FAREWELL FAMOUS TYKE David Hockney, Britain's best-known painter, died yesterday. He and I simultaneously attended Bradford Grammar School in Yorkshire though he was was two years younger. I never spoke to him but I observed his behaviour. As might be imagined, even then he marched to the beat of a different drummer and this attracted the school bullies. As they punched him he giggled; this foxed these sporting oafs and they quickly walked away, disappointed.
Hockney, of course, travelled the world and is frequently remembered for the work he did in California. Despite this he retained much more of his West Riding accent than I did. The difference being he spoke charmingly whereas I always sounded as if I was complaining. Eventually the years spent in and around London, plus the six years in Pennsylvania, wore away most of these unwelcome linguistic roots and I can now pass as geographically anonymous.
WRITING STYLE Having - more or less - mastered English grammar and left spelling up to WfW's Checker I can afford to concentrate on writing style. By now - and I should bloody well hope so! - I know what I want but defining those two words is fiendishly difficult. There are certain identifiable factors. A war on superfluity, for instance, but without lapsing into terseness. Choosing exact verbs rather than opting, lazily, for generalities. Chasing after that which is vivid plus its corollary: the unexpected.
But summarising that in, say, less than thirty words is beyond me. For the moment. I'll return to this subject however tedious you may regard it.
I wonder if I may be trying to write as if from my belly button.
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