In images of horror, and in a certain terrible greatness, our author comes far behind Chaucer. Whether they were not suited to the genius or the temper of Lydgate, I do not determine; but it is certain that, though they naturally seemed to present themselves, he has almost generally chose to avoid them: yet is there frequently a stiller kind of majesty both in his thought and expression, which makes one of his principal beauties.

Comparable with Chawcer, yet more occupyed in supersticious and odde matters than was requesite in so good a wytte.

He is the first of our writers whose style is cloathed with that perspicuity, in which the English phraseology appears at this day to an English reader:Whether…

Also Johnn Lydgate Wryteth after an hyer rate; It is dyffuse to fynde The sentence of his mynde, Yet wryteth he in his kynd, No man that can amend Those maters…

I don't see myself as experimenting in any conscious way, it's perhaps that certain books require different densities of language.

The big contemporary novel is a perpetual motion machine that appears to have been embarrassed into velocity. It seems to want to abolish stillness, as if asha…

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.