I am won with words.
I am won with vocabulary and passion and intensity.
I am won with style and grace.

This is probably why I had such a mad crush on Hemingway when I saw Midnight in Paris: Words.

There is an art in words and their conveyance that has nearly vanished in this age of textlish and emails. There is no flow, no ink on paper, no creases in a folded and unfolded page over which one can trace a fingertip time and time again. It makes me sad.
And yes, I see the irony of putting that in a blog.

I want love letters. I want to hear the things small children say when they learn or experience something new. And I want all the words to be beautiful and scary and honest and true; I want them to have resonance and touch something in my soul. I want to be moved, if only for a moment. I want a story I can tell someone else. More words.

I like the way it feels to say certain words and, like Tolkien’s “cellar-door” or Poe’s “nevermore”, I find myself adrift in the euphonies.

Words are all around us. We are swimming in mindless correspondence and conversations; inundated with status updates, tweets and texts. But where is the beauty in that? Where is the substance?

There are extensive records from the past in journals and letters; whole archives that show us, in words, what life was like in times we can never see. So, how will our digital generation of deep thoughts no longer than 140 characters be remembered?

Words are powerful. Use them wisely.