One such book is "Seed to Dust: Life, Nature and a Country Garden," by Marc Hamer. A glowing review in the Wall Street Journal a few months ago motivated me to buy it for my husband, himself an avid gardener and eager reader of esoterica.
Mitch started it but put it down pretty quick, which saddened me. I asked why and he said that while he liked it, the writing was a bit too descriptive for his tastes. So there it sat on our living room coffee table for weeks, its attractive cover adding a touch of class to the room. My interest finally piqued, I picked it up and started to read. Gagging at the one-page Prologue, I nevertheless started the first chapter, called "White":
"Fallen leaves curl as if to fold their fingers in for warmth. Hot breath steams from the rudely opened gobs of pipes on the outside walls of houses, while inside hungry roaring flames or coiled electric elements nested deep in boilers keep the people safe, away from nature's icy teeth."
What kind of madness is this? First of all, in this author's mind leaves have fingers and nature has teeth. Flames can be hungry and pipes (what are gobs?) have the ability to breathe. Is this some sort of sci-fi thriller? Nope, rather the reflections of a gardener on an estate in the Welsh countryside. If I had written that opening paragraph, it would say, "It was a cold day in winter."
Later in the book, "The moon's bowl tips a group of crows in pairs at dusk, and I am showered with gifts of rain." Not sure what that means, but I guess it's raining even though the moon is visible. Or is it? And what's with the pairs of crows? No idea.
Writing is a form of communication, or should be. If you don't get it you're not dumb, it's that the writer has failed. The same goes for talking: just say what you mean and you'll be amazed at how much easier life gets.
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