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Last edited by Aurora Ariel; 05-08-2006 at 01:39 PM.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery --always buzzing, humming, soaring, roaring, diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
-Virginia Woolf
“I want to write a novel about Silence,” he said; “the things people don’t say. But the difficulty is immense.” He sighed. - Night and Day
I think what you may be trying to say in not so many words (what I have recently come to realize in the past six months) is that music, dance and poetry / prose-that-flows all rely heavily on rhythm. Dance is the manifestation of music, poetry makes the syllables sing, but well-written prose can achieve the identical thing.
For this reason, I rely almost entirely on intuition when writing; that is, I listen to the words and will craft a sentence or poem until it's danceable. If I can't dance to it, it isn't good...
And, FWIW, I believe an ear for this unspoken beat is the one of the primary elements that separate Poettasters from true poets.
Countess
Madness is my defense against Reality.
PS: While I rely on music to alter my mood or change my state of mind and while rhythm is an integrate part of my writing, I do not rely on music as a muse. For that, I depend entirely on beauty and suffering. I am moved solely by existential despair or intimate adoration, of which God is the highest. But, I confess to a weakness for the beauty of man - and I do not mean mankind - I mean man. While I don't concur with the essence of Plato's Symposium, I cannot argue that the Greek gods as portrayed in ancient statues or a particularly beautiful modern male is not the epoche of God's creation.
How can anyone sing of female beauty when there is male?
Countess
Madness is my defense against Reality.