Words as Art

 

        The moment I started reading his work I could see and understand what he meant by, Words as Art.  He had an obvious talent for syntax and a masterful hand at selecting just the proper adjectives.  It was as if his sentences were on soft wheels that carried you along and through cobblestone lined paragraphs, calmly lit by suggestions of light and background violins that only played familiar memories.

      

       Even before reaching the end, there was a strong desire to stop and read again that which you had just passed.  As if you could soak in it and leave with its residue covering you.  This was something to hold onto, something to keep, that you might recall whenever the fire has died and the wine is gone.  His masterful stories were truly enough to carry you beyond your dreams.

    No brushes to clean and no harsh odors to air out.  His canvas remains a structure of thoughts, tightly woven and stretched over life's experience.  Sunlight will never diminish his colors, nor time leave a more impressive footprint.

Z. Corwin