I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.
- Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880)
And he's even said that so much better than I *ever* could.
And you know what's worse? If I attempted to verbalise that same thought? I would write word. after. painful. word. I would struggle with sentences, pythonic, constricting, squeezing the breath out of that small idea, which (as ideas are wont to be) is defenceless against the twin WMDs of verbosity and vocabulary.
See what I mean?