Showing posts with label Purple prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Purple prose. Show all posts

Thursday, 5 January 2023

Norman minds dissolved in the vapours of Muslim culture

The Norman conquest of Sicily turned into something of a scandal. Norman minds dissolved in the vapours of Muslim culture. Austere knights of Honfleur and Bayeux suddenly appeared in the streets of Palermo wearing flowing desert robes, and attracted to themselves harems of staggering diversity, while the Church raged. Norman pashas built their own alhambras. the Normans went Muslim with such remarkable style that even Muslim poets were soon praising the new Norman Xanadus.

John McPhee, quoted in H. Attlee,  The land where lemons grow (2014), 56

This is historical nonsense. John McPhee has clearly given no thought to the private lives of the Normans in Normandy. 

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

Only the whore of Babylon rises rather splendid

Only the whore of Babylon rises rather splendid, sitting in her purple and scarlet upon her scarlet beast. She is the Magna Mater in malefic aspect, clothed in the colours of the angry sun, and throned upon the great red dragon of the angry cosmic power. Splendid she sits, and splendid is her Babylon. How the late apocalyptists love mouthing out all about the gold and silver and cinnamon of evil Babylon! How they want them all! How they envy Babylon her splendour, envy, envy! How they love destroying it all! The harlot sits magnificent with her golden cup of the wine of sensual pleasure in her hand. How the apocalyptists would have loved to drink out of her cup! And since they couldn't: how they loved smashing it!

D.H. Lawrence, Apocalypse (1931), 87-88

Friday, 22 July 2011

In the security bred of many harmless marriages

In the security bred of many harmless marriages, it had been forgotten that Love is no hothouse flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from a wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always wild!

J. Galsworthy, The man of property (1906), Wordsworth complete edition, 105