In a case involving the definition of “hard-core pornography,” Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart famously said that he couldn’t define it, but “I know it when I see it.” I feel the same way about defining “beautiful language,” but I would amend it to say “I know it when I feel it.” The beauty of a particular piece of writing has to do with how it makes me feel. Other than that, I’m at a loss for words to define beautiful language.
I do know that when it comes to beautiful writing, there can be too much of a good thing. Pages and pages of lovely, lyrical description can bog down a plot and make the reader start thinking about whether it’s time to do the laundry.
When a writer tries too hard to write something beautiful, the result can seem awkward and out of place. I want to read beautiful writing that fits seamlessly into the story without calling attention to itself.
I sometimes find bits of beautiful language in books that are otherwise unbearably boring to me, so obviously beautiful writing can’t carry the weight of a story on its own.
Sometimes writing that makes me cringe makes someone else swoon, and some books with writing that I find beautiful have been banned by people who obviously don’t see what I see.
Instead of trying to define what I think makes writing beautiful, I’ll give some examples. These are some favorite passages that I find beautiful. If you think they’re beautiful, too, then I encourage you to read the books from which they’re taken.
The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.
One day at that time, not so very long ago, three things happened and at first there appeared to be no connection between them.
From Tuck Everlasting, by Natalie Babbitt. You can learn more about Natalie Babbitt here.
But a strange sort of calm had come over her. While the whole human pageant strutted and whooped, she held herself with grave dignity. Did she sense that forces she didn’t understand had overtaken her; that life had finally closed in and trapped her; that it was useless to protest?
Perhaps.
But as I watched her, the clamor all about me seemed to grow dim. In my mind’s eye, I saw the stillness of a pale Norwegian sky in the moments before snowfall. The bright pulse of the aurora in the hush of night. I heard the silent ring of the stars in their northern circuits, and the squeak of ice beneath my boots. I saw the flicker of moving water inside a frozen cascade. I caught the clean, mineral scent of ancient frost.
And now, as I gazed at her, the bear seemed to grow even larger in my imagination. not just the solid bulk of her, but large in another way—large enough to hold all of it, all of the land that was her birthright, within her skin and bones and blood.
From Journey of the Pale Bear, by Susan Fletcher. You can learn more about Susan Fletcher here.
I walked down the steps into the snow. It was not solid like ice, but puffy. It was not silent either, but compressed under my foot with a squeaky crunch. My feet were chilled immediately, and I slipped and almost fell, but no matter. I picked my way down the front steps and looked over my shoulder at my own tracks, which rapidly turned into shallow foot-shaped puddles of water. Ahead of me lay perfection. Could I stand it? Could I bear to mar it with my presence?
I could. I had to have this gift of the moment—this great gift of the new century—to myself for one more minute, a few more precious seconds, before the bustle and shouts and tracks of the others shattered it forever. Gathering up my gown, I ran down the curved drive as fast as I could, lurching and slipping and filled with joy. I knew I looked crazed but I didn’t care. I ran to the street, which was unmarked by any wagon wheel, then veered off and ran through the pristine brush toward the river.
… I turned and walked back toward the house. It was the first morning of the first day of the new century. Snow blanketed the ground. Anything was possible.
From The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, by Jacqueline Kelly. You can learn more about Jacqueline Kelly here.
I am listening to the birth of a song.
It opens slowly, the way the petals of an orange blossom take their time to unfurl. It is light dancing on the water, or the wind rustling through the marsh grass. It’s sweet and a little sad, but also hopeful. It carries me halfway around the world, to a river whose name I don’t know, where waves lap the sides of boats with unfamiliar shapes and the air is scented with exotic flowers.
From Between Two Skies, by Joanne O’Sullivan. You can learn more about Joanne O’Sullivan here.
After the keen still days of September, the October sun filled the world with mellow warmth. Before Kit’s eyes a miracle took place, for which she was totally unprepared. She stood in the doorway of her uncle’s house and held her breath with wonder. The maple tree of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her. The dried brown leaves crackled beneath her feet and gave off a delicious smoky fragrance. No one had ever told her about Autumn in New England. The excitement of it beat in her blood. Every morning she woke with a new confidence and buoyancy she could not explain. In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible.
From The Witch of Blackbird Pond, by Elizabeth George Speare. You can learn more about Elizabeth George Speare here.
Perched on a boulder to let the gentle air dry her feet and the draggled hems of her dress and apron, she pulled in a deep breath of heather and broom, gazing out over the rough, wild terrain and the fields and village below. It was still raining in the valley; she could see the curtain of dark gray blurring the crooked line of roofs beyond the woods. Uphill from her rock, where the moor lifted into its high uplands, the sunlight flamed golden in the broom flowers … Here, between the heights and valleys, it was something between rain and shine, a pearly May morning.
From The Moorchild, by Eloise McGraw. You can learn more about Eloise McGraw here.
You’ve experienced a variety of bedtime stories, I’m certain. You know their magic. A well-chosen bedtime story sets you on the path to the dream you most need to have. Some speak of adventure – but our threesome had had quite enough of that already. Some frighten you deliciously enough to look under your bed before nodding off, just in case … well, no more need be said about that sort of story. This story, this night, was unlike any other. As the children sank into sleep, the words of this familiar rhyming tale were comfort and tenderness, ritual and home. A sort of prayer. A sort of lullaby. It set them on the path to dreams that felt rather like hope.
A Place to Hang the Moon, by Kate Albus. You can learn more about Kate Albus here.
If we try to stay informed about world events, we can’t avoid reading things that fill us with anxiety, frustration, and despair. Reading beautiful writing can be an antidote to that. I hope that you read something you think is beautiful here today.