On Steak and Purple Prose

It was after we ordered our steaks - medium-rare as that was the most done way one could order a ribeye at a place as opulent as the Blueblood without incurring mockery - that I suggested that the old Russians had it right when they brought Anna Karenina and the Karamazovs to life, to which my dear friend Ernie cried, “are you mad?”

“I don't think so,” I said, for I was quite taken by the images Tolstoy and Dostoevsky painted in their scenes and by how well they survived translation that I was eager to tell Ernie how I wished to emulate them when writing my own work.

This was met with a vulgar snort.

“Why would you consider such dusty names?” Ernie scoffed - perhaps a tad too loudly given the stares being tossed our way - before declaring, “anyone considering becoming an author shouldn’t read anything older than 1923, and even then they still need to be careful; there are professors in some universities who consider Weird Tales and other drivel valid literature!”

“Oh come now,” I said, “it is the dusty names you so disparage who wrote the bedrock of our aspirations and brought you to where you are today!”

Before Ernie could argue - for I knew he considered himself a style upon which history pivoted and which literature now called modern writing, and abhorred any relation to the likes of Dickens and Brontë - I reminded him of those passages in his work that leaned towards description, saying, “though they were sparse and built with short and punchy sentences, the scenes were beautiful and rich; as if you sat upon the shoulders of giants when you wrote them.”

“Perhaps,” Ernie said, “but when I read over their shoulders and saw the musings they wrote between Line A and Line B, which forced me to struggle through quagmires of irrelevant on dits and rambling thought - which, I suppose, was their vain attempt to make themselves seem more learned and esoteric as writers than they ever were as people - I learned that there was nothing more ugly than the uselessness of purple prose, especially when it serves no other purpose than to swell pages of perfectly good writing like a freshly acquired bruise.”

For a moment I was stumped - I thought the normally sparse wordsmith had bested me - but upon seeing his smug smile a vigour borne of pique overcame me and I rallied, saying, “when done correctly, beautiful writing gives us richness and clarity that can transport us into magical lands as Tolkien and Verne have done, for though their works seem swollen to you, trimming them of their so called fat would render the wonder tasteless and the adventure stale for it is in the fat where we find the flavour!”

As if on cue the server returned, setting down plates of sizzling steak, garlic-mashed potatoes, buttered green beans and - with the skill of one who had served groups of four or more and found our small table an effortless task - slid two finger bowls of fragrant gravy without spilling a drop.

“Thank you,” I said and as the server whirled away I took up my cutlery and watched as Ernie sliced into and bit a piece of succulent meat.

He groaned with pleasure as the perfect sear and savoury juices hit his tongue (as if he had gone too long without fine food and was only now reacquainting himself) but upon seeing me smirk he paused, thought a moment - then groaned again with wry realisation.

“Tasty, isn’t it?” I said, and as he laughed and agreed I tucked into my own ribeye and declared, “bon appétit!”

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This story which is called a Rickler is part of a writing challenge/prompt for the Facebook group Vocal + Assist

https://www.facebook.com/groups/vocalplusassist/

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Thank you for lingering.