http://theamericanscholar.org/ten-best-sentences/
Here are some of their finished products:
It was a
beautiful laugh—sweet and subtle—but it had no authenticity and it had no
sincerity, just layers and layers of lies.
It was
Michigan in the frigid winter of 1941, and the snow was fresh and the music
cheerful and a great many wealthy people seemed to have a sense of seasonal
generosity and it might have been a winter of shared memories and rich hot
cocoa, but it was not, and more and more people had the instinctive impression
that it was not.
There is
nothing more offensively rude than an unwanted opinion.
In many ways
he was anger itself, overbearing and powerful, full of evil ambitions, slowly
boiling, always ready to erupt, standing behind you at any second, a believer
in pain and suffering and direct blows.
Any
ambitions for the day faded away in the summer sun.
I go to
unlock for the millionth time the inviting screen of my phone and to banish all
thoughts of productivity from my unstimulated conscience.
In many ways
she was like Michigan herself, weak and moody, full of deception, a heart as
cold as ice, fighting but failing, never predictable, a believer in the virtues
of wealth and adventure and hard labour.
This tiny
cottage was tucked away from the roaring city so that it was distant, but still
approachable—partly because the owners feared the looming emptiness of the
faceless people and nameless buildings; partly because (according to previous
residents) once the thrill of a city visit was gone, the owners could simply
slip away, unnoticed, back into a hiding place.
There is
nothing more painfully regretful than the things left unsaid.
In many ways
she was like a novel herself, full of intellect and stories, always judged on
how she looked, somewhat ignored but loved when she was realized, the core of
her was constant and reliable, yet people took little time to know her. They watched the movie instead.
She was a
garden—lively and beautiful—but she had no paths through which I could navigate.
Like a
stream that meets a boulder, like a seed that floats into a field and like
crashing into your “mean to be”, fate, in the shape of random occurrences, has
never stopped there.
I go to
contemplate for the millionth time the wonder of stillness and to cultivate in
the quiet of my mind the unhindered reverence of this creation.
For what do
we live, but to pester acquaintances with the thoughts that cloud our minds,
and disregard theirs in turn?
Fear was
swept away in the wind with any trace of weakness.
Like a
beautiful newborn child, like the pockets of men who run our country, and like
flowers in the spring time, worry, in the hearts of all Americans, never
stopped growing.
There was a
white light—bright and strong—but it was just a flash and with it came the
destruction.
For why do
we speak, but to make known our opinions and denounce those of others?
In many
ways, the cheese burger was like America itself, large and wide, full of carbs
and fat, a being waiting for its next bite, a greasy thing but always filling,
always there when you are hungry, a believer in the virtues of simplicity and
freedom and fast food.
There is
nothing more outrageously simple, yet deceivingly confounding than language.
Sorrow was
buried in the ground, along with the body.
I go to
encounter for the first time the reality of death and forge in the depth of my
sorrow the strength that will guide me.
There is
nothing more viciously destructive to the soul of man than the sudden
acquisition of his long-thirsted desires.
For what do
we breathe, but to release to the wind our own apprehensions and to inhale the vitality
of another person’s courage.
My grade
washed away in the river with any future aspirations.
I go to
encounter for the millionth time the laces of my racing shoes, and to forge in
the depth of my confidence the unfulfilled vision of my soul.
In many ways
she was like a fish in a bowl, bored and uninspired, moving around but getting nowhere, living the same dull
monotony day in and day out hypnotized by the world outside but a prisoner to
the glass.
There is
nothing more undeniably irritating than a pointless assignment.
Like a vine
gone untrimmed, like a vagabond in the desert, and like a child chasing a
butterfly, her mind, in its constant tangle of thoughts, never stopped
wandering.
In many ways
he was like the underdog himself, small and powerful, full of undiscovered
talent, throwing caution to the wind, unsupported but always persevering,
always there to shock you, a 15 seed destroying your bracket with luck and hard
work.
It was
Madison Square Garden in mid-March of 2014, the crowd was anxious and the score
high and a great many devoted fans seemed to have a sense of high arrogance and
it might have been a March of high hopes and predictability, but it was not,
and more and more fans had the uneasy apprehension that it was not.
This rundown
village was miles away from tourism so that the palm trees, orchids, mango
trees and aloe versa were intact and the mountain range invited missionaries—partly
because they believed if the children would come, they could change their
lives; partly because the islands’ tropical aesthetic appeal and whimsical breezes
with the rushing water and beauty were very Caribbean, warm and safe; and also
partly (according to the staff) because of an irresistible calling to save
them.
I go to
encounter for the millionth time the never ending maze of human thought and to
forge in the depths of my mind the thoughts that I am too inarticulate to
share.
For why do
we persevere, but to create better lives for ourselves and for those who come
after?
I go to
encounter for the millionth time my own face and to silence in the depths of my
soul the unanswered conscience of my own morals.
There is
nothing more magically delicious than a lucky charm.
There is
nothing more atrociously smelly than an over-axed middle schooler.
It was a
yearning song—full and resonant—but it had no beginning and no end, just
measures and measures of longing.
I go to
encounter for the millionth time the frustration of programming and to shape in
the space of my application the second attempt at my goal.
For what do
we live, but to take soma for our sorrows, and search for another gramme in our
turn?
It was a
fine prison—strong and silent—but it had no ceiling and it had no floors, just
walls and walls of imagination.
There are no
words more uplifting than the ones that come from your loved ones.
Like the
potholes in the road, like the plow trucks crowding the streets, and like the
skiers gliding down the Michigan slopes, winter, in the shape of white mounds
is never going to end.
In many ways
he was like Hitler himself, powerful and demanding, full of detestable thoughts,
a roll of lies hanging from his tongue, slow of mind but always answering
instantaneously, always there when you least wanted him, a believer in the
virtues of evil and deception and forced labor.
It was a
fine promise—calm and reassuring—but it had no beginning and no end, just miles
and miles and miles of empty intent.
For what do
we learn, but to teach others, and to grow from this exchange in our turn?
There is
nothing more endearingly graceful than a newborn giraffe.
Like the
pebbles on the beach, like the legos in the carpet and like the glass in the
street, pain in the shape of unique objects has never eluded feet.
It was a
good laugh—loud and long—but it had no end and no beginning, just levels and
levels of delight.
Like the
ticking of the clock, like the scratching of the pencils, and like the drops of
sweat meandering down the necks, stress, in the shape of standardized testing,
had never stopped there.
For what do
we live, but to disobey our parents and demand obedience in turn?
It was a
fine life—healthy and long—but it had no love and it had no loss, just years
and years of emptiness.
There is
nothing more begrudgingly rewarding than forced rhetorical analysis.
I go to
answer for the millionth time the questions of a test and to forge in the factory
of thought between my ears the unnecessary stress of standardized testing
results.
It was
Forest Hills of Northern in the cold early spring of 2014, and the rain was
steady and the GPA’s low and a great many exhausted students seemed to have a
sense of low motivation and it may have been a spring of 36’s and 4.0’s, but it
was not, and more and more people had the uneasy apprehension that it was not.
There is
nothing more delightful than the smell of a freshly baked pie that you can’t
have.
It was a
fine novel—eloquent and long—but it had no beginning and it had no end, just
pages and pages of middle.
I go to face
for the millionth time, the growing probability of failure and to plant in the
depths of consciousness the will to continue anyway.
It was a
petrifying scream—exhilarating and blood curdling, but it had no beginning and
it had no end, just echoes and echoes of terror.
For what do
we live but to fail in our endeavors and learn from them in return?
I go to
encounter for the millionth time the boldness of patriotism and to revel in the
freedom of my soul the unchained souls of my people.
There is
nothing more atrociously cruel than an unstable internet connection.
I go to
replace for the millionth time, the light bulb of creativity and to forge on
the lines of my paper the unprecedented sentence of my class.
Like the
cobwebs in the corner, like the terms and conditions on a website, like the
white crayon in the crayon box, insignificance in the shape of forgotten
trinkets has never been recognized.
Like the cold, stone walls, like the empty chairs and like the silverware clicking in silence at the dinner table, home, in the heart-warming sense of the word, had never been there.
Like the cold, stone walls, like the empty chairs and like the silverware clicking in silence at the dinner table, home, in the heart-warming sense of the word, had never been there.
