/lit/ - Literature

I asked a friend his opinion of my writing. He said it was wordy and lacked flow in places. I asked him what he meant by this because his writing (in my opinion) was wordy and lacked flow as well. Wordiness, I said, is part of the craft. We are not writing Twitter posts or adopting journalistic or academic prose; and the wordiness of our writing, I thought, was in no way comparable to the wordiness of some well-established classics.
My friend said perhaps the issue was his inclination towards 'contemporary literature' (he keeps to literature in the latter part of the 20th century and early 21st century) and my usage of certain words akin to potholes in a road. Mind you, this comes from a man who said he could not read War and Peace because it was wordy and written in an older style. Moreover, he says we generally know how things look. Therefore, we do not need them described; and that later literature, from the likes of Sartre and Camus, contains 'straightforward expression'.
I argued writers may have different internal rhyming systems and that tastes in flow could be subjective. I have come across 'potholed prose' too yet identify it as a different style or potentially poor writing. In my opinion these 'pothole words', I said, are often words claimed (and I emphasise 'claimed') to be old, obscure, archaic or out-dated, yet these words are fascinating, poetic and lively, and should not be removed for lazy modern audiences with limited vocabularies. Ferroquinologist, though not a truly good example, is a beautiful, creative and lively word in comparison to 'train enthusiast'.
My friend asked me what I thought of 'contemporary literature' (in his definition). I could not rightly answer. What I had read I cast from my mind due to its bland, soulless, simplistic and unchallenging writing, but I am not willing to brandish all recent literature as such. I stick to classics and literature going back to the late 16th century. What I ask you anons is whether I am right or wrong in doing so? Should I adopt a straightforward expression devoid of words beyond the vocabularies of the modern audience? Should I ignore being inspired by those writers of the past who are dismissed by my friend? I feel if I were to, I would be moving from an ivy-covered Georgian house in the countryside and into a terraced dwelling in some monotonous estate.

>Be me
>Don black overcoat
>Bear book
>Go for an evening saunter in my bucolic parish
>Verdancy abounds
>Blue-grey welkin aloft
>Birdsong rings
>Drumlins roll
>Sun sinks
>Heart delights
>Encounter aged neighbour
>Bridie
>Hail
>Begin wall-bolstered chat
>Topics: weather, myself, herself, parents, grandparents, siblings, religion, politics, land, memories.
>" The Church is gone here, anon. There is no more faith."
>" Country life is dying, anon. I keep my door locked evermore."
>" They mean to build a monstrous storage facility above the riverside chapel, anon. May they not!"
>" The town has changed, anon. I feel like a stranger there.
>" The countryside is the same, anon. I know no one anymore. They are all dead."
>" The country is gone to the dogs, anon."
>Chat conludes
>Continue walk
>Words way heavily
>Struggle for solace
>Read book
>Last letters from executed patriots
>Stokes pensiveness
>Pass sightly god's acre
>Bless myself
>Find byway
>Follow
>Encounter cows
>Speak Irish
>They react
>Decide to read to them
>Open book casually
>A poem: The Wayfarer
>The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.
>Fitting poem
>Find solace
>Return home