Читать книгу The Story I Am - Roger Rosenblatt - Страница 32

From the Memoir Kayak Morning

Kayak. Ducky word. You can kick it. Hack it. Whack it. You can knock it over. In Kansas, Kashmir, or Karachi. It comes back okay, like cork. K-A-Y-A-K. And me, lucky kid, propped half-cocked in the cockpit pocket of my palindrome.

I am a fan of nouns. I tell my writing students that if they need three modifiers to describe something, they’ve probably chosen the wrong something. The noun carries its own weight, and the right one will not be made prettier or tastier or more important by anything that decorates it. It has all it needs. It contains what Emerson called “the speaking language of things.” The noun. The heron. The tide. The creek. The kayak.