I love the prose that is motionless and awful as mountain ridges.
I love the prose that plays and rejoices like a waving forest filled with birds in summer.
I love the prose which I see standing there before me, with its sentences, like a city of marble.
I love the prose that descends upon me like a golden shower of words.
I love the sentences that march like troops of broad-backed men, walking abreast, shoulder to shoulder, following one on the other in ever-widening ranks, up hill, down dale, with the tramp of their footsteps and the heavy movement of their strides. I love sentences that sound like voices underground, but come rising, rising, louder and in greater numbers, and pass and rise and ring and echo in the heavens.
I love words that arrive suddenly, as though from very far, shooting forth in golden brilliancy from a rift in the blue sky, or toppling high in the air, like dark rocks discharged from a straining volcano.
I love words that bang down upon me like falling rafters, or words that hiss past me like bullets.
I love words which I see standing there unexpectedly, like poppies or blue cornflowers in a field.
I love words that suddenly waft a perfume to me from the course of the style, like incense from a church-door or scent from a woman's handkerchief in the street.
I love words that in a moment rise softly, like a child's murmuring voice, from under the droning style.