Some Sententious Sentences on Sentencing

"Jesus wept." It is said to be the shortest sentence in the Bible. I first heard it as an exclamation from my friend Jeannie, from Enid, Oklahoma. Since the expression has biblical origins, one can get away with it as a mild expletive. You can almost hear the sigh that accompanies it. But what else is there to say about sentences? And to whom do I say it? Well, for starters, you can very legitimately start a sentence with "but" or "and," despite what Mrs. Rivers told us in seventh grade at Burdick Junior High School in Stamford, Connecticut. You can also end a sentence with a preposition. It's something you can live with. You can also decide to boldly split an infinitive within your sentence -- and do so with grammatical impunity. The other point I want to make about sentences -- I know, "sentencing" in the heading lured students of criminal justice to this blog under false presentences -- is that, despite a muddy river of digressions, or appositive phrases, or recursively recurring and redundant recasting of words to the point of annoyance, a perfectly grammatical and "correct" sentence is not limited to the soulful brevity of a lachrymose redeemer, but may also include such meanderings as incarnated in this sentence. So, I have said it before and will proclaim it again, "A run-on sentence is not one that 'runs on and on and on' in the impatient reader's mind; a run-on sentence, also known as a comma splice or fused sentence, is a punctuation error -- an error that has nothing whatsoever to do with the number of words or syllables in the sentence, be they running, walking, trotting, sprinting, galloping, sauntering, crawling, or strolling words. I'm done.

Diagramming the Flowering Crab

The crabapple's blossoms masquerading as paper carnations.

Blossoms of crabapple masquerading as paper carnations.

Crabapple blossoms masquerading as paper carnations.

They masquerade as paper carnations.

Masquerade as paper carnations, crabapple blossoms.

Papercarnationally crabapple blossoms masquerading.

. . . and crabapple blossoms masqueraded as incarnations of paper, pink.

Like paperpinkishcarnations, the crabapple blossoms parade or was it masquerade.

Hark! Crabapple blossoms! Alas! Martian-pink-carnal-carnationesque -incantatory buds unhidden!

Blossoming crababble, masquerade is papercarnationing.

Confessions of an Anachronism

Call me Anachronism. And why is that? I am an anachronism (albeit a proud anachronism) because:

1. I wear slippers.
2. I wear pajamas.
3. Communal meal times are sacred and should not be marred by one's answering the phone or watching television. (If one is alone, anything goes.)
4. I use the word "one" like an old fuddy-duddy (see above).
   
5. I use the word anachronism.
6. I loathe multitasking.
7. The demands and rigors of quotidian, paid labor do not intercede upon my every waking hour and every thought in my head (except for all-consuming anxiety, paranoia, and neurosis related to same).
8. I read books (fiction even! and poetry!).
9. I read newspapers -- in print.
10. I watch news (worse yet, I listen to news reports on the radio).
11. I have not the slightest idea how to use an iPod or the MP3 player that my satellite radio comes with.
12. I know what a preposition is and understand that in item 11 I ended a sentence with a preposition -- and I'm perfectly okay with that.
13. I have diagrammed sentences on a blackboard.
14. I have to gladly say I have split infinitives.
15. I continue to obsessively rant about something called the serial comma.
16. I was taught by Mrs. Rivers in seventh grade that these words take predicate nominatives: is, am, was, were, have been, has, had, appear, feel, grow, become, look, taste, remain; consequently, "I feel bad" is the preferred form. (Hunh?)
    
17. I used to know the Our Father in Latin (let's see now, how does that go? "Pater noster qui es in caelis...").
18. My car lacks one of those automatic key starters and has manual locks.
19. I am a sinning believer, a member of a religious institution who tries to attend and partake of its services regularly.
    
20. I am an anachronism.

Out of time.

Rarely on time.

What century do I belong to? What era? Victorian perhaps?

What era is your era?