… [T]here is no need for you to go a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles from saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your power and as well as possible, and putting your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity. Strive, too, that in reading your story the melancholy may be moved to laughter, and the merry made merrier still; that the simple shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the invention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to praise it. … [I]f you succeed in this you will have achieved no small success.”
— Miguel de Cervantes (from the Prologue to Don Quixote)
We’re All Americans, Dammit
I’VE SAID THIS BEFORE, BUT it’s more important now than ever:
“I pledge allegiance to the Constitution
Of the United States of America
And to the ideal on which it stands:
One nation of individuals
Indivisibly intertwined
With liberty, justice, and peace for all.”
(So help me, G?d. So help all of us.)
Prosatio Silban and the Saved Labor
WHAT DOES ONE DO WHEN a beloved tool breaks down in mid-use?
With a series of staccato clunks, Prosatio Silban’s rosewood grinding-pot ground to a loud halt. He shook it, slapped it, frowned at it, then set it on his preparation-counter and removed the lid.
Inside was a tangle of partly pulverized kobi-nuts and twisted metal.
Some people use the word ‘God’ the way white supremacists use the word ‘patriot.'”
— me
Prosatio Silban and the Sequential Narrative
SOME PEOPLE WILL GO TO any lengths for a good story.
Prosatio Silban fetched down his scrapbook form the shelf in his sleeping berth, opened it to the middle, and whistled. Fourteen lovingly steamed and pasted labels, he thought with a grin. I can’t wait for the fifteenth!
He was referring to one of the Uulian Commonwell’s most endearing products and enduring mysteries. Plithel’s Finest was acknowledged by gastronomes far and wide as the pinnacle of the brewer’s art. Despite a quartet of imported hops, some hailing from across the Rimless Sea, the ale’s signature pucker was well-balanced by a soft fruitiness; the fragrance whispered of sun-splashed spring flowers, sugar-lemon, and deepleaf pine; and it delivered a mellow yet unmistakable kick.
This is a Print Shop
Crossroads of civilization. Refuge of all the arts against the ravages of time. Armory of fearless truth against whispering rumor. Incessant trumpet of trade. From this place words may fly abroad not to perish as waves of sound, but fixed in time. Not corrupted by hurrying hand but verified in proof.
Friend, you stand on sacred ground: This is a print shop.”
— Beatrice Warde
Salute (A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche)
“WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE TOAST?” asked the friendly inebriate supporting himself on the bar at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House.
“I have several,” replied Prosatio Silban with some delicacy, given the circumstance. “There is stone-rye with blackberry preserves, or sourdough with yak-butter, or …”
“No, no!” the man protested through tipple-thickened lips. “I mean, what is your favorite pledge to drink to?”