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island spree, and building up pluck to spin a bottle for the favors of a Caribbean prostitute.”
At some point in all that male bonding the paragraph came unglued.
A sportswriter for The Washington Times gave his all in 1983;
“OAK.MONT, Pa. — In the end, when the multitudinous voices that had railed against the strangling fairways and decried the carnivorous greens were long dispatched, discouraged or otherwise silenced, it was a putt destined for mythology that won the rain-interrupted 83d U.S. Open yesterday morning.”
What happened at this event of mythological magnitude? Larry Nelson won. The putt went 62 feet.
Even good novelists suffer from logorrhea. This is from Joseph Hellers’ “Closing Time”:
“Standing at the open grave with Major Danby to the left of him and Major Major to the right, across the gaping hole in the red earth from a short enlisted man named Samuel Singer, who had been on the mission in the same place with the deceased, he could recall again with mortifying clarity how he had faltered with a shiver in his eulogy when he lifted his eyes toward the heavens and they fell instead on the figure in the tree, halted in midsentence as though stricken speechless for the moment with all breath sucked out of him.”
Somebody should have halted Heller in the midst of that sentence.
Novelist Evelyn Waugh died in 1992. The Chicago Tribune carried an obituary:
“After what he construed as the dishonorable shambles of the British withdrawal from Crete under Herman attack, in which he pointlessly proved his own fearlessness under fire, he look an unpaid leave to write a novel (“Brideshead Revisited”) romantically bemoaning the England whose loss
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