Hemingway. You savage ruiner of glorious, complicated prose — you misogynistic, literature-killing inebriate — fuck you and the iceberg theory you rode in on. Your terse, manly prose deserves to be relegated to the literary dustbin. You committed word crimes in the name of clarity, but you took that name in vain and destroyed nearly a century of American writing.
I shall gather ignored, dessicated adverbs to my old-fashioned bosom. I shall write swathes of parenthetical complication and use semicolons to my heart’s content. I shall recover the beauty of the English language from your cruel, dead hands like a delicate and ladylike Conan the Barbarian stealing a dusty sword from a forgotten tomb.
And I will wield that sword in the service of colorful misandry and for the love of words themselves.
I will exorcise Hemingway and his ilk from the boring modern novel. Get thee behind me, Ernest! The power of poetry compels you. The power of sublime prose compels you. It is writing itself compels you.