sophiekins
New member
- Joined
- Nov 23, 2010
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Greek
- Home Country
- United States
- Current Location
- United States
So I'm trying to underline language that sounds peculiar or unusual semantically from the text below.
Would I be right in saying that 'the neice of inspiration' is peculiar, because being 'the niece of inspiration' doesn't literally mean anything. It's semantically 'peculiar', a metaphor in other words.
Is there anything else in the text which would be considered semantically peculiar or is what I said above wrong and am I going about this the wrong way?
'Even if it keeps you up all night, wash down the walls and scrub down the floor of your study before composing a syllable. Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way. Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.
The more you clean, the more brilliant your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take to the open fields to scour the undersides of rocks or swab, in the dark forest, upper branches, nests full of eggs.
When you find your way back home and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink, you will behold in the light of dawn the immaculate altar of your desk, a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.
From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet, and cover pages with tiny sentences like long rows of devoted ants that followed you in from the woods.'
Would I be right in saying that 'the neice of inspiration' is peculiar, because being 'the niece of inspiration' doesn't literally mean anything. It's semantically 'peculiar', a metaphor in other words.
Is there anything else in the text which would be considered semantically peculiar or is what I said above wrong and am I going about this the wrong way?
'Even if it keeps you up all night, wash down the walls and scrub down the floor of your study before composing a syllable. Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way. Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.
The more you clean, the more brilliant your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take to the open fields to scour the undersides of rocks or swab, in the dark forest, upper branches, nests full of eggs.
When you find your way back home and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink, you will behold in the light of dawn the immaculate altar of your desk, a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.
From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet, and cover pages with tiny sentences like long rows of devoted ants that followed you in from the woods.'