The word “sweet” appears eight hundred and forty times in your complete
Shakespeare. Or nearly a thousand times, if you accept close variants
(“out-sweeten’d,” “true-sweet,” “sweetheart”). This level of use comes
as no surprise to anyone who loves the sonnets and plays: whether in
moments of fondest coaxing and chiding (“When your sweet issue your
sweet form should bear”) or abject anguish and empathy (“Bless thy
sweet eyes—they bleed”), Shakespeare reliably repaired to a sugared
lexicon. ...
Every poet, every novelist has his or her pet words. Which words these may be dawns on you gradually as you enter the world of a new writer. The deeper you read, the more likely it is that a fresh line in effect becomes an old line, as a signature vocabulary term rings out variations on previous usages. Of course, with many major authors this process of identifying pet words can be hastened and simplified by consulting a concordance. Either way, you’ll likely discover that your author’s personal dictionary contains an abundance of amiable acquaintances, but a select few intimate friends. Brad Leithauser, newyorker.
Every poet, every novelist has his or her pet words. Which words these may be dawns on you gradually as you enter the world of a new writer. The deeper you read, the more likely it is that a fresh line in effect becomes an old line, as a signature vocabulary term rings out variations on previous usages. Of course, with many major authors this process of identifying pet words can be hastened and simplified by consulting a concordance. Either way, you’ll likely discover that your author’s personal dictionary contains an abundance of amiable acquaintances, but a select few intimate friends. Brad Leithauser, newyorker.
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