Ars scribendi...

The general consensus seems to be that my style of writing is very good. I am, confessedly, rather surprised by this because I had not heretofore considered my writing to be any better than your average genius...that absurdly grandiose and arrogant quip being my Sunday attempt at humour. I am sure HH Zephyrinus II knows what I mean...

Writing requires some skill, I suppose, and intelligence. But there is probably more to it than mere skill. Superlative writing, such as you will find in the works of Tolkien, Wilde, Dante, St Augustine, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy (I have, of course, deliberately missed out many worthy writers) probably requires some art beyond skill, a special Grace from God perhaps. My own writing, however (and not that I would dream of comparing this frivolous blog endeavour to any great author), suffers something grievous. Some posts, when I read them back to myself after they are published, lack something. I think either that they are poorly expressed (as is often the case, I can't seem to articulate some thoughts - if they are ineffable then this is to be expected, but often this is not the case), have an impoverished vocabulary, or, having ''writer's block'' (as I do right at this moment, incidentally!), I make recourse to the same modes of expression and the same words (those of you who read my post about Westminster might recall that I kept saying ''beautiful'' this, and ''marvellous'' that), or I seem to fall short of actually making a point about something - this is often the case with my academic writings.

Someone suggested that I should get some of the material on this blog published. I am flattered that you think my writing is that good (whoever said it, I can't presently remember), but who would publish it, and why, and for whom? I'd have to expand and edit some of it, of course, but how do you distinguish between what is and what isn't publishable? I think I would only publish stuff for pecuniary reasons...perhaps I'd never have to work at...that place...again. If so, great! Modern literature does, of course, portray a terrible crisis of artistic competence. When I read English Literature at GCSE, we had to read the most atrocious prose and poetry imaginable from a green anthology...St Paul's Compendium of C**p I called it, and it put me off pursuing literature to A Level. Would that I had designed the Syllabus! But this rubbish modern literature, or what passes for literature at any rate, needs to be done away with and perhaps those with the talent for writing ought to replace it. The same goes for ''Harry Potter,'' a series I had not hitherto mentioned on this blog; I loathe it cordially. God help the poor children who read it, to the ruin of their taste! I am, after all, enraged by the mere fact of its existence! O tempora! O mores!

Anyway, lamely I must conclude this post as my bedroom looks like the playground of an insane child...well perhaps not that bad, but there are books and papers scattered about the place and this needs to be sorted. Naturally, having Asperger Syndrome, I am meticulous and tidy in almost every detail, but to be so inclined requires lots of time, and at the moment, this is exactly what I lack. Yes, I could have attended to it on Friday, but I was completely disinclined.