The greatest writers in English aren’t those who have mastered the dictionary; they are those, like Wodehouse, with a profound feeling for the music of the language. So says English novelist Philip Hensher about P.G. Wodehouse’s “The Everyman Wodehouse: Selected Volumes”.
Music in language is a rare thing these days since the passing of giants like the Wickhams – Clennell and John, Oliver Jackman, Sir James Tudor, Gladstone Holder and a few others.
You can imagine my delight recently as I looked forward to Shekinah Medical Centre’s regular offerings. Like this one, titled “Kite pop”:
“It was a big, singing angel, sailing high in the sky, its eight brown-paper bulls growling in the brisk breeze as the kite flyer pelted it with ‘pills’. Then the kite noticed an egret, flying free. Frowning, he tugged at the cord which kept him tethered to earth. He wanted to be free. What right did they have to keep him tied like this? Gathering all his strength, he heaved and pulled, diving and soaring like mad, until weakened, the cord broke. Free at last! The kite shook his head and ruffled his tail, ready to savour freedom. But with no cord control, just drifted helplessly, finally becoming stuck in a tall coconut tree. There, bleached by sun and rain until only sticks remained, he died a lonely death. Freedom is great stuff. It can also be deadly. Independence from God feels great. You can do whatever you want. But break that cord and… kite pop.”
That’s not an advertisement; that’s a treat!
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