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Absalom, Absalom! ">When William Faulkner Set the World Record for Writing the Longest Sentence in Literature: Read the 1,288-Word Sentence from Absalom, Absalom!

in Books , Literature , Writing | March 14th, 2019 39 Comments

Image by Carl Van Vecht­en, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

“How did Faulkn­er pull it off?” is a ques­tion many a fledg­ling writer has asked them­selves while strug­gling through a peri­od of appren­tice­ship like that nov­el­ist John Barth describes in his 1999 talk “My Faulkn­er.” Barth “ reorches­trat­ed ” his lit­er­ary heroes, he says, “in search of my writer­ly self… down­load­ing my innu­mer­able pre­de­ces­sors as only an insa­tiable green appren­tice can.” Sure­ly a great many writ­ers can relate when Barth says, “it was Faulkn­er at his most invo­lut­ed and incan­ta­to­ry who most enchant­ed me.” For many a writer, the Faulkner­ian sen­tence is an irre­sistible labyrinth. His syn­tax has a way of weav­ing itself into the uncon­scious, emerg­ing as fair to mid­dling imi­ta­tion.

While study­ing at Johns Hop­kins Uni­ver­si­ty, Barth found him­self writ­ing about his native East­ern Shore Mary­land in a pas­tiche style of “mid­dle Faulkn­er and late Joyce.” He may have won some praise from a vis­it­ing young William Sty­ron, “but the fin­ished opus didn’t fly—for one thing, because Faulkn­er inti­mate­ly knew  his Snopses and Comp­sons and Sar­toris­es, as I did not know my made-up denizens of the Mary­land marsh.” The advice to write only what you know may not be worth much as a uni­ver­sal com­mand­ment. But study­ing the way that Faulkn­er wrote when he turned to the sub­jects he knew best pro­vides an object les­son on how pow­er­ful a lit­er­ary resource inti­ma­cy can be.

Not only does Faulkner’s deep affil­i­a­tion with his char­ac­ters’ inner lives ele­vate his por­traits far above the lev­el of local col­or or region­al­ist curios­i­ty, but it ani­mates his sen­tences, makes them con­stant­ly move and breathe. No mat­ter how long and twist­ed they get, they do not wilt, with­er, or drag; they run riv­er-like, turn­ing around in asides, out­rag­ing them­selves and dou­bling and tripling back. Faulkner’s inti­ma­cy is not earnest­ness, it is the uncan­ny feel­ing of a raw encounter with a nerve cen­ter light­ing up with infor­ma­tion, all of it seem­ing­ly crit­i­cal­ly impor­tant.

It is the extra­or­di­nary sen­so­ry qual­i­ty of his prose that enabled Faulkn­er to get away with writ­ing the longest sen­tence in lit­er­a­ture, at least accord­ing to the 1983 Guin­ness Book of World Records , a pas­sage from Absa­lom, Absa­lom! c onsist­ing of 1,288 words and who knows how many dif­fer­ent kinds of claus­es. There are now longer sen­tences in Eng­lish writ­ing. Jonathan Coe’s The Rotter’s Club   ends with a 33-page long whop­per with 13,955 words in it. Entire nov­els hun­dreds of pages long have been writ­ten in one sen­tence in oth­er lan­guages. All of Faulkner’s mod­ernist con­tem­po­raries, includ­ing of course Joyce, Wolff, and Beck­ett, mas­tered the use of run-ons , to dif­fer­ent effect.

But, for a time, Faulkn­er took the run-on as far as it could go. He may have had no inten­tion of inspir­ing post­mod­ern fic­tion, but one of its best-known nov­el­ists, Barth, only found his voice by first writ­ing a “heav­i­ly Faulkner­ian marsh-opera.” Many hun­dreds of exper­i­men­tal writ­ers have had almost iden­ti­cal expe­ri­ences try­ing to exor­cise the Oxford, Mis­sis­sip­pi modernist’s voice from their prose. Read that one­time longest sen­tence in lit­er­a­ture, all 1,288 words of it, below.

Just exact­ly like Father if Father had known as much about it the night before I went out there as he did the day after I came back think­ing Mad impo­tent old man who real­ized at last that there must be some lim­it even to the capa­bil­i­ties of a demon for doing harm, who must have seen his sit­u­a­tion as that of the show girl, the pony, who real­izes that the prin­ci­pal tune she prances to comes not from horn and fid­dle and drum but from a clock and cal­en­dar, must have seen him­self as the old wornout can­non which real­izes that it can deliv­er just one more fierce shot and crum­ble to dust in its own furi­ous blast and recoil, who looked about upon the scene which was still with­in his scope and com­pass and saw son gone, van­ished, more insu­per­a­ble to him now than if the son were dead since now (if the son still lived) his name would be dif­fer­ent and those to call him by it strangers and what­ev­er dragon’s out­crop­ping of Sut­pen blood the son might sow on the body of what­ev­er strange woman would there­fore car­ry on the tra­di­tion, accom­plish the hered­i­tary evil and harm under anoth­er name and upon and among peo­ple who will nev­er have heard the right one; daugh­ter doomed to spin­ster­hood who had cho­sen spin­ster­hood already before there was any­one named Charles Bon since the aunt who came to suc­cor her in bereave­ment and sor­row found nei­ther but instead that calm absolute­ly impen­e­tra­ble face between a home­spun dress and sun­bon­net seen before a closed door and again in a cloudy swirl of chick­ens while Jones was build­ing the cof­fin and which she wore dur­ing the next year while the aunt lived there and the three women wove their own gar­ments and raised their own food and cut the wood they cooked it with (excus­ing what help they had from Jones who lived with his grand­daugh­ter in the aban­doned fish­ing camp with its col­laps­ing roof and rot­ting porch against which the rusty scythe which Sut­pen was to lend him, make him bor­row to cut away the weeds from the door-and at last forced him to use though not to cut weeds, at least not veg­etable weeds ‑would lean for two years) and wore still after the aunt’s indig­na­tion had swept her back to town to live on stolen gar­den truck and out o f anony­mous bas­kets left on her front steps at night, the three of them, the two daugh­ters negro and white and the aunt twelve miles away watch­ing from her dis­tance as the two daugh­ters watched from theirs the old demon, the ancient vari­cose and despair­ing Faus­tus fling his final main now with the Creditor’s hand already on his shoul­der, run­ning his lit­tle coun­try store now for his bread and meat, hag­gling tedious­ly over nick­els and dimes with rapa­cious and pover­ty-strick­en whites and negroes, who at one time could have gal­loped for ten miles in any direc­tion with­out cross­ing his own bound­ary, using out of his mea­gre stock the cheap rib­bons and beads and the stale vio­lent­ly-col­ored can­dy with which even an old man can seduce a fif­teen-year-old coun­try girl, to ruin the grand­daugh­ter o f his part­ner, this Jones-this gan­gling malar­ia-rid­den white man whom he had giv­en per­mis­sion four­teen years ago to squat in the aban­doned fish­ing camp with the year-old grand­child-Jones, part­ner porter and clerk who at the demon’s com­mand removed with his own hand (and maybe deliv­ered too) from the show­case the can­dy beads and rib­bons, mea­sured the very cloth from which Judith (who had not been bereaved and did not mourn) helped the grand­daugh­ter to fash­ion a dress to walk past the loung­ing men in, the side-look­ing and the tongues, until her increas­ing bel­ly taught her embar­rass­ment-or per­haps fear;-Jones who before ’61 had not even been allowed to approach the front of the house and who dur­ing the next four years got no near­er than the kitchen door and that only when he brought the game and fish and veg­eta­bles on which the seducer-to-be’s wife and daugh­ter (and Clytie too, the one remain­ing ser­vant, negro, the one who would for­bid him to pass the kitchen door with what he brought) depend­ed on to keep life in them, but who now entered the house itself on the (quite fre­quent now) after­noons when the demon would sud­den­ly curse the store emp­ty of cus­tomers and lock the door and repair to the rear and in the same tone in which he used to address his order­ly or even his house ser­vants when he had them (and in which he doubt­less ordered Jones to fetch from the show­case the rib­bons and beads and can­dy) direct Jones to fetch the jug, the two of them (and Jones even sit­ting now who in the old days, the old dead Sun­day after­noons of monot­o­nous peace which they spent beneath the scup­per­nong arbor in the back yard, the demon lying in the ham­mock while Jones squat­ted against a post, ris­ing from time to time to pour for the demon from the demi­john and the buck­et of spring water which he had fetched from the spring more than a mile away then squat­ting again, chortling and chuck­ling and say­ing ‘Sho, Mis­ter Tawm’ each time the demon paused)-the two of them drink­ing turn and turn about from the jug and the demon not lying down now nor even sit­ting but reach­ing after the third or sec­ond drink that old man’s state of impo­tent and furi­ous unde­feat in which he would rise, sway­ing and plung­ing and shout­ing for his horse and pis­tols to ride sin­gle-hand­ed into Wash­ing­ton and shoot Lin­coln (a year or so too late here) and Sher­man both, shout­ing, ‘Kill them! Shoot them down like the dogs they are!’ and Jones: ‘Sho, Ker­nel; sho now’ and catch­ing him as he fell and com­man­deer­ing the first pass­ing wag­on to take him to the house and car­ry him up the front steps and through the paint­less for­mal door beneath its fan­light import­ed pane by pane from Europe which Judith held open for him to enter with no change, no alter­ation in that calm frozen face which she had worn for four years now, and on up the stairs and into the bed­room and put him to bed like a baby and then lie down him­self on the floor beside the bed though not to sleep since before dawn the man on the bed would stir and groan and Jones would say, ‘fly­er I am, Ker­nel. Hit’s all right. They aint whupped us yit, air they?’ this Jones who after the demon rode away with the reg­i­ment when the grand­daugh­ter was only eight years old would tell peo­ple that he ‘was lookin after Major’s place and nig­gers’ even before they had time to ask him why he was not with the troops and per­haps in time came to believe the lie him­self, who was among the first to greet the demon when he returned, to meet him at the gate and say, ‘Well, Ker­nel, they kilt us but they aint whupped us yit, air they?’ who even worked, labored, sweat at the demon’s behest dur­ing that first furi­ous peri­od while the demon believed he could restore by sheer indomitable will­ing the Sutpen’s Hun­dred which he remem­bered and had lost, labored with no hope of pay or reward who must have seen long before the demon did (or would admit it) that the task was hope­less-blind Jones who appar­ent­ly saw still in that furi­ous lech­er­ous wreck the old fine fig­ure of the man who once gal­loped on the black thor­ough­bred about that domain two bound­aries of which the eye could not see from any point.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

5 Won­der­ful­ly Long Lit­er­ary Sen­tences by Samuel Beck­ett, Vir­ginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzger­ald & Oth­er Mas­ters of the Run-On

Sev­en Tips From William Faulkn­er on How to Write Fic­tion

William Faulkn­er Reads from As I Lay Dying

Josh Jones  is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at  @jdmagness

by Josh Jones | Permalink | Comments (39) |

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Comments (39), 39 comments so far.

Imag­ine read­ing a nov­el with a sen­tence that was 40 000 words long!

Ya know ya got ya ya girl ya ya know ya ya boy you got caught with them and then ya got a robot in the car with a car in your head that was the best dog ever and you can call me and call him when I wan­na is it time I get off work I will see if I got­ta I wan­na is a time I got a ride truck truck ride and iiiu­uyr

How did you do that. the longest thing that I have ever wrote was a 600 word para­graph and I just wrote that.

I think this is so cool that he spent this time on it but who would real­ly read this all

omg i have to read this about a week and im done and i just want to say this have made my day

i have wrote a sto­ry which has 12083 words in it. i broke the world record. but they did not give the award because i was a kid :C

Read this in an hour eas­i­ly

@arkin “It is sup­pos­ed­ly the world’s longest pub­lished nov­el in Eng­lish at 2.5 mil­lion words. If you have some extra time, you can read it at marienbadmylove.com. 4. A la recherche du temps per­du by Mar­cel Proust.”

I got a sen­tence that was 5639 words long

i just looked it up so can can copy and paste it on my school chat for fun not to read

I just want­ed to say, i real­ly like cheese, and…i think…i think my teacher is mad at me sry wait…shes mad because i was ask­ing my oth­er teacher ques­tions about work online… hmmm.…my teacher sure is a ##### ass fem­i­nist…

shutcho pick­el chin as up

i just wrote a sen­tence with 1,289 words so ha

oh real­ly i doubt it

oh real­ly i doubt it.

Maybe fact check before com­ing up with such bla­tant lies. 12083 is a mid length nov­el­ette.

hel­lo, I like to play Fort­nite it is a real­ly good game.

i just read this in a day

owfr­jt­nrgkzcb­vwruogjlv­da­jng­wruo­jl­nvdak­jefn­lvk aij hii­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­i­ii

This was so long

jfeo’is­b­hoaub­h­fvion­ad­k­fvb­skjvb efn­vkjnb­sx­uh­bgv hii­i­ii

Wow final­ly a wor­thy oppo­nent.

this has one word in it first per­son to see the gets $100 cash app njhce­whfb whebfuewhfjwenifbewiubfiebfebwqjfbwejnfewihfiuhweniufjeuirhfiuerfburiebfiewbjfkwefqhcewfhepwuhfiuwerfuiwqerpifjbruegferiuhfiuerwhfuiifewiviiuhuihrgiobguhtrbiuhtreiubhriurhviuwrhiuvht4rnrijpewvpiefhwnovjibrfpierfnhvipuerbfviuphrwipjvnwefkjvnpwiefv pirfnh­piejpo­er­w­pivher­w­poivh­wepri­u­vipr evi­jn­rei­jn­ro­jvwe­jr­fvoijer­reiobfr iuvfrvjo frvjr­weoijb­vweio­jr­foi­w­er­vice­br­wou­vb­wer­ou­vu perivoerijvoiuwerbviouweroiuberouvberfoefubvouiwriuebrouweuberwiuvherivyherwiubvewiurobviuwervuwervouwrewoiuvherwiuoeHIewijvhferiucbuhewjdhfewiufdhiu3riuheriufheriuhfiuerhfiuhwreiufhirwhiufhwiurhfiuhreiuhfiuheriwfhriehfiuerwhufihreuifheirhfiuwheruifherwoiuwfheruhwifhreiuhwoiuhfuerhfhwruifhriuehfueri

is it the word “be” found in the 17th, and 18th let­ters?

this is not a long para­graph it is mul­ti­ple

I am just not as pret­ty as my friend Haylee she is fab so give me a chance for this job

This has the word “his” in it

Had to trans­late this for his­to­ry class so I chose this sentence(How fing stu­pid of me)

That Was A lot Of Words

Bro I copied this and held paste and send it to my friend XD

no you did’t:>

uhm, I put this in a word counter and its not 1,288, its 1,304. please fix this :3

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The World’s Longest Sentence

The majority of readers would concur that it sometimes takes more than one reading to fully understand an extremely long sentence in a book. Although there are many lengthy monologues and multi-line descriptions in literature, the chapter from American author William Faulkner ‘s 1936 novel Absalom, Absalom! that was recognised in the 1983 Guinness Book of World Records was the longest ever written.

1,288 words and many clauses make up the lengthy run-on phrase. Reading requires perseverance, but once you get into the flow, it’s like dipping into Faulkner’s stream of consciousness. Since then, hundreds of authors have been inspired by the experimental writer’s sentence structure, including James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Samuel Beckett, and other modern literature greats.

The complete phrase is as follows:

“The son of a father to whom history will accord certain attenuating circumstances, but also as worthy of esteem as that father had been of blame; possessing all private virtues and many public virtues; careful of his health, of his fortune, of his person, of his affairs, knowing the value of a minute and not always the value of a year; sober, serene, peaceable, patient; a good man and a good prince; sleeping with his wife, and having in his palace lackeys charged with the duty of showing the conjugal bed to the bourgeois, an ostentation of the regular sleeping-apartment which had become useful after the former illegitimate displays of the elder branch; knowing all the languages of Europe, and, what is more rare, all the languages of all interests, and speaking them; an admirable representative of the “middle class,” but outstripping it, and in every way greater than it; possessing excellent sense, while appreciating the blood from which he had sprung, counting most of all on his intrinsic worth, and, on the question of his race, very particular, declaring himself Orleans and not Bourbon; thoroughly the first Prince of the Blood Royal while he was still only a Serene Highness, but a frank bourgeois from the day he became king; diffuse in public, concise in private; reputed, but not proved to be a miser; at bottom, one of those economists who are readily prodigal at their own fancy or duty; lettered, but not very sensitive to letters; a gentleman, but not a chevalier; simple, calm, and strong; adored by his family and his household; a fascinating talker, an undeceived statesman, inwardly cold, dominated by immediate interest, always governing at the shortest range, incapable of rancor and of gratitude, making use without mercy of superiority on mediocrity, clever in getting parliamentary majorities to put in the wrong those mysterious unanimities which mutter dully under thrones; unreserved, sometimes imprudent in his lack of reserve, but with marvellous address in that imprudence; fertile in expedients, in countenances, in masks; making France fear Europe and Europe France! Incontestably fond of his country, but preferring his family; assuming more domination than authority and more authority than dignity, a disposition which has this unfortunate property, that as it turns everything to success, it admits of ruse and does not absolutely repudiate baseness, but which has this valuable side, that it preserves politics from violent shocks, the state from fractures, and society from catastrophes; minute, correct, vigilant, attentive, sagacious, indefatigable; contradicting himself at times and giving himself the lie; bold against Austria at Ancona, obstinate against England in Spain, bombarding Antwerp, and paying off Pritchard; singing the Marseillaise with conviction, inaccessible to despondency, to lassitude, to the taste for the beautiful and the ideal, to daring generosity, to Utopia, to chimeras, to wrath, to vanity, to fear; possessing all the forms of personal intrepidity; a general at Valmy; a soldier at Jemappes; attacked eight times by regicides and always smiling; brave as a grenadier, courageous as a thinker; uneasy only in the face of the chances of a European shaking up, and unfitted for great political adventures; always ready to risk his life, never his work; disguising his will in influence, in order that he might be obeyed as an intelligence rather than as a king; endowed with observation and not with divination; not very attentive to minds, but knowing men, that is to say requiring to see in order to judge; prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wisdom, easy speech, prodigious memory; drawing incessantly on this memory, his only point of resemblance with Caesar, Alexander, and Napoleon; knowing deeds, facts, details, dates, proper names, ignorant of   tendencies, passions, the diverse geniuses of the crowd, the interior aspirations, the hidden and obscure uprisings of souls, in a word, all that can be designated as the invisible currents of consciences; accepted by the surface, but little in accord with France lower down; extricating himself by dint of tact; governing too much and not enough; his own first minister; excellent at creating out of the pettiness of realities an obstacle to the immensity of ideas; mingling a genuine creative faculty of civilization, of order and organization, an indescribable spirit of proceedings and chicanery, the founder and lawyer of a dynasty; having something of Charlemagne and something of an attorney; in short, a lofty and original figure, a prince who understood how to create authority in spite of the uneasiness of France, and power in spite of the jealousy of Europe, — Louis Philippe will be classed among the eminent men of his century, and would be ranked among the most illustrious governors of history had he loved glory but a little, and if he had had the sentiment of what is great to the same degree as the feeling for what is useful.”

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The paragraph

I was searching for “longest paragraph in English literature,” but all the entries were about sentences. The most frequently cited was William Faulkner’s 1,288-word wonder, rambling and full of runons, and nineteen words longer than this essay—from the novel Absalom, Absalom! , published in 1936. There are longer sentences in the record. Jonathan Coe’s The Rotters’ Club contains one of 13,955 words. Then there’s Nigel Tomm, whose The Blah Story “demolishes the barrier of words and meaning,” as a two-star Goodreads review puts it. Volumes 16-19 of this series comprise a sentence of nearly half a million words. Or at least that’s what the internet says; I’m not sure I’ll ever get around to reading Coe or Tomm. (My forehead may be high, but my brow is low.) Generally Faulkner’s sentence gets the nod as the longest “proper” sentence. 

My search for longest paragraph was due to a recent addition to my nightstand books. On my visits to the libraries in nearby towns, I always look for the book sale section. Just about every library has one. Sometimes there’s a little box for you to pay for your purchases, strictly on the honor system, and sometimes you pay a person—a librarian or a Friends of the Library volunteer. I often buy something. The prices are great, anywhere from a quarter to three dollars per book. The money goes straight to  the library, and when I’m done reading I can drop the book in a donations bin to keep the cycle going. 

I paid $2 for William Kennedy’s O Albany! (published in 1983) at the Tufts Library in Weymouth. It was my first visit to Tufts since a big remodeling a few years back. When Sonny was a kid, we would visit the library and the park behind it a couple of times a month. There were swings, benches, a playground, an amphitheater, and a big slide set into a hillside. Plus a Dunkin’ in walking distance. The big slide and swings were long gone, along with my need to amuse Sonny with playgrounds, but the playground remained, and the library was much bigger. Lots of places to sit and work, art everywhere, grandfather clocks!, warm lighting in the stacks, and a bookstore room on the mezzanine floor. The Kennedy book was atop one of the piles in the nonfiction section. 

I’d heard of Kennedy but never read him. All I knew about Albany was that it’s the capital  of New York. I had driven through Albany around thirty years ago while on my journey from Chicago to Boston. I didn’t stop; my mind was set on Massachusetts. It’s a pity. Albany, settled in 1614, incorporated in 1686, a state capital since 1797, is—as Kennedy’s subtitle promises—an “Improbable City of Political Wizards, Fearless Ethnics, Spectacular Aristocrats, Splendid Nobodies, and Underrated Scoundrels.” It would have been worth a look. 

I added O Albany! to the nightstand pile and started reading it in my usual fashion, a few pages at a time. As stopping points, my habit is to use either a formal section end or the end of the first paragraph on a left-hand page. It turned out to be the kind of book I like: detailed, historical, with lots of back-room deals and double-crosses. Kennedy’s energetic, unfussy writing style, as well as his content, a city and the Democratic machine that ran it, reminded me of Mike Royko, who is one of my favorite writers of all time. Royko was a columnist for the Chicago Sun Times and then, when that paper was bought by Rupert Murdoch, the Chicago Tribune. I loved his pieces about Chicago places and characters. Action and intrigue that the giddiest space or soap opera can’t match! 

The fourth chapter in the Kennedy was titled “North Albany: Crucible for a Childhood.” It began with a winter’s day in the 1930s, when Kennedy was a child. His  mother slipped on some ice on her apartment’s front steps, tumbling to the sidewalk and breaking her glasses. As she lay on the sidewalk an neighborhood man approached, greeted her politely by name, stepped over her and the glasses, and continued on his way to work. 

Great start to the chapter! I kept reading. The narrative in the chapter was organized along stream-of-consciousness principles and was now recalling a public pool owned by Henry Gratton Finn. My eyelids felt heavy, so I looked for a paragraph break. It was then that I realized there wasn’t one in sight. I paged back to Chapter 3: standard-sized paragraphs. Forward to Chapter 5: same. But in Chapter 4 there was one paragraph, twenty single-spaced pages long. 

Paragraphing comes from the Greek paragraphos, which means “to write beside.” It’s amazing to think how much thought has gone into presenting the written word. Innovations include spaces between words, punctuation, conventions for the direction of a text, and paragraphs. The paragraphos was a symbol that indicated where the speaker or thought changed. Eventually it became a printer’s sign, the pilcrow, indicating the need to leave room for a big fancy capital letter to start a new section, later simplified as indentation and then just an extra line of blank space. Then came the idea that a paragraph was one or more sentences expressing a point. 

My sense is that paragraphs today tend to be shorter than in the days of my youth. Is that because of our collapsing attention spans? Because there are some great writers who are masters of pith? Or does it make it easier to fit in a few extra ads in between? I dunno. But on the night I started Chapter 4, I had happened unawares upon a Himalaya-sized graph. I knew from my armchair mountaineering that patience is most likely to conquer a peak, so I read the first couple of sentences at the top of the page 28 and camped for the night.   

Kennedy’s writing hadn’t seemed particularly highbrow. However, he was writing in a time of great experimentation in form and tone. Kennedy—who is 96 as of this writing—was born in Albany in 1928 to a working-class Irish and Catholic family. As the book’s title shows, he was well aware of Faulkner’s Absalom. Early in his career Kennedy worked as a journalist in New York, in Europe (for the US Army), and in San Juan. While in San Juan he became friends with Hunter S. Thompson, an innovator extraordinaire. Kennedy returned to Albany in his 30s, where he worked as an investigative reporter for the Albany Times Union and wrote a lot of stories about the machine. His first novel,  1969’s The Ink Truck , was set in Albany, as are many of his novels. One of those Albany novels, Ironweed, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1984. 

None of the sentences inside Chapter 4 was overlong. I concentrated on enjoying the climb, page after page, night after night. It took close to a week to finish the chapter, since I was also reading other of the nightstand books and intent on completion without the supplementary oxygen of skimming or skipping ahead. 

At last I came to page 42, where Kennedy closed out the chapter with a meditation about the benefits of sentiment, and even of sentimentalism. No spoilers, I promise! That long paragraph suggested an answer for a question that I have had about myself, and maybe helps explain why I, a rootless person, am so entranced by books that are tied to a particular place and time. It started me thinking of how and where to set my roots, and which library to visit next. 

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Published by Jean Pace

Thanks for visiting the jeanSpace! I explore writing, the creative process, music, nature, history, life in an autistic family, and various random stuff that grabs my attention. Thanks for reading! Some of these essays are available as podcasts on platforms including Spotify, Stitcher, Apple, etc. View all posts by Jean Pace

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The World's Longest Sentence (5237 words)

Once upon a while back there was an ambitious contortionist who made up his mind he would try to conquer the twenty-seventh highest dead volcano on Neptune, with his tongue secretly hiding behind his overweight postman's Swedish Hi-Fi set and the shoelaces of his Persian Ugh boots stubbornly caught on the corner of the round Toongabbie equestrian sports complex, while he would try to breed miniature brown cicadas inside a quickly rotating water-heater with seven silk pillowcases hanging from his uneducated vacuum cleaner which would be chained around his navel, and ask if his second grand-stepfather has heard of any orange-flavoured Portuguese atomic submarines in the neighbourhood lately that have precisely half of their crews attempting to break the 1958 record for mass voluntary electrocution whilst being sponsored by the dangerous chrysanthemum division of Interflora, who have recently gone bankrupt due to the discovery of an overcrowding of rebellious screwdrivers in the Martian stratosphere last week, when salamanders controlled nine hours forty-seven minutes of the 1978 Pakistani croquet final between the lower Philadelphia fishmonger recruiting officer and Karl Marx's younger brother Harpo, who has not seen his bedroom since the Mexican figure-skating champion booked fourteen tomatoes for exceeding the post-war speed limit and lost his balance whilst trying to hunt abominable snowmen at the Olympics with a soggy sultana hidden inside his chaperone's nightshirt which, in 1947, when John Lennon first washed his face and socks in the same country, had its only steel-plated sleeve melted off by the self-appointed chairman of Doubtful Drainpipes Destruction Company under the New Moscow Harbour Bridge which is, at present, rusting severely, due to a heavy downpour of talcum powder over at Disneyland and also due to sixteen undernourished lizards going into a deep, meditating coma without asking their mothers, who were not about to stand for this caper and sat down immediately, squashing Winston Churchill's scale model of Albert Einstein's theory of relativity, which was about to be tested for leakages by the Unemployed Dandelion Research Institution of Dublin, the only city in the Northern Hemisphere to have nine-tenths of its population with an I.Q. less than the average shoe size of the Australian woman, which is seven, but would be more if Neil Armstrong, the best marbles player to walk the surface of the moon, had not decided that he would accept the challenge to be the first and only man to extract his own eardrum while suffering from severe cramps in the left thumbnail, because Franklin D. Roosevelt once put on his coat inside out, which did not seem like a particularly good reason at all, but, considering the fact that the great tennis ball makers' strike of 1904 was, in fact, a fraud, he felt that he could not let the United States of America down who had already bet four buttons and a can of coconut milk on his success and hoped that he would survive the operation which had full, live television coverage by the Ethnic Ethiopians' Broadcasting Commission (E.E.B.C.) in a program with five different commercials showing how to get sperm whales with thick dandruff out of your backyard swimming pool by calling the "sperm Whales with Dandruff in the Backyard Pool Removal Service," who instantly give a free measure and quote, on the condition that the sperm whale to be removed is not suffering from gravel rash, a symptom quite often associated with Outer Mongolian malaria, the only disease in the world except, of course the 'flu, to pass the standards of the Waterloo Water Board, which were introduced six weeks ago because of the invention of shockproof, water-resistant, anti-magnetic, nuclear-explosion-proof sideburn trimmers (the greatest thing since sliced bread), and because of the remembrance of the first Anti-sliced Bread Protest March, which had to be cancelled due to a lack of support on the same afternoon as Norman Gunston's attempt to capture a smart Irishman which, while being unsuccessful, had to be satisfied by a blowfly of about the same intelligence extremely quickly, because the net profit of the experiment had to finance a joint venture between ESSO and BHP in which Norman's aunt's second husband's greengrocer's friend's hairdresser's mother-in-law was to have her false teeth removed by means of voodoo, which is at present practised only by an almost extinct race of politicians found only in the remote valley of Canberra who are trying very hard at the moment to keep the economic sky from falling on to their heads and subsequently avoid a quiet democratic dismissal by the public in a never-ending search for truth, justice and a cheap Christmas dinner which is not surrounded by enormous overheads comprising mostly of a few million dollars profit thrown in for the Artificial Christmas Turkey Company to make the industrial road smoother, and for good old Uncle P.M. in his private, mental straightjacket to tax merrily so as to have enough money to pull his head out of the clouds and his fingers out of his public image money box, which is the largest of its kind in the known world according to the latest annual survey carried out by N.A.S.A., which also showed that there has been a drop in the number of people willing to explain to their bosses why their two-week sick leave lasted nine years and why, when they are rung to be questioned about the reason for this peculiarity, the phone is always answered by a stuttering grandmother trying to persuade the inquirer into thinking there is something wrong with their telephone or that he has been dialling the wrong number for the past eight years eleven and a half months and when, after these possibilities have been overruled on the grounds that the phone was checked last year and that the inquirer has never rung a wrong number before in his life, an elderly vacuum cleaner salesman makes off with the telephone, never to be seen again by anyone alive, except his fellow vacuum cleaner salesmen, who arranged and secretly planned the whole operation without any help whatsoever from Berlin's newly elected Mayor - Mr Jerry Lewis Jnr who received this appointment because of his love of South American curry powder, since the prime ingredients are, of course, peppermint and Manhattan mushrooms, with no artificial flavouring, colouring or preservatives usually found in American suntan lotion worn by most of the population of Miami Beach, where a film appropriately named "The Fourth Return of Son of Son of Jaws XIX" (repeat) is being shot by a team of highly paid, unqualified voluntary producer/directors, who cannot really keep their greedy eyes off the admirable feminine figures that make up practically all of the film's screening time of forty-three hours sixteen and a half-minutes, except for the part where the tedious hero goes into an underwater cavern to search for lost victims of this pathetic shark, which is really half electronics, thought up simultaneously by one hundred and forty-two brigadier-generals, which may seem amazing, but is really nothing compared to the incredible twenty-three cents amassed over seventy-two years of solid devotion by eighty-six members of the Royal Philharmonic Choir in an effort unsurpassed since the year of completion (1978), when an enormous celebration was prepared that turned out to be as difficult to accomplish as dissecting an experimental nuclear warhead with a dried mosquito wing, with the complete collection of Status Quo's albums obstructing the view that is needed to perform this difficult operation, which once, and only once, was performed by the one and only John Smith, who is no relation to John Smith or the other John Smith, well known for his attempt to beat the monstrous rate of inflation by changing the price tag of every retail item in the country, which happened to be a miserable failure because the price tags were so well hidden by the shops concerned that he failed to find more than the six left exposed on the last remaining loaves of bread in the state of Queensland, which he did not buy, leaving them behind for the next seven hundred shopping-mad housewives to tear apart ferociously, trying to get as many crumbs as possible for their starving families waiting in the cars outside hoping for their darling mother's safety for the secret reason that they did not have anything else to do, as the family mother-in-law just passed away and there is a unanimously undecided decision to mourn with deep regret while celebrating joyously, with a mysterious reign of utter confusion governing the whole situation, which is also governed by the "No Small Talk Just Small Print Insurance Brokers", whose business is rapidly increasing because it has just been announced that they have insured Marty Feldman's eyes against normality for $600,000.63, an enormous sum of money, as the "600,000 dollars" part is profit for the insurance brokers, and actually only the "63c" part is the payment really made to poor old Marty, the funniest looking beetle ever to attempt to ski up a steep gravel road with no snow, no skis and his arms and legs tied behind his back since the ex-tap-dancing coach of Dizurted Island escaped from the Federal Penitentiary after serving a sentence nearly as long as this one for actually voting in a federal election, which might have been bad enough, but of course he had to go and make the whole ordeal worse by buying a bus ticket without accusing the bus driver of highway robbery or a similar offence, such as insulting the referee present at the gala day for the premier Czechoslovakian Embroidery Team who were undefeated in the season preceding the present one, where they lost only those two games because the teams they played in those games had decided to be cruel and turn up to compete with them in what is now proclaimed as being the most exciting competition sport in the known world, and special stadiums are rapidly being constructed all around the globe to cater for the millions interested in this fascinating, enthralling and totally mind-blowing spectacle being promoted by bee-sting scratching supervisors all around the world who do not want any new people joining the already overcrowded International Embroidery Association, because already multitudes of over-enthusiastic potential world champions are forgetting their life ambitions and running away to any one of the forty-add thousand clubs belonging to the I.E.A., or beginning new clubs, which is an original concept, but there are still the seventy club houses and gymnasiums being set up in Darwin alone that cannot be forgotten, but seeing that they ARE in Darwin, the club houses are therefore full of people not worth talking about, except for one drunk from (quote) "somewhere out behind that big, red rock by the name of Ayers" (unquote), who believes that the first life form on earth was a bartender, which is a slightly unusual view, but he backs up his argument by saying that the bartender must have been very successful because he had no competition in those days and who else could have begun the idea of forming the multitude of bartenders alive today which this drunk needs constantly but which Alcoholics Anonymous abhors, preferring Real Estate Agents much more, because, according to A.A., a Real Estate Agent - or rather his dog - was the first life form on earth, and that dog's master was not very successful because, although he could sell all the land he could see, he could not actually sell it to anybody, a complication which made him extremely depressed, and he started taking his frustrations out on his dog, who ran away to join a circus - or rather form a circus - because, of course, circuses had not been invented in those days, the days before the ages of watermelons, bread knives, letter openers, curtains, sunflower seeds, and thermo-nuclear disasters that wipe out entire street lights in one blast, a phenomenon which the manufacturers of the dog-repulsers surrounding the bottom of the telegraph poles involved are trying to have abolished, arid the efforts of one man, a Mr It-was-an-Accident-Sir, have contributed enormously to the success of their project which, in fact, was a failure due to the destructive influences of Mr I-Can't-Remember-My-Name Constable, who is also the proud owner of a set of twelve volumes of the International Orange Peel Preserving Encyclopaedia, which he won in a quiz show entitled "How much can you lose in thirty Seconds?", where Mr Constable lost over ninety thousand pounds, to become the night's winner of the worthless encyclopaedia idiocy, which is all a typical example of the heights to which people will go just to say that they have actually won something, even if they did lose more than they won, but nobody hears about that side of the story, except if it was somebody else's fault, which would result in the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, with a few odd lies coming out in a court of suit, very similar to a normal law court, except that in a law court where a murder case is being held, there is a general pandemonium in progress about who killed whom, and why or why not, with a geriatric judge quietly reading girlie magazines whilst some frantically emotional barrister calmly interviews a terrified witness who does not really know what happened and will not tell anyone anyway, because some queer fool of a colleague located next to this apparently brilliant barrister is repeating everything said by the latter with the utmost tedium, a factor of many which end up making the judge resentful, the barrister irritated, the opposing barrister still more irritated and a little furious, the witness not sure what the questions were about in the first place, the jury not sure about what they are doing there anyway, the audience sleepy, the government poorer, and the defendant guilty, a promising prospect for a certain potential murderer who is seriously considering making a full-time trade of depriving a human being of the right to reach senility, but there is a chance of his managing to escape the several thousand loyal policemen, several hundred self-loyal detectives, several million eager members of the general public looking for a scapegoat, several unsuccessful private detectives, and a mother-in-law who is still chasing him for injecting nitro-glycerine into her meat tenderiser in an attempt to make her stop sending him those tasteful beef casseroles which he accidentally fed to his four, once valuable, now paraplegic, German shepherds while trying in vain to remember what Dustin Hoffman gave the United Nations for Christmas in 1958, and at the same time the poor dogs were trying to imagine why their master gave them a bowl with a desk diary in it to drink with their meal and why he was wrapping up a box of water addressed to "The United Nations, c/o Everywhere", which the postman duly collected and lost in the carburettor of his new 1981 Lamborghini, that alone cost £46,000 new, but of course he did not buy this essential component new but second hand for a mere 1,410,000 Lire, because the previous owner wanted a fast sale as he was going abroad, which all goes to show, not that if postmen can afford Lamborghinis then postmen get paid too much, but that Lamborghinis are too cheap and therefore their price should treble so that only doctors, barristers, politicians and milkmen can afford them, in this way separating the rich from the poor in the community, so as a con-man would know with whose wife to become involved in a secret, close relationship lasting about $10,000, or if she really loved him then maybe about £46,000, or 1,410,000 Lire if the current rate of exchange stays stable as long as that, which is very unlikely, because the price of custom-built biorhythms is skyrocketing, due to the increased demand for them by heroin addicts and high-school teachers, who cannot cope with life by themselves, so they have to rent, buy or steal some extra biorhythms just to be able to keep themselves from having a nervous breakdown, or from shaving their legs and spleens, which a lot of them will do because their television told them to, but which a lot of them will do because their horoscope revealed to them that Venus was closer to Jupiter than that day's weather report, so that all Sagittarians would have a tremendous lift in their sex life, and that because the stars of Alpha X-74C-5, or ABCTV-2 were not in view (not counting the fact that a tree was in the way) then all Virgos would undergo a nose transplant, or twenty-four percent of all Geminis would find their true purpose in life at the bottom of a forty-foot snake pit confronted by an arm-wrestling champion, when all that is really going to happen is that astrologers are going to get richer and all the people who believe that their life depends on where a U.F.O. has decided to park are going to get poorer, but if some of them were Americans, then they could probably go on getting poorer indefinitely, seeing that the Americans, with their super-sophisticated technology, their thirty-foot long go-carts, their thirty-foot wide wallets, their air-flavoured pollution and their milkmen, have done everything except find an answer as to whether God (Amen) is communist, socialist, capitalist, democratic, or bored, whereas God (Amen) has really decided to become an independent state, not being ruled by the President (Amen) of America, and has gone to live on an island somewhere in South Andromeda, away from all the hustle and bustle of the modern bridge game, but unfortunately Mrs God (Awomen) does not like South Andromeda, as there are no shopping centres, bridge clubs, knitting needles or milkmen established in the immediate vicinity, which is almost completely occupied by one of the biggest schools in the galaxy, where Mr and Mrs God's family (Amass) can go and disrupt class just like all good little gods and goddesses, or boys and girls as well, who apparently grow up to be men and women according to the Irish National Bureau of Statistics, who have recently revealed that hordes of top scientists from that country are working on a brilliant invention that they are appropriately naming "the wheel", and they feel sure that it will be of infinite benefit to our modern-day life, according to a spokesman, who also said that they are going to sell the valuable patent rights to the Soviet Union for at least £48,000 or maybe, if they are lucky, 1,410,000 Lire, depending upon whether the Soviet Union needs the use of a wheel or two in its industry of making intercontinental ballistic missiles, international disagreements, lots of snow and not many milkmen, or depending upon whether the weather of the island of "Oh, Where on Earth am I" is going to remain at a constant tropical heat of about -68° Fahrenheit or whether the weather is going to become cold, which could lead to the beginning of another Ice Age, similar to the first one when man had only just crawled out of the primeval slime and was just beginning to wipe it all off, but he had to wait until he thought of inventing Kleenex before patiently continuing in what seemed to be a never-ending uphill battle until the invention of soap and sandpaper, which helped tremendously to clean but did not succeed in stopping the re-application of dirt by man again, and even to this day men are still trying to wash off this persistent filth in a strange ritual called a bath, performed in controlled situations called tubs under extremely high temperature absurdities by one - sometimes two, or maybe even three - persons if the World Cup final is on television, the television is in the bathroom and no one has had the intelligence to think of actually moving the television out of the bathroom so that the rest of the less intelligent bathroom inhabitants have an opportunity to get themselves into a living-room or similar room and in the end find out that the World Cup final has been cancelled and that they have to put up with two hours of solid commercials for everything under the sun except milkmen, who never advertise on television as they cannot afford to after purchasing their new Lamborghinis from a leading used car dealer in Harlem, New York, where Lamborghinis are nearly as expensive as Central Park mugger detectors, that are so expensive because the only users of them are the only inhabitants of Central Park - two squirrels and a car park - who really use the mugger detectors because they are shaped like yo-yos, so that the users can throw them into the nearest bush to see if a mugger has camped there for the night, and if one has, then the yo-yo will theoretically hit him on the head, betraying then his unique hiding place to the operator of the ingenious device which was thought up by a crack team of thirty practical jokers employed by IBICTUACITY (I Bet I Can Think Up A Crazier Idea Than You) Proprietary Limited, who are also available on an international long-playing record that is guaranteed to be the wrong size, the wrong shape and the wrong speed, so that the buyer ends up with a piece of worthless plastic that he can either burn or break, in which case he would break a world record for the most useless recording of an insane yo-yo manufacturer of Central Park, New York, an effort of which he could be proud, but for which he would get no recognition, on account of the fact that nobody on the known part of the globe would be interested in that record being broken, except a group of fanatics on records called "The Guinness Bureau of Records", who put out a best-selling book called "The Guinness Book of Records", that uses a special type of ink of very high quality in its printing to make sure that a person buying the book will be able to read it, this then giving the Book a considerable advantage over most of the other world-wide publications, which are usually illegible to the reader, even if the reader is of the same nationality as the writer, which is not very likely anyway, as writers are almost invariably the wrong nationality and speak the wrong language, a particularly difficult obstacle to overcome on the reader's behalf, except if the reader was an aardvark, which speaks every known language, strangely enough, with consistent fluency, which makes it an invaluable addition to any zoo, as the aardvark can instruct the zoo keeper as to what cage deodoriser it would like used on its cage on a certain day of the week or how many autographs it would like to sign for little girls with little grannies who visit the zoo on the condition that the proprietors of the zoo let the little granny play with the larger pythons and the exciting starfish, and the little girl play with Monty Python and the exciting stars, who are determined not to reveal to her their secrets of success or their recipe for strawberry pudding that only that one group of professional idiots are permitted to prepare, according to the Margaret Fulton's International Cookery Book edition of 1979 which has outsold "The Complete Book of Chewing Gum", which is distributed by the same people that organised the first official U.F.O.-spotting ceremony, where the person who spots the most unidentified flying objects in ten minutes wins the lucky door prize of a trip for two, one-way, to the planet of the winner's choice, where he can visit the historic origin of quite a few extra-terrestrial beings and become one of the many suckers to fail for that publicity stunt by "Acme Flying Saucer and Distant Planet Corporation" who, because they are the sole manufacturers of the incredibly intricate, sophisticated, patented garbage tin lid, and because they have claimed rights to any misapprehension arrived at by a member of the general public after seeing a shooting star or a lost reindeer in the upward vicinity of the universe, have found it very easy indeed to influence the media into thinking that there is, in fact, a thriving colony of green men of various sizes orbiting the Earth and bas been throughout the history of the gullible consumer and his parents, who are a vital element in the stability of the belief in these approximately 50%-absolute absurdities of the heavens and who will solemnly swear that they are definitely descended from - or even living with - Napoleon, George Washington and Lord Nelson, and that they have all had a close encounter of the third kind with their favourite unexplained monster from the Loch Ness, the Himalayas, and/or the forests of southern Canada, when everyone knows that all three have been captured and put into Parliament to extrapolate the fundamental laws of human existence and support the theory that man did, in fact, evolve from the Tyrannosaurus Rex and not, as previously believed, from one of the more intelligent species of tinned apricots in syrup, which is a totally ridiculous idea, as Tyrannosaurus Rexs are infinitely more brainless and therefore perfect candidates for the title of "Dinosaurian Enemy No 1", even though they never ate tinned apricots in syrup, which is probably why they became extinct and why man is still thriving, because man eats tinned apricots in syrup every now and again, so that Ardmona, SPC and the rest can consider themselves the saviours of the species, as they are all the producers of the apparently vital part of man's diet, without which man could never have survived the Second World War, according to a self-proclaimed nutritionist, who believes that the Second World War, with its day-centres for Nazi prisoners-of-war, with its various air forces testing out their own anti-enemy firework displays - on the enemy, with its couple of million disguised civilians running around in funny uniforms seeing how close to the enemy they could fire their guns or throw their hand grenades without actually killing them, all falling miserably, with its super-generals all pretending that this little folly is really a dress-rehearsal for World War Three, and with its milkmen running around looking for work, was a complete waste of time on behalf of everyone who had anything to do with creating or inventing it, because no one had permission to have fun in the 1940s from the person in charge of international sport and recreation, who apparently has just retired after a frustrating succession of almost-fatal heart attacks and several quite nasty doses of cancer, which nearly drove him to drink, but was rescued from this boredom by a team of about seven hundred thousand doctors working around the clock for nearly six months without even enough rest to have a quick glimpse of the uncut fifty-one hour version of "War and Pieces of Things that are Not Really Anything to Do with War at All", which is a less successful rendition of the epic movie, "War and Percy", which described Percy Ivegottaluvalybunchofkoconutz's escapades during the Industrial Revolution, where he was barracking for all the industrials and their allies and was fighting whatever the industrials were revolting against, which eventuated in his being put in a lovely room with cushions all over the place and a couple of heavy locks on the door, with plenty of people looking after him and, strangely enough, all wearing white coats and looking much like traditional physio-chemists except for one minor detail, and that is that they were all wearing defence mechanisms to protect themselves from many of Percy's roommates, who appeared to be absolutely mad and quite unaware of the fact that Percy happened to be quite sane and wondering why all these people clad in white had classified him in with all these other weirdos when he was really as normal and sensible as, for instance, Mr E. Rattic, the current president of "Bigots Anonymous", who organises all socials where top-class bigots from all over the world come to degrade minority groups and try to win arguments in the longest possible time with the shortest amount of cocktail breaks or police rails that inconveniently interrupt this apparently jolly good get-together of world-champion, anti-social, chauvinistic, human letdowns, and discouraging Mr Rattic from shooting the lot of them if they laugh at him - or even near him - without consulting the extremely accurate "El Cheapo Bureau of Laws" (ECBOL) to see if laughing at Mr Rattic is currently against the law, or whether it is merely illegal and punishable by being sent to an Ita Buttrose (Amen) rock concert where forced to listen to a musical version of the recipe for next week's fascinating Women's Weekly, that includes an enthralling article on what to wear to the crowning of the next King of England, and how to dig up mushrooms if they get lost as a result of a sudden shower of larger pieces of hail than a dictionary updater would be led to expect, considering of course that a normal, everyday dictionary updater has only a limited intelligence and therefore could not be expected to expect a larger-than-expected size hailstone in the next sudden shower, provided the expected blizzard was conclusively not in April, in which case the dictionary updaters would be the first, if not the only, people to be able to predict the exact weight and diameter of an average hailstone falling in the region of Kuala Lumpur or Morocco, which would not be too difficult to predict, because, as everyone knows, no hailstones fall in Malaya or North Africa (at least not during public holidays), but petrol, by the gallon, or - if most of the residents of Morocco and Malaya have already received instructions from their respective leading petrol station operators to go metric - by the litre, which results in all the petrol sinking into the ground where it lies until some fool of a firebug throws a match in Morocco's general direction so that there is an instant flame that results in the whole of Morocco becoming unbearably hot, permitting the growth of larger than expected hailstones and encouraging the growth of masochists, who really love being tortured beyond recognition and cannot stand being pampered or having a good time, preferring having a really bad time which is how they go about having a good time, which confuses them because they can have a good time only by having a bad time, and good times are totally against their principles, so they have to have a good time which they cannot do either, so most of them kill themselves, resulting in a very large death rate for masochists, nearly as high as the corresponding rate for contortionists, who do really strange things like conquering volcanoes on Neptune in outrageous positions, so as to try to keep up with the already victorious original mountain-climbing contortionist, who really sped up that challenging peak, exhausting himself to the extent that he did not even have enough energy to compile, write, edit, publish and print a record-breaking sentence, since writing sentences of absurd lengths is thoroughly exhausting and not to be tried unless in peak physical condition, since people have tried (ABC NEWS INTERRUPTS THIS SENTENCE TO REPORT THAT AN UNKNOWN CONTORTIONIST, PARTS OF WHOM IT IS BELIEVED HAVE ORIGINATED ON NEPTUNE, HAS ATTEMPTED TO SCALE A FAMOUS MOUNTAIN IN THE SAHARA WITH A GRAND PIANO TIED TO HIS ANKLE. THANK YOU).

School Essay Writer

What Is the Longest Essay Ever Written: Exploring Records

What‌ Defines the Length ‌of an Essay in Academic Writing?

Exploring ‍the history of long essays in literature ‌and​ academia, the guinness world record holder for​ the‌ longest⁣ essay ever written, challenges⁣ faced‍ in⁣ writing‍ lengthy⁢ essays: tips and⁣ strategies, examining the⁤ structure and⁤ organization of long essays, notable examples of long essays across different disciplines, impact of long essays on​ research and knowledge production, exploring‌ records: what is the longest essay ‌ever written, benefits⁤ and⁢ drawbacks of writing ​extremely long essays, advice for ⁣writers embarking on⁢ lengthy essay projects, pushing the boundaries: potentials ‌for ​future record-breaking essays, concluding remarks.

In academic⁣ writing, the ⁣length of an ​essay is ‌typically determined by the ⁣assignment guidelines, the complexity ​of the topic, and the depth of analysis ⁤required.⁣ Essays can⁣ range from a few⁤ hundred words to several thousand words, depending on​ these ‌factors. ⁤However, when it⁢ comes​ to‌ exploring the longest essays ever written, ⁣there ⁣are⁣ some truly remarkable‍ records that ​have ⁣been‍ set.

One ⁣of the longest essays ever written is ‌Marcel Proust’s‌ “À la recherche‌ du ‍temps perdu” (In Search of​ Lost Time), which spans⁣ a total of⁢ over 13,000​ pages in ⁢its entirety. This ⁤monumental⁢ work is​ considered ⁢one⁢ of the longest ‌novels in literary history⁢ and is a testament to Proust’s dedication to exploring memory, time, and ‍identity.

Another notable example of a lengthy essay is “The Anatomy of Melancholy” by Robert Burton, ​which is a​ sprawling exploration ⁤of‌ the human ‌condition that exceeds 1,400 pages. This‍ classic ⁣work delves into topics​ such⁣ as psychology,​ philosophy,‍ and medicine, ⁣and showcases the author’s extensive research and intellectual curiosity.

When ‍considering⁢ the length‍ of an ⁣essay in academic​ writing, ⁤it is important to prioritize clarity, coherence, and conciseness in order⁢ to effectively communicate ideas⁣ and arguments. ​While it ‍can be fascinating to‍ explore the records for the longest essays ever written, ⁣it ⁣is ultimately the quality⁤ of the‌ writing and the‍ depth of ⁢analysis that truly define the success of an academic⁤ essay.

Long essays‌ have been‌ a staple in literature ​and academia ⁣for ⁤centuries, with⁤ writers and scholars ⁤alike using the form to delve deep into⁤ complex ​topics⁤ and ⁤explore ideas‌ in depth. ​In ⁣the world⁤ of literature, authors like Virginia‌ Woolf, James Joyce, and ‌Marcel Proust are⁣ known for their lengthy, immersive essays that push the⁣ boundaries⁣ of traditional‌ storytelling.

In‌ academia, long essays are a common assignment for students studying subjects ranging from history to ​philosophy ⁣to ​literature. These essays ​often require‍ extensive research, critical analysis, ​and a ​clear argument to effectively convey the author’s ⁤ideas.

But what ⁢is ⁢the⁢ longest essay ever written? While​ it’s difficult to pinpoint an⁢ exact⁣ answer due to the vast⁢ array of ⁤essays spanning different⁤ genres and disciplines, one‍ contender is⁣ Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost ‌Time,” a seven-volume novel that ‍is‌ often ⁤considered one ⁣of the longest ‌works of‌ fiction⁤ ever written.

When it ⁣comes to the⁣ longest essay ever written, you may be surprised to learn ⁣just how extensive it can ⁢be.‌ The Guinness World‍ Record⁢ holder for the longest‌ essay is a piece ⁤that will ⁢make your jaw ⁣drop ⁢with its‍ sheer ⁤length ⁢and dedication⁤ to⁤ the craft of writing.

This incredible achievement belongs to a dedicated⁢ writer‌ who‍ spent countless hours crafting a ⁣masterpiece ⁤that spans a mind-boggling number of pages. The amount of research, planning, and‌ writing that⁢ went ⁤into this essay is truly ⁢awe-inspiring, showcasing the writer’s commitment⁣ to ‌their topic⁣ and their determination to⁢ push the ⁣boundaries of literary achievement.

With this ⁤record-breaking essay, the writer has not only⁤ made history⁤ but has also set‍ a new standard ‌for what can‌ be achieved in​ the⁣ world of⁣ writing. ⁣Their dedication and⁤ passion for ⁤their⁤ craft serve⁣ as an inspiration to aspiring ⁣writers everywhere, showing ‌that ‌with hard work‌ and perseverance, anything is possible.

One⁤ of the biggest‌ challenges faced ⁢when⁤ writing lengthy essays‌ is maintaining consistency ​and​ coherence throughout the entire ‌piece. ​It can​ be difficult to⁤ keep the ⁣reader ⁣engaged and⁢ ensure that each paragraph flows seamlessly into the ‍next. To combat this issue, consider creating a detailed outline before ⁢diving into your essay.‌ This ⁤will help you stay organized and focus on one point‌ at ​a⁣ time.

Another common‌ challenge ‌when writing a⁣ long essay is ⁢overcoming writer’s ‌block. It’s easy to get overwhelmed by the‌ sheer volume of ‌content required and ​lose⁢ sight of⁣ your main arguments. To tackle this ‌obstacle, try breaking down your essay into smaller sections and setting achievable⁤ goals‍ for⁢ each writing session. ‍This will help you stay motivated and ​on⁣ track to completing your‌ essay ⁣within‌ the‌ deadline.

Moreover, ⁣managing your ⁤time effectively is crucial⁣ when it​ comes to‍ writing a ⁣lengthy‍ essay.​ It’s important ‌to allocate ‌enough time for research, writing, and editing to ensure that your ‍essay is well-crafted and polished.⁢ Consider using tools such as​ time management apps or the Pomodoro ⁢technique to ⁤help you stay focused and productive throughout‌ the‌ writing process.

Long essays‍ can be⁣ daunting to write, but understanding⁤ their structure and organization​ can make the task ‍more manageable. ⁢The longest essay ⁢ever written⁢ is a topic of much debate, with various contenders vying ⁣for the title. In⁣ exploring ​records, ‍it’s important to consider⁤ not just the ​length ⁤of the essay, but also its content,‍ style, ⁢and impact.

When⁣ examining the structure of‍ long​ essays,⁤ it’s crucial​ to⁣ break down‌ the‍ text into ⁣manageable sections. ‍These ‌typically‌ include an introduction, body paragraphs,⁣ and⁤ a conclusion. Each section serves ‍a specific purpose⁣ in⁢ conveying the ⁤main argument or‌ thesis ‍of the essay.

Organizing a long essay requires ‍careful planning and attention to detail. One common‍ approach is to outline ⁢the main points and supporting evidence before writing. This helps⁤ to ensure a coherent and ‍logical⁤ flow of ideas throughout the essay.

Overall, understanding the ⁢structure and organization of long essays is essential​ for effectively‍ conveying your message to⁢ the reader.⁢ By breaking down the text into manageable sections‌ and carefully planning the​ content, you⁣ can create a compelling and impactful ⁣piece‍ of writing.

Some of⁤ the provide‌ fascinating insights ‌into⁣ various fields of study. ⁢One⁤ such example ⁤is Marcel Proust’s ‍”In​ Search⁢ of⁣ Lost ⁢Time,”‌ a seven-volume‌ novel ⁤that explores memory, time,‌ and⁣ personal reflection in ⁤exquisite detail. This literary‍ masterpiece has been⁣ praised‍ for its intricate narrative structure⁤ and profound⁣ philosophical⁣ themes.

In the realm of science, Charles Darwin’s “On the Origin of Species” is another⁢ lengthy and influential ‍essay ‍that revolutionized ⁢the ⁣field of biology. This‌ groundbreaking‍ work presents Darwin’s‍ theory of evolution ⁣through natural selection and has had ⁤a lasting impact on our understanding ‌of the ‍natural world.

In the field of philosophy, Immanuel ‌Kant’s “Critique⁢ of Pure Reason” stands out as a monumental work of⁣ epistemology and metaphysics.⁢ This dense and complex essay delves into the nature of human knowledge and ⁢reason, challenging ⁤readers to rethink their understanding​ of reality.

When it comes to⁢ long ‌essays, there have been ‍some remarkable ⁣examples ‌throughout history that‌ have ​left a ‍lasting⁤ impact on research ⁢and knowledge production. One particular question that often arises ​is: what is the ‍longest essay ever⁤ written? ⁢Let’s​ delve into some ​records and explore ⁢the answer to this intriguing question.

One notable​ contender ⁤for the title of the longest essay ever written is Marcel Proust’s​ “In Search of Lost ‍Time.” This epic ‍literary work spans over 3,000 pages and is‍ considered one of​ the ⁣longest novels in ‌existence. While technically a novel,‌ the depth and complexity⁢ of ⁢Proust’s writing can be likened to a⁣ scholarly essay ​due to its profound ​exploration‍ of memory,‍ time, ‍and human experience.

Another noteworthy example is ‌the collected⁢ works of ⁣Friedrich Schiller, a renowned ⁢German philosopher, poet, and playwright. ⁢Schiller’s complete ​works​ comprise over 100 volumes,⁣ containing ⁣essays, ‌plays, historical writings, ‌and philosophical treatises. His extensive body of work has had⁤ a significant impact on‍ various‍ fields of study, contributing to ‍a wealth of knowledge ​production.

Overall, the length of​ an ⁣essay is ⁢not necessarily⁣ indicative ‍of its quality or⁢ impact on research and knowledge⁤ production. While ​long ‌essays like those of Proust ‌and Schiller offer valuable insights and contributions to their respective fields, it is ultimately ​the depth of analysis, ⁤originality of ideas, and⁣ scholarly rigor that determine the true significance of ⁢an essay.

When it comes to writing⁤ essays,⁣ some ⁣students‌ thrive ⁤on the challenge​ of tackling‌ extremely long assignments. While ⁤there are certainly benefits to writing lengthy⁤ essays, there are also ⁢drawbacks to consider.​ Here are some of the pros​ and cons:

• In-depth Analysis: Writing a long‌ essay​ allows for ⁣a ⁣more ⁤thorough exploration ⁤of ​a topic, enabling the writer ‌to delve ‌deep into research and analysis.
• Development of​ Writing ‍Skills: Longer ⁣essays ‌provide ample opportunity for practicing writing ⁣skills, including​ organization, coherence, and argumentation.
• Showcasing Expertise: A lengthy⁣ essay ⁣can ‍demonstrate a⁢ student’s comprehensive⁤ understanding of ‍a subject, showcasing their expertise to ⁣instructors or potential‍ employers.
• Time-Consuming: Writing⁤ an extremely long essay can​ be time-consuming, requiring‌ hours of research‌ and ⁤writing to complete.
• Difficulty in ⁢Maintaining Focus: ⁢ Staying focused ⁢on⁤ a long essay can ⁣be ⁣challenging, leading‌ to potential⁣ loss ⁤of clarity ​and coherence⁤ in the writing.
• Reader Fatigue: Extremely long essays run the risk of overwhelming readers, who may struggle ⁢to stay engaged with ‍the ‌content from start to finish.

When embarking on ⁢lengthy essay⁢ projects, writers often face challenges such as writer’s ⁤block,‌ time management, and maintaining ‌motivation⁣ throughout‍ the process.⁤ Here are⁢ some key pieces ⁣of advice‍ for writers tackling extensive writing assignments:

• Break it ⁣down: Divide the essay into smaller, manageable sections to⁢ make‌ the task⁤ less ‌daunting.⁢ Set deadlines ‌for ⁢each section ​to‍ stay on track and maintain momentum.
• Research⁤ extensively: Take the⁢ time to gather‌ a⁢ wealth of information on ⁣the⁢ topic to ensure ⁤a well-rounded and thorough ‍analysis‍ in⁢ the essay.
• Stay organized: ‍ Use tools like outlines,⁢ mind⁤ maps, or project management software to ​keep track of research, sources, and ideas.
• Seek feedback: Share your work with peers, professors, ​or writing mentors ⁢to‌ gain valuable insights and‌ improve​ the overall quality ⁢of the essay.

There is no limit to ⁢the potential of breaking records⁣ in ⁣the world ⁢of essay⁤ writing. ‍The⁢ idea of pushing boundaries and exploring ‍new horizons is what drives writers ‌to create⁣ essays‍ that are⁤ longer, more‌ detailed, and more‌ innovative than ever before.

When we talk about ⁣the longest essay ever written, ‌we think‍ of works⁢ that have ⁤tested⁣ the ⁤limits of human endurance and ‌intellect. ⁤These essays ⁤go beyond the traditional confines of word ⁣count​ and delve‍ into⁢ uncharted territories of research, analysis, and ⁤creativity.

With advancements in technology and the endless resources available online, writers have ‌more tools at their disposal than ever before.⁣ This opens up a world of possibilities ⁣for creating essays that break records and ​set new standards for the future.

As ⁢we continue to push the boundaries of⁣ what ⁤is​ possible in the ‌world of essay writing, one thing ‌is certain: ‌the‍ potential for ⁤future record-breaking ⁣essays is limitless. With determination, creativity, and a willingness to⁢ explore new ‌ideas, writers can‍ continue to ⁢push the ‍boundaries of what is ‌considered possible in the world of written communication.

In conclusion,⁤ the longest essay‌ ever ⁣written is⁣ truly​ a ​remarkable ⁢feat ⁢of​ dedication and ⁤perseverance. By exploring the records, we can ⁤see‌ that ​there⁢ are individuals out there who have⁢ tackled‌ monumental​ writing projects with incredible⁢ passion and commitment. ⁣While​ the exact number of words may vary, one thing ‌is for certain – writing a ⁤long essay​ requires a ⁢great deal of skill, focus, and​ determination.‍

So,‌ whether you’re embarking on your own writing⁣ journey or simply curious about the ⁢limits ‌of human ‍expression, remember that the longest essay ⁤ever written ‌is a testament to the power of the​ written word. Keep pushing your boundaries, ⁤keep ‌expanding your‍ horizons, and ‍who​ knows – maybe one ⁤day⁤ your own work will be the subject of records and admiration. Thank you for joining us on this exploration, ⁣and ⁣happy writing!

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A (very long) essay on political communications, French style

19 October 2011

Posted by Alastair Campbell

18 minute(s) read

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10 responses to “A (very long) essay on political communications, French style”

The ego has landed.

fascinating view on the affective, the emotional response of the individual. Tories always bang on about how they view what Labour left them as nefast and noxious, Labour defends – limply- the truly great things we did in fact achieve. The above text would clearly show both miss the point. On vote pour le futur. Pas pour le passe The presidential focus of this text – On vote pour un homme. Pas pour un parti- may jar greatly with many in this country. T.B was viewed as too much this way by many.

Another masochist ?  It’s truly weird.

The emergence of social media is an interesting development and may, in time, alter the political dynamic. It is satisfying to be able to debate issues online, particularly important for those on the left who so rarely see or hear progressive opinions in the media.

Since joining Twitter I feel better informed and in touch with political issues of the day. Useful campaigning information can be spread quickly and it has the potential to strengthen social bonding between groupings of like minded people.

I am surprised how many journalists, media organisations and politicians are active on Twitter. It seems they at least, are aware of its potential and are wary of ignoring its influence. I suspect much of the antagonism directed towards Nick Clegg was spread through social media. Tenagers don’t generally read newspapers or watch TV news, but they do talk to each other via Facebook.

Let’s hope it will make a difference. Since the collapse of widescale union membership, too many natural Labour supporters don’t hear our political message. Most probably read right wing papers and watch Sky TV. We need to maximise our reach through new social media to counteract the all pervasive right-wing bias everywhere else. 

Norway is an amazing modern country, and how it has used it’s oil and natural resouces for the best of all its people should be a set lesson to any country in the World. Efficiency in it’s extraction, and efficiency in using its resulting wealth. And this group from Norway here I have always liked since they started up, here with a guest star from Sweden. Royksopp and Robyn, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfckrfOYAy4

And well done for having respect from La France, but that personally does not surprise me. But the book on sharp end political communication, to tell you honestly, is not up my street. I am into other things in life, you might have noticed.

Anyway, Alastair, isn’t it about time you thought of becoming an MP? Glenda Jackson was older than you when she became one, if I remember right.

Ah yes, just checked, she was about 56, while you are only, ahem!, 54, but without a couple of oscars…

you total wanks. I know who you are and everything. You are pathetic in trying to be higher. Higher than what, you tell we banging keyboard in your own worlds. Need a keyboard to grow vegetibles? Don’t think so somehow.

Time, ey? Who’ll have it? Raised with praise to die? Parentals withering before eyes, heartbreaking before yourself die.

Life, who’ll have it? asked? Not by many with sense. To see life’s gymnastics performed, buck over a horse yes or no the normed.

More scandanavian, with a 23 windowed VW german Samba minibus, and red riding hood, yes, her and her subliminal hidden story, Grimm from Copenhagen-like, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y54ABqSOScQ

Saw Clarissa Dickson show today – brilliant! Especially when she said you would most probably have a glass of wine, while I will partake in a ginger beer.

Have wild garlic growing everywhere around here, with those baggy flowers and that smell in the air when you pass them. Will have to note them so to dig the bulbs when ready. Gawd knows what garlic strain they be though.

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Exceptionally Long Sentences in Literature and Why They Work

We learn in grammar school about run-on sentences and how to avoid them. In general, the thought about long sentences is that they make the text harder to read. 

A long sentence is difficult to read as the writer keeps the reader waiting for the main idea until the middle or end of the sentence so that they must remember how the long sentence began. The words run on, and commas, semicolons, and conjunctions subdivide the core subsets.

A standard sentence is 14 words or fewer is easy to understand, and readers retain 90% of the content. Long, complex sentences 20 words and above increase reading difficulty. A sentence with more than 40 words is exceptionally long and hard to comprehend.

Even so, there are plenty of examples in literature of rebels breaking the rule concerning how long a sentence should be. Some authors are skilled enough that the long sentences they’ve written work and are easy to follow. 

Great long opening sentences in literature

Some of the most incredible opening lines are a few words; outbursts, pleas, or facts. For example,” Call me Ishmael” from Herman Melville’s Moby Dick (1851). Still, there is a beauty in long opening sentences that span with a series of dashes, commas, colons, and semicolons that will hold your breath.

Here are some of the three best ones.

• Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1759)

“I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly consider’d how much depended upon what they were then doing;—that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost;—Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,—I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that in which the reader is likely to see me.”

• Charles Dickens’s famous A tale of two Cities opened (1859)

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

• Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island (1883)

“Squire Trelawney, Dr Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17-, and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.”

Away from the grand long opening, take a look for yourself at some of the longest sentences in literature and why they work.

Utilitarianism by John Stuart Mill

At 161-words, philosopher John Stuart Mill discusses the feelings of power, excitement, and pride in one long run-on. Mill “tricks” the reader by creating a drawn-out explanation separated by commas, colons, and semicolons. The sentence affects your perceived sensible logic, but you later understand the idea by re-reading the sentence.

“We may give what explanation we please of this unwillingness; we may attribute it to pride, a name which is given indiscriminately to some of the most and to some of the least estimable feelings of which mankind are capable; we may refer it to the love of liberty and personal independence, as appeal to which was with the Stoics one of the most effective means for the inculcation of it; to the love of power or to the love of excitement, both of which do really enter into and contribute to it; but its most appropriate appellation is a sense of dignity, which all human beings possess in one form or other, and in some, though by no means in exact, proportion to their higher faculties, and which is so essential a part of the happiness of those in whom it is strong that nothing which conflicts with it could be otherwise than momentarily an object of desire to them.”

Rabbit, Run by John Updike

To write about sex in the 1960s was quite scandalous, especially when a woman got pregnant before getting married. In Rabbit, Run, the 163-word sentence gives insight into the narrator’s anxious feelings when he finds out that his best girl missed her period.

“But then they were married (she felt awful about being pregnant before but Harry had been talking about marriage for a while and anyway laughed when she told him in early February about missing her period and said Great she was terribly frightened and he said Great and lifted her put his arms around under her bottom and lifted her like you would a child he could be so wonderful when you didn’t expect it in a way it seemed important that you didn’t expect it there was so much nice in him she couldn’t explain to anybody she had been so frightened about being pregnant and he made her be proud) they were married after her missing her second period in March and she was still little clumsy dark-complected Janice Springer and her husband was a conceited lunk who wasn’t good for anything in the world Daddy said and the feeling of being alone would melt a little with a little drink.”

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” The infamous opening line to Charles Dickens A Tale of Two Cities is quite long. While not as long as some of these others, the first 181 words of the book are intriguing and hold your attention.

On Being Ill by Virginia Woolf

The essay On Being Ill by Virginia Woolf takes you on a 183-word ride about the spiritual change illness can have on us. The weight of abstractions doesn’t usually work in long sentences. But in Woolf’s case, it sets a clear path to the most critical phrase at the very end. It is a sentence that literature should embrace, not fear.

“Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to light, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us in the act of sickness, how we go down into the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist’s arm chair and confuse his ‘Rinse the mouth—rinse the mouth’ with the greeting of the Deity stooping from the floor of Heaven to welcome us—when we think of this and infinitely more, as we are so frequently forced to think of it, it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love, battle, and jealousy among the prime themes of literature.”

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

In Les Miserables , the description of Louis Philippe as a ruler is completed in one 823-word sentence. The length of the sentence demands that you be patient. As drawn out as it may seem, you eventually get to the end and understand how the length of the sentence plays a role in the plot. 

“The son of a father to whom history will accord certain attenuating circumstances, but also as worthy of esteem as that father had been of blame; possessing all private virtues and many public virtues; careful of his health, of his fortune, of his person, of his affairs, knowing the value of a minute and not always the value of a year; sober, serene, peaceable, patient; a good man….”

Absalom, Absalom! By William Faulkner

The quality of a lengthy sentence is how William Faulker got away with his 1,288-word prose. The sentence shows the reader the inner workings of the characters and excites curiosity. Despite there not being any periods to pause and absorb what you just read, the length keeps the characters continually moving and works great alongside the plot. 

“Just exactly like Father if Father had known as much about it the night before I went out there as he did the day after I came back thinking Mad impotent old man who realized at last that there must be some limit even to the capabilities of a demon for doing harm, who must have seen his situation as that of the show girl, the pony, who realizes that the principal tune she prances to comes not from horn and fiddle and drum but from a clock and calendar, must have seen himself as the old wornout cannon which realizes that it can deliver just one more fierce shot and crumble to dust in its own furious blast and recoil, who looked about upon the scene which was still within his scope and compass and saw son gone, vanished, more insuperable to him now than if the son were dead since now (if the son still lived) his name would be different ……”

Ulysses by James Joyce

Often cited for being the longest sentence ever written is one by author James Joyce. In his novel Ulysses, the character Molly Bloom has a monologue that goes on for 36 pages and has a total of 3,687 words. The only reason that a sentence this long works is because it is a monologue. Molly is speaking her thoughts out loud, and when combined with other punctuation, it is easy to follow along.

The Assignment by Friedrich Dürrenmatt

The Assignment is a novella published in 1986 by Swiss author Friedrich Dürrenmatt. The novella is published in 24 parts as 24 sentences. The inspiration to break the grammar rules came from listening to Glenn Gould performing Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier I, which has 24 movements.

Solar Bones by Mike McCormack

In more recent literature, Irish fiction author Mike McCormack published a novel in 2016 that is one sentence long. The novel follows Marcus Conway, a deceased middle-aged man who returns on All Souls Day to reminisce about the past. One of the novel’s main themes is chaos, and having text with no period adds to the idea perfectly.

The Last Voyage of the Ghost Ship by Gabriel García Márquez 

The 1999 book tells of an internal monologue of a boy who becomes an assertive young man. His imagination is so strong that he believes he saw a ship. His mother and villagers do not believe him, and he gets a beating for lying he saw a ship. 

In the 2156 words sentence, he begins angrily, “Now they’re going to see who I am, he said to himself in his strong new man’s voice..” The yearning to prove he saw the ship severally makes his imagination appear real.

The Sentence by Donald Barthelme 

Donald explains what a long sentence is in a 2569 words sentence. A sentence flows steadily from the top to the “bottom of the page.” It is a deviation from the sentences teachers teach. 

He gives analogies of what he feels about the sentence. It is like that horrible feeling when you listen to the FM playing a rock song, and someone interrupts you. He concludes his definition with, “the sentence itself is a man-made object, not the one we wanted of course, but still a construction of man, a structure to be treasured for its weakness, as opposed to the strength of stones.”

The Autumn of the Patriach by Gabriel García Márquez 

The Autumn of the Patriarch is a great story about a cruel ruler in the Caribbean, showing how leaders can abuse power.

It’s a symphony of humanity’s most outstanding virtues and worst vices. Gabriel García Márquez paints a vivid picture of a dying dictator trapped in the prison of his own rule and includes a 120-word long sentence.

“She said I’m tired of begging God to overthrow my son, because all this business of living in the presidential palace is like having the lights on all the time, sir, and she had said it with the same naturalness with which on one national holiday she had made her way through the guard of honor with a basket of empty bottles and reached the presidential limousine that was leading the parade of celebration in an uproar of ovations and martial music and storms of flowers and she shoved the basket through the window and shouted to her son that since you’ll be passing right by take advantage and return these bottles to the store on the corner, poor mother.”

If you think these sentences were long, the longest sentence to date is by author Jonathan Coe in his book The Rotters’ Club . Coe holds the record at 13,955 words! The inspiration came to Coe from a Czech novel that was written in one long sentence. 

Did the long opening impress you or take your breath away?

What do you think about run-on sentences? Do they work in literature or should they be banned? Let us know in the comments!

Hopefully, you get to read the entire books from where we drew these excerpts, and you could if you learned how to speed read with Iris Reading Speed Reading Foundation Class.

Yaal wont beat them ahah

Chuck Taylor, novelist

I am going to try. J am not sure if an sentence tbat uses comma splices, dashes, of semi-colons should qualify, since they can be substitutes for a period.

I want a grammarian who believes these are really sentences in the formal sense to diagram the darned thing (Molly’s monologue by Joyce, specifically). LOL

J B Dewaltz

I will beat them. Watch and see.

Katherine Wiley

Did you do it yet? Its been a year.

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