Greatest passages of prose evah!!

[Chris 73]

How about this gem from the wonderful Terry Goodkind!

Hissing, hackles lifting, the chicken's head rose.
Kahlan pulled back.
Its claws digging into stiff dead flesh, the chicken slowly turned to face her. It cocked its head, making its comb flop, its wattles sway.
"Shoo," Kahlan heard herself whisper.
There wasn't enough light, and besides, the side of its beak was covered with gore, so she couldn't tell if it had the dark spot. But she didn't need to see it.
"Dear spirits, help me," she prayed under her breath.
The bird let out a slow chicken cackle. It sounded like a chicken, but in her heart she knew it wasn't. In that instant, she completely understood the concept of a chicken that was not a chicken. This looked like a chicken, like most of the Mud People's chickens. But this was no chicken.
This was evil manifest

[JBI]

No offense, but that prose is kind of mediocre. Just to take a quick example: '"Dear spirits, help me," she prayed under her breath.'
Why not just say, "dear spirits, help me" - shouldn't that automatically connote her praying, perhaps allowing us to assume under her breath?

There wasn't enough light, and besides, the side of its beak was covered with gore, so she couldn't tell if it had the dark spot. But she didn't need to see it.

Well, that is just a ridiculous waste of words. simply reworked:

The lack of light and the gore covering its beak hid the dark spot from her, but she knew it was there.

IF she couldn't tell that if it had the dark spot or not, she didn't know it was already there. The sentence is itself discussing its own pointlessness.

Now, narrative voice must be questioned: let us assume this is from Kahlan's perspective. How can she see the movements of the chicken so clearly, so finely, if the light is so dim, and it is covered with gore?

But of course, she sees somehow this isn't a chicken - some illogical screwy wording later, in the dim light, she comes to a realization of something she already knew, which makes no sense - this was evil manifest. No, this is bad prose manifest.

It's ridiculous in that, she cannot see it, but she can see it, she can hear it sounds like a chicken, but knows it isn't, and somehow despite her periphery sense, that both sees what is there despite not being able to see, and confirming it as being that of a chicken's characteristics, comes to some conclusion that the chicken is evil manifest.

That's what we call clunky prose, with no logic, and a rather crappy editor.

my rewrite:

Kahlan heard the clack of a chicken. She could sense in the dim light its head turning toward her. She didn't need to see the spot on it, somehow she just knew; this is Evil Manfiest. "Dear Spirits," she panted as dark realization engulfed her.

[Chris 73]

Terry Goodkind once boasted that he wrote the last 70 pages of a book of his (I don't recall which one) in one sitting. Somehow I believe him.

[PoeticPassions]

Depends on the translation... but here is one version:
'...exaggerated turns of speech conceal mediocre affections: as if the fulness of the soul might not sometimes overflow in the emptiest of metaphors, since no one, ever, can give the exact measurements of his needs, nor of his conceptions, nor of his sufferings, and the human word is like a cracked cauldron upon which we beat out melodies fit for making bears dance when we are trying to move the stars to pity.' Madame Bovary

****
'“I am a sinner and you are a sinner, but someday the sinner will be Brahma again, will someday attain Nirvana, will someday become a Buddha. Now this ‘someday’ is illusion; it is only a comparison. The sinner is not on the way to a Buddha like state; he is not evolving, although our thinking cannot conceive things otherwise. No, the potential Buddha already exists in the sinner; his future is already there. The potential hidden Buddha must be recognized in him, in you, in everybody. The world, Govinda, is not imperfect or slowly evolving along a path to perfection. No, it is perfect at every moment; every sin already carries grace within it, all small children are potential old men, all sucklings have death within them, all dying people—eternal life…
It seems to me that everything that exists is good—death as well as life, sin as well as holiness, wisdom as well as folly. Everything is necessary, everything needs only my agreement, my assent, my loving understanding then all is well with me and nothing can harm me. I learned through my body and soul that it was necessary for me to sin, that I needed lust, that I had to strive for property and experience nausea and the depths of despair in order to learn not to resist them, in order to learn to love the world and no longer compare it with some imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it.” Siddhartha

****
“After slipping on a negligee and making herself comfortable on the lounge, she became conscious that she was miserable and that the tears were rolling down her cheeks. She wondered if they were the tears of self-pity, and tried resolutely not to cry, but this existence without hope, without happiness, oppressed her, and she kept shaking her head from side to side, her mouth drawn down tremulously in the corners, as though she were denying the assertion made by some one, somewhere. She did not know that this gesture of hers was years older than history, that, for a hundred generations of men, intolerable and persistent grief has offered that gesture, of denial, of protest, of bewilderment, to something more profound, more powerful than the God made in the image of man, and before which that God, did he exist, would be equally impotent. It is a truth set at the heart of tragedy that this force never explains, never answers - this force intangible as air, more definite than death.” The Beautiful and the Damned

I don't have my books with me here, so I will post more later. Steinbeck, more Fitzgerald, Dostoevsky, Mann... so many to post!

[Lokasenna]

How about this gem from the wonderful Terry Goodkind!

Hissing, hackles lifting, the chicken's head rose.
Kahlan pulled back.
Its claws digging into stiff dead flesh, the chicken slowly turned to face her. It cocked its head, making its comb flop, its wattles sway.
"Shoo," Kahlan heard herself whisper.
There wasn't enough light, and besides, the side of its beak was covered with gore, so she couldn't tell if it had the dark spot. But she didn't need to see it.
"Dear spirits, help me," she prayed under her breath.
The bird let out a slow chicken cackle. It sounded like a chicken, but in her heart she knew it wasn't. In that instant, she completely understood the concept of a chicken that was not a chicken. This looked like a chicken, like most of the Mud People's chickens. But this was no chicken.
This was evil manifest

Madre de Dios! Es el Pollo Diablo!

While I think JBI is right in his criticism, this seems ropey even by fantasy literature standards. And as for the subject matter...

[prendrelemick]

For perfect economy and effect the opening chapter of Pride and Prejudice is hard to beat. The characters and motives of the Bennet parents are shown, and the plot is laid. in fact the whole book is set up by a few dozen perfect lines. It really is astonishing.

Here is an excerpt taken after those famous first lines....


``My dear Mr. Bennet,'' said his lady to him one day, ``have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?''

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

``But it is,'' returned she; ``for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.''

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

``Do not you want to know who has taken it?'' cried his wife impatiently.

``You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.''

This was invitation enough.

``Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.''

``What is his name?''

``Bingley.''

``Is he married or single?''

``Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!''

``How so? how can it affect them?''

``My dear Mr. Bennet,'' replied his wife, ``how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.''

``Is that his design in settling here?''

``Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.''

[Chris 73]

Some of you fail to appreciate the genius that is Tairy Goodkind! I mean a Chicken that is not a chicken! Come on! You can't get better than that!!! Can you?

[NiMROD]

“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.” —W. Somerset Maugham , Of Human Bondage

If Hemingway wrote in surface perforations, and Faulkner wrote in flowing sprawl, Maugham writes as if he is drawing a perfect circle. The simplicity of the shape belies the excruciating skill it takes to create it.

Not only does this passage ring true for me, it basically distills Catcher in the Rye in a handful of lines. Love it.

[Calidore]

Some of you fail to appreciate the genius that is Tairy Goodkind! I mean a Chicken that is not a chicken! Come on! You can't get better than that!!! Can you?

I prefer the dog that wasn't a dog from The Thing.

[Desolation]

"That night at the hotel, in our room with the long empty hall outside and our shoes outside the door, a thick carpet on the floor of the room, outside the windows the rain falling and in the room light and pleasant and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with smooth sheets and the bed comfortable, feeling that we had come home, feeling no longer alone, waking in the night to find the other one there, and not gone away; all other things were unreal. We slept when we were tired and if we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others ... But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to the world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." - Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms.

[JBI]

Some of you fail to appreciate the genius that is Tairy Goodkind! I mean a Chicken that is not a chicken! Come on! You can't get better than that!!! Can you?

My apologies, it is often that we get people who post examples like yours seriously, I had not realized you were being ironic when you commented.

[Silas Thorne]

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved, and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

The main hallway of the Sternwood Place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn't have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the vizor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him.


Opening paragraphs of 'The Big Sleep', by Raymond Chandler

[Charles Darnay]

"BUT courage! gentle reader! ---- I scorn it ---- 'tis enough
to have thee in my power ---- but to make use of the advantage which the for-
tune of the pen has now gained over thee, would be too much ---- No ---- !
by that all powerful fire which warms the visionary brain, and lights the spirits through unworldly tracts! ere I would force a helpless creature upon this hard service, and make thee pay, poor soul! for fifty pages which I have no right to sell thee, -- naked as I am, I would browse upon the
mountains, and smile that the north wind brought me neither my tent or
my supper.

-- So put on, my brave boy! and make the best of thy way to Boulogne"

Just one of many wonderful passages from The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman - Sterne.

[Charles Darnay]

I could also copy and paste the prologue to Picture of Dorian Gray but I won't....still one of my favourite passages from a prose work.

[Darcy88]

"Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since - on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!"

[cafolini]

“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.” —W. Somerset Maugham , Of Human Bondage

If Hemingway wrote in surface perforations, and Faulkner wrote in flowing sprawl, Maugham writes as if he is drawing a perfect circle. The simplicity of the shape belies the excruciating skill it takes to create it.

Not only does this passage ring true for me, it basically distills Catcher in the Rye in a handful of lines. Love it.

Somerset Maugham is not only an excellent writer but also one of the clearest psicologists I ever read. Extremely applicable to today and ever. I seldom say that about a writer.