Economist:07.10.04:Out with the long

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

And, come to that, are you sure that the Greeks and Gauls and scribes of Rome were as great as they are cracked up to be?

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

Singe my white head, they could make long words as well as any Hun or Yank or French homme de lettres who plies his trade these days.

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

That piece of string, the one whose length you all the time have to guess, is no less fine if it is short than if it is long; on its own, its length is not good, not bad, just the sum of its two halves.

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

On a good day, when all is right with the world, they are one more cause for cheer.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

That piece of string, the one whose length you all the time have to guess, is no less fine if it is short than if it is long; on its own, its length is not good, not bad, just the sum of its two halves.

You want to make love, have a chat, ask the way, thank your stars, curse your luck or swear, scold and rail?

Just pluck an old, short word at will.

Singe my white head, they could make long words as well as any Hun or Yank or French homme de lettres who plies his trade these days.

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

Call it what you will.

Then there is the ban on new words, or at least a puff for the old.

And, come to that, are you sure that the Greeks and Gauls and scribes of Rome were as great as they are cracked up to be?

Why? Time has moved on.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

Tough as boots or soft as silk, sharp as steel or blunt as toast, there are old, short words to fit each need.

They do all that you want of them, and they do it well.

Yet soon they grew to be grunts with a gist, and time has shown that, add to the length of your words as you may, it is hard to beat a good grunt with a good gist.

That is why the short words, when old, are still the tops.

If you doubt that you will find the one you seek, look at what can be done with not much: “To be or not to be?”

The point is that to get a range of step, stride and gait means you have to use some long words, some short and some, well, just run of the mill, those whose place is in the mid range.

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

The point is that to get a range of step, stride and gait means you have to use some long words, some short and some, well, just run of the mill, those whose place is in the mid range.

You can get your tongue round them.

That piece of string, the one whose length you all the time have to guess, is no less fine if it is short than if it is long; on its own, its length is not good, not bad, just the sum of its two halves.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

And though the tongue in which you read this stole words from here and there, and still does, at the start, if there was one, its words were short.

Tough as boots or soft as silk, sharp as steel or blunt as toast, there are old, short words to fit each need.

The point is that to get a range of step, stride and gait means you have to use some long words, some short and some, well, just run of the mill, those whose place is in the mid range.

Well, yes, some of those old folks' words were on the long side, but long ones were by no means the rule.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

Yes, yes, you may say, that all sounds fine.

Well, yes, some of those old folks' words were on the long side, but long ones were by no means the rule.

Then there is the ban on new words, or at least a puff for the old.

And thus they make you want to read on, not turn the page.

Plain they may be, but that is their strength.

They do all that you want of them, and they do it well.

And, come to that, are you sure that the Greeks and Gauls and scribes of Rome were as great as they are cracked up to be?

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

Tough as boots or soft as silk, sharp as steel or blunt as toast, there are old, short words to fit each need.

You want to make love, have a chat, ask the way, thank your stars, curse your luck or swear, scold and rail?

Eye, brain and mouth work as one to greet them as friends, not foes.

On a good day, when all is right with the world, they are one more cause for cheer.

And thus they make you want to read on, not turn the page.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

The worth of each lies in the ends to which it is put.

Eye, brain and mouth work as one to greet them as friends, not foes.

They are clear, sharp and to the point.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

Yes, yes, you may say, that all sounds fine.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

Tough as boots or soft as silk, sharp as steel or blunt as toast, there are old, short words to fit each need.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

And you may not need a lot of them: some words add just length to your prose.

Call it what you will.

The point is that to get a range of step, stride and gait means you have to use some long words, some short and some, well, just run of the mill, those whose place is in the mid range.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

Well, yes, some of those old folks' words were on the long side, but long ones were by no means the rule.

Then there is the ban on new words, or at least a puff for the old.

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

On a good day, when all is right with the world, they are one more cause for cheer.

The point is that to get a range of step, stride and gait means you have to use some long words, some short and some, well, just run of the mill, those whose place is in the mid range.

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

That piece of string, the one whose length you all the time have to guess, is no less fine if it is short than if it is long; on its own, its length is not good, not bad, just the sum of its two halves.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

Tough as boots or soft as silk, sharp as steel or blunt as toast, there are old, short words to fit each need.

On a good day, when all is right with the world, they are one more cause for cheer.

And, come to that, are you sure that the Greeks and Gauls and scribes of Rome were as great as they are cracked up to be?

If you doubt that you will find the one you seek, look at what can be done with not much: “To be or not to be?”

Yes, yes, you may say, that all sounds fine.

And, come to that, are you sure that the Greeks and Gauls and scribes of Rome were as great as they are cracked up to be?

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

Why? Time has moved on.

Make it not so well, and you will be glad that you kept them crisp.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” “The year's at the spring/And day's at the morn.../The lark's on the wing;/The snail's on the thorn.”

Huh, you may say, those first “words” were no more than grunts.

Why? Time has moved on.

Well, yes, some of those old folks' words were on the long side, but long ones were by no means the rule.

Eye, brain and mouth work as one to greet them as friends, not foes.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

Tie your string well, or ill, and its length counts for naught.

Tough as boots or soft as silk, sharp as steel or blunt as toast, there are old, short words to fit each need.

You want to make love, have a chat, ask the way, thank your stars, curse your luck or swear, scold and rail?

Yet soon they grew to be grunts with a gist, and time has shown that, add to the length of your words as you may, it is hard to beat a good grunt with a good gist.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

Tie your string well, or ill, and its length counts for naught.

You want to make love, have a chat, ask the way, thank your stars, curse your luck or swear, scold and rail?

You can get your tongue round them.

They do all that you want of them, and they do it well.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

On a bad day, when the head aches, you can get to grips with them, grasp their drift and take hold of what they mean.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

That piece of string, the one whose length you all the time have to guess, is no less fine if it is short than if it is long; on its own, its length is not good, not bad, just the sum of its two halves.

Well, yes, some of those old folks' words were on the long side, but long ones were by no means the rule.

That is why the short words, when old, are still the tops.

And though the tongue in which you read this stole words from here and there, and still does, at the start, if there was one, its words were short.

Then there is the ban on new words, or at least a puff for the old.

Make it not so well, and you will be glad that you kept them crisp.

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

If you doubt that you will find the one you seek, look at what can be done with not much: “To be or not to be?”

They are clear, sharp and to the point.

They do all that you want of them, and they do it well.

Singe my white head, they could make long words as well as any Hun or Yank or French homme de lettres who plies his trade these days.

But from time to time good prose needs a change of pace—a burst of speed, a touch of the brake, a slow swoop, a spring, a bound, a stop.

The tongues of yore need help if they are to serve the way we live now.

The point is that to get a range of step, stride and gait means you have to use some long words, some short and some, well, just run of the mill, those whose place is in the mid range.

Yet soon they grew to be grunts with a gist, and time has shown that, add to the length of your words as you may, it is hard to beat a good grunt with a good gist.

Some might say a shaft of light and then a dim glow, some warp as well as weft, both fire and ice, a roll on the drum as much as a toot on the flute.

And, come to that, are you sure that the Greeks and Gauls and scribes of Rome were as great as they are cracked up to be?

And though the tongue in which you read this stole words from here and there, and still does, at the start, if there was one, its words were short.

Then there is the ban on new words, or at least a puff for the old.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?

AND, not for the first time, he was right: short words are best.

Why? Time has moved on.

What's more, though you may find you can write with just short words for a while, in the end don't you have to give in and reach for one of those terms which, like it or not, is made up of bits, more bits and yet more bits, and that adds up to a word which is long?