lemme try a J.G. Ballard version:

Later, as he sat digesting the last morsels of the dog, he found himself tracing his grease-slicked fingertips along the cracks at the bottom of the hotel's pool. Every movement he made, even the slightest exhalation of breath, echoed and reverberated in what he'd come to regard as an open-ceilinged chamber, a final refuge from the bitter end this decrepit bastion of colonialism had been witness to these last few months. A shadow crossing the western wall of the pool, skeletal and fleeting, told him his wife was still alive.

How far she's come, he thought feverishly. How far we've all come. And how far will she go?

His thoughts were stillborn, however. A tiny flickering had caught his attention, though his eyes were too rheumy to bring the motion into any sort of a reasonable focus. His fingers stopped their involuntary stroking of the dessicated grooves lining the bottom of the drained swimming-pool. The flickering motion ceased as the slowly-descending object dropped into shadow. By chance, it came to rest directly in front of him. Four faded words, printed in green ink on glossy card stock, burned themselves into his conscious mind:

THE DELICIOUS PIE SHOPPE

Laughter welled up, deep inside his chest, but he only managed to dislodge more phlegm in a series of breathless, wracking coughs. A lizard ran, startled, across his calloused toes...

Don't you think Dickens just goes on, and on, and on?
And yes, I've always thought Dickens would've been a crushing bore in person.

Except Faulkner would make his all one sentence :p
I was gonna say that. Replace all the periods with semicolons, commas, and parentesis. And make 90% of the sentence more or less off topic.

Yeah, the Faulkner one didn't really say 'Faulkner' to me either.

Anyhoo... here's Uncle Bill's take on the whole sordid affair:

Down through ancient St Louis streets the sweat and gism touches speckled across his man behind the counter looked disapprovingly at the boy - no friendly uncle he, no watchful father figure, no ersatz God looking after the world. His naked body glistening with flecks of his thighs. STONEWALL PIE SHOP read the broken sign. The two dollars and eighty seven cents passed hands and the deal was done. The boy gathered the crumbs of once fresh cake and lips. It tasted of cadmium and sugar it was cake in his hands and brought them to his chapped sufficient for the night of bloody slaughter ahead.

Here's my Virginia Woolf take at it:

As Jim stood, looking at the store, he couldn't help but notice that there was a freshly baked cake in the window. It had shades of green and blue, his two favorite colors. He saw a woman and her child, most likely a female, wander in to the store, and he could almost hear the girl beg for her mom to buy the cake. The cake was like a beacon of light to Jim and the little girl; a lighthouse, if you will. The greens immidiately caught Jim's attention and the blues soothed his worried mind from the hectic life he was living in.

Thats all i feel like writing because Woolf is incredibly boring so I'll forgive you if you don't want to read it, which i know will happen.

Here's my Virginia Woolf take at it:

Yeah, that says Virginia Woolf to me. The lighthouse reference was probably a touch too much though.

Don't you think Dickens just goes on, and on, and on?
Dickens is fucking brilliant! Your friend's satire left much to be desired.

Yeah, that says Virginia Woolf to me. The lighthouse reference was probably a touch too much though.
sorry, im incapable of being 100% serious in my writing, unless it's some big essay that will give me scholarship money.

Dickens is fucking brilliant! Your friend's satire left much to be desired.
It was good for a ten minute discussion.

Faulkner, Dickens, and Hemingway
*hits buzzer*
What are absurdly overrated dead authors, Alex?

I love Gabriel Garcia Marquez's writing, but I don't think I'd really be able to do him justice.

*hits buzzer*
What are absurdly overrated dead authors, Alex?

Compared to whom?

Compared to whom?

Somerset maugham, obviously. He's the man.

*hits buzzer*
What are absurdly overrated dead authors, Alex?
And circle gets the square. [/random gameshow reference]

When I was in grad school, taking a class on first novels, I wrote a paper on Faulkner's Soldier's Pay; four pages, one sentence, done in the style of Part 3 of The Bear. My professor's comment at the end was, "Brilliant. I'm going to take a nap now."

When I was in grad school, taking a class on first novels, I wrote a paper on Faulkner's Soldier's Pay; four pages, one sentence, done in the style of Part 3 of The Bear. My professor's comment at the end was, "Brilliant. I'm going to take a nap now."
I just wrote that down. I'm going to use it in all my conversations. :D

Dickens is fucking brilliant! Your friend's satire left much to be desired.

Joyce does a spot-on Dickens in "Oxen of the Sun."

Anyway, here's my attempt, in the style of Joseph Smith:

And the angel said to them: behold, was it not told unto your fathers that Jimtor the son of Hedekiah would go to the store? And on the third day of the fourth moon, did it not come to pass, that Jimtor the son of Hedekiah felt a hunger, in accordance with the prophecy? And let the ears of all your people, and the ears of the animals among whom you dwell, and the ears of the trees that you climb and of the stones that are appointed unto you for pillows give witness to this miracle: that on the appointed day Jimtor the son of Hedekiah, feeling a hunger, did go to the store. And this store was called the ZCMI, and behold, it had good deals on foodstuffs. And Jimtor the son of Hedekiah, being a righteous man, purchased a loaf of bread; and he paid for it in cash. He did not purchase potato bread, nor did he purchase white bread, but he purchased wheat bread, and he paid for it in cash, putting the coin into the hand of the shopkeeper, in accordance with the prophecy. And Jimtor the son of Hedekiah ate the bread, and it was wholesome food for his nourishment, as befit a man of righteousness.