Actuarial Commutation: Diatribe on Sentence Structure

Thursday, March 25th, 2010 at 11:09 pm

1269558559 Actuarial Commutation: Diatribe on Sentence Structure On Wednesday night, at about nine o'clock, I realized I had an English assignment to complete about, since we are currently embarked upon a Poetry unit (to the distress of the class in general), Using Imagery. since I have been reading far too much Virginia Woolf lately, here is the last, most pertinent part of my writing:

It’s a curious thing: whenever the seasons change from summer to winter, the summer seems so fine, full of unbounded freedom and sunny days; fair skies every day and storms enough to satisfy everyone. Conversely, during the summer I dream of skiing, of freezing noses and the smell and sound of snow. According to this theory, I should be wishing it was early April at the moment, with just a hint of color in the trees around my house: everything is melting and one smells that distinctive smell which was so prominent during the thaw last week. My favorite place to be during this season is my roof. on really hot days it can get unbearable—quite literally as bad as an oven—but the fairly disgusting smell that radiates off hot asphalt symbolizes the spring for me, and the afternoons I will spend on the roof, singing along to Eagles music and watching the bare blue sky. This is why, in some few months, I will set my ladder in the same depressions it made last year, in the soft dirt of the front yard, to lean against the roof and crack the edges of the shingles, to make my parents cluck with distress and move it, stealthily, when they think I’m not watching; to climb up it, despite their warnings, first in sneakers, then in flip-flops, and then, illicitly, in the cool of July afternoons, in my bare feet, the ridges of the aluminum pressing against each foot—placed, first firmly and then more surely, one after another—as I ascend to the roof with my music in hand.

The best place to vacation is by far Cape Cod, Massachusetts, Eastham to be precise (375 Glacier Hills Road), when the bike paths are open, of course, because the bike paths are always open; and gloriously paved and smooth—nothing justifies sweating as well as bicycling on a warm blue day on Cape Cod—and ready and waiting for us, the license-less travelers of the summer, to ride from edge to edge, beach to home, home to cousins (the source of all evil; the source of all happiness; the source of all lazy pleasures and bonfires by the lighthouse—oh, and don’t forget the store-bought cookies), to ride through sun and rain, dry shorts and swimming suits filled with sand, unburdened and laden with a skim board, two beach chairs, a pair of towels and the plastic bags to bring them back in, and a bag of potato chips and ginger snaps thrown in for good measure (that’s really the point of salt spray; ginger snaps never taste as good at home; and there has to be some redemption for the way it spitefully dampens the clothes and obscures the vision)—to ride on despite separation, despite sand, despite frost heaves (in Massachusetts, in August, for God’s sake—why? because this is new England), despite the fact that you’ve forgotten a water bottle.

Yes, this makes a total of 8 sentences, and yes, it is indeed a total of 2 paragraphs.

The sad thing is, (although my English teacher, being, I believe, pressed for time, failed to criticize my writing) if I had turned this into my Humanities teacher I would have recieved low marks because my paragraphs were not 5 sentences long. More depressing still was the reaction from Brennan, the junior who I ate lunch with on Thursday, when I told him--somewhat boastfully, I shall admit--that I had written a sentence the night before that was 223 words long.

"But that's bad grammar!" He protested, "You should be able to say a proper sentence in one breath!"

Let my opinion be known, now, while I am filled with this righteous fire: a sentence that is 223 words need not be bad grammar. By saying this you are, in my opinion, slapping Proust and Virginia Woolf and any other writer who feels compelled to follow a more lengthy style in the face. Shame on you!

Actuarial Commutation: Diatribe on Sentence Structure