We knew both that I would personally never ever compose something that good, and that it couldn’t be such a negative thing to blow my entire life trying. The long-form essay has been pronounced dead, or at the very least moribund, many times. Who’s the right time; who is able to be in that deep? But, really, it may be simply the thing to battle resistant to the dumbness of this 140-character guideline. Which doesn’t mean that long-form should always be long-winded, nor declare from the beginning some grandly sententious purpose.
The fantastic essayists are typical virtuosi of starting sentences that pull you in to the matter by having a dead-on noticed minute or an epigram: Orwell once more, in “Marrakech” (1939), a single-sentence paragraph: “As the corpse went last, the flies left the restaurant table in a cloud and hurried they came ultimately back a couple of minutes later on. after it, but” Or William Hazlitt’s “On the Pleasure of Hating” (c1826) with another insect-opener, the aspirate alliteration mimicking the scuttle, at the same time ominous and pathetic: “There is a spider crawling over the matted flooring for the space where we sit …he operates with heedless, hurried haste, he hobbles awkwardly towards me personally, he prevents – he sees the giant shadow before him, and, at a loss whether or not to retreat or continue, meditates their huge foe.”