The Many Distinct Shades of British Prose and Verse.
Being a great enthusiast of the British literary tradition, I would like to share with you all a bit of the magic that has captivated readers the world over. A strength many British authors have is their ability to take even the basest and most common phrases and imbue them with a classy, decidedly British flavor. How they do this is a matter of speculation. Is it the accent? The waned imperialism? Leprechaun powers? No one is certain. What's important is that they do possess this talent. So let's see how various british authors would revise common phrases you and I hear every day:
Common English: "Shut it, bitch."
William Shakespeare: "Close thine chortling bread-pipe, knave, for thou art composed of little else but villainy and dog-taint."
Percy Shelley: "I would insist with the utmost firmness and sincerity that you refrain from your current speakings and postulations by banishing your tongue to the deserted nether-portions of your mandible, hitherto known as "it", and secure the posture of that priorly held exile until a later date in which I find your tonage less displeasing to my comforts, you wretched wretching wretchy wretch wretch."
Depeche Mode: Enjoy the Silence
Virginia Woolf: "Shut it, not unlike the phrase oft uttered by my youngest cousin Charles during my girlhood summers passed long ago at my father's brother, Cedric's, estate in East Windoncovey. Father often sent us to Uncle's for the hot summer months when the city smog came to be quite unbearable, sent us away to the dew soaked geraniums and oaks of the ivy hewn East Windoncovey manor to toil away the heat alone in his study, staring through taut nerves and watery eyes at the latest news of his ailing investments whilst awash with the sharp odors of whiskey and his own shortcomings. Cousin Charles was a lad of hue and vigor despite his frequent sickly disposition. So many warm summer days, the sun drizzling radiance to fall like hot, bright rain drops on the sill of his sickroom, days spent as I and the other cousins would gather round the foot of his bed to idle in one another's company. So often, one of us would stand at the cusp of that sill and stare out at the illumination beckoning and blanketing the wispy branches that languidly swayed in sweet pollen breezes unfelt through the window's pane. How often would one of us feel our heart swell with this splendor and, wishing to taste the summer on our skin, would turn to Charles and inquire with the madness of youths yearning for soft sunlight, would ask 'What's to be done of this window? The day is indeed lovely, is it not? Should it remain cracked so slightly? Should it not be thrown open to let in the glories of the season!? What be it, then? What's to be done of this window, Charles?' And Charles, bright Charles, of his rose hues and ceaseless smiling, knowing only a life of interiors and medicines and fevers and beds, he would turn to hide his falling features and say of the window simply 'Shut it'."
Common English: "Shut it, bitch."
William Shakespeare: "Close thine chortling bread-pipe, knave, for thou art composed of little else but villainy and dog-taint."
Percy Shelley: "I would insist with the utmost firmness and sincerity that you refrain from your current speakings and postulations by banishing your tongue to the deserted nether-portions of your mandible, hitherto known as "it", and secure the posture of that priorly held exile until a later date in which I find your tonage less displeasing to my comforts, you wretched wretching wretchy wretch wretch."
Depeche Mode: Enjoy the Silence
Virginia Woolf: "Shut it, not unlike the phrase oft uttered by my youngest cousin Charles during my girlhood summers passed long ago at my father's brother, Cedric's, estate in East Windoncovey. Father often sent us to Uncle's for the hot summer months when the city smog came to be quite unbearable, sent us away to the dew soaked geraniums and oaks of the ivy hewn East Windoncovey manor to toil away the heat alone in his study, staring through taut nerves and watery eyes at the latest news of his ailing investments whilst awash with the sharp odors of whiskey and his own shortcomings. Cousin Charles was a lad of hue and vigor despite his frequent sickly disposition. So many warm summer days, the sun drizzling radiance to fall like hot, bright rain drops on the sill of his sickroom, days spent as I and the other cousins would gather round the foot of his bed to idle in one another's company. So often, one of us would stand at the cusp of that sill and stare out at the illumination beckoning and blanketing the wispy branches that languidly swayed in sweet pollen breezes unfelt through the window's pane. How often would one of us feel our heart swell with this splendor and, wishing to taste the summer on our skin, would turn to Charles and inquire with the madness of youths yearning for soft sunlight, would ask 'What's to be done of this window? The day is indeed lovely, is it not? Should it remain cracked so slightly? Should it not be thrown open to let in the glories of the season!? What be it, then? What's to be done of this window, Charles?' And Charles, bright Charles, of his rose hues and ceaseless smiling, knowing only a life of interiors and medicines and fevers and beds, he would turn to hide his falling features and say of the window simply 'Shut it'."