It seems odd to start posting again after days and days with someone else's words, but I ran across Michael Shaara's The Killer Angels on my shelf the other day and was reminded that reading his novel about the battle of Gettsyburg years ago was one of the most wonderful reading experiences of my life.
The novel is a masterpiece in my eyes - a piece written by a master - for several reasons, not least of which (oh, god, not least of which) is because he uses language in a way that made me fall in love with language all over again.
As I read The Killer Angels, its language did two things; it was sensually, cinematically, kinetically direct, throwing me into the world about which he wrote, wrapping it around me and making me unwilling to leave it.
Shaara's language also stood on its own, paragraphs built of sentences, built of phrases, built of words, braided into rhythms and patterns, put together so gorgeously that I read them over and over, independent of their meaning, because they were that lovely.
Love of a book is such an intensely personal thing, I know. This one, and its language, may leave many unimpressed. But part of the reason I write so slowly is, I think, because I am constantly aware that I would someday like to write as well as Michael Shaara did in The Killer Angels.
So I'll leave you with one passage. The first is very early in the book, from the point of view of a Southern spy, catching his first glimpse of the Army of the Potomac, 80,000 strong.
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