I am gonna quote from a famous book, a classic.
The girl's face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darkness, but moving also toward a new sun.
There is no way this paragraph would pass by an 8th grade English teacher. Yet it is a classic none the less. Why is it that literary genius can be so atrocious? I attempted to re-read thru Fahrenheit 451 a while ago but ran into this on page 11 and it totally sidetracked me.
I wont forget the message by Ray Bradbury anytime soon, so I guess it isn't the writing, rather it is the story and message that make a book great.