The great singer-songwriter Tom Waits hit the nail on the head, and stubbed many toes in the process, when he rightly said, ‘The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.’ Actually, he hits two nail-heads: (1) Amrit Kaal notwithstanding, beyond your window lies Chaosistan, and (2) under such conditions, how one suffers matters greatly. But what Waits skips is that one man’s bad writing can be another man’s uplifting prose. So, for a few of you, this column may seem turgid prose told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. For others, it is a quick spot of respite, where you can dodge both the highfalutin and lowfalutin bits that cover almost every shore.
But there is bad writing that exists outside the disco moves of subjectivity. For those who find it not just bearable but downright pleasurable, well, they are admirers of bad writing. Their quality of suffering in this world will, therefore, be less painful. There are bhakts of adjectives out there – or, as the bhakts would say, genuine bhakts. But 99% of all painful prose is the fault of legions of adjectives perpetually being trotted out. Graham Greene was right to describe them as ‘badjectives’, the arsenal of lazy writers who spread a particular kind of kitschy grease. Don’t worry. Many of you have this column to find shelter in.
