Omit needless words.
Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all sentences short, or avoid all detail and treat subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.
I often come across slim volumes with obscure titles promising detailed treatment of rare and fanciful subjects. I grab them with delight, anticipating an odd hour spent studying the mating habits of a dying species of insect or tracing the genealogy of a mythical creature. But the enticing title is inevitably followed by the word “poems”, and I put the book back with a sigh. It is likely that I will find only incoherent sentences with impressive typography within.
When “Roses in the Salad” caught my attention a few weeks ago I was prepared for such disappointment. No advertisement for poems appeared on the cover, but an array of odd images implied a poetry filled interior. Yet upon glancing inside I found more of these images covering the pages. A closer look revealed them to be patterns made from the cross-sections of various vegetables, and many of the patterns resembled roses. Why, a book with an honest title!
But why does this book exist? Is it simply a record of a gleeful salad stamping session? Ah no, it is much more wonderful than that! It is a guide to printing with vegetables, for children and adults, written by an Italian futurist.
An easygoing description of vegetable stamping procedure opens the book. Then we follow along as cabbages become spaceships, brussels sprouts grow into forests, and celery roses enthusiastically march across the pages. All are accompanied by a delightful running commentary that is, in fact, poetic.
“Look, madam, at this fine pattern of wilted but still perfumed roses. You can print them on silk for an evening dress,…” says the celery. But no one listens.
