1. One Word about the Work of Paarfi of Roundwood
Perfection.
—Shetwil of the House of Dzur, author of The Purchaser of This Book Is a Personage of the Finest Discernment
2. If One Word Is Not Sufficient, Surely One Poem Is
paarfi of roundwood
in one word is just so good.
read him? yes, you should
—Shetwil, the acclaimed “Poet of the Dzur” and author of Should You Do Me the Insult of Refusing to Purchase My Book, Redeem Your Honor with the Weapon of Your Choice at Dawn on the Morrow by the Lightning-Struck Tree at Deep River Park
3. Must the Poet Serve the Muse or the Patron?
That one word, “perfection,” and no other, is all you, Dear Reader, need to be told before you begin the newest distraction from the pen of that most prolific teller of implausible yet impeccably accurate tales, the incomparable Paarfi of Roundwood. To give one word more, to say, for example, that what awaits you is an account of adventure and love and betrayal and revenge, is to limit your expectations of what you are to experience. Why would any honorable person cut short the moment when you hold a tome in your hands and only know that something delightful lies before you?
But that is my onerous duty. Glorious Mountain Press demands a thousand words when a contract has been signed, specifying that number of words as a foreword to Paarfi’s latest work, and they will not pay if what’s delivered is a word short, not even if the signer of the contract is as committed as Paarfi to choosing the one right word among the many that may be found in any dictionary (or one might say, any concordance) or thesaurus (or one might say, synonymy).
Nor will Glorious Mountain be content with a poem, though each syllable was chosen with the precision of a Dzur’s blade flashing in battle.
A publisher who insists a contract for a thousand words can only be fulfilled with a thousand words does not grasp what Paarfi knows, that precision is the only trait of the true artist—along with concision and grace, of course—and let no one forget wit.
A publisher whose soul has more of the lawyer than the artist cannot comprehend that the right word in the right place is worth far more than a thousand wrong ones, just as the right Dzur before a narrow pass or bridge is worth far more than a thousand Teckla. Such a publisher fails to see the simplest truth: when a poet finds the one necessary word, the need for a thousand is no more and the contract should be paid in full. Such a publisher is like a landlord who cannot hear the truth that only a few days of grace are required before the last three months’ rent will be paid in full, or perhaps another week at most, and surely not more than two, unless the payment has been misplaced by the post, in which case the poet is not to blame and a bit more than three weeks may be required, or at worst, a few months, though almost certainly not four more months. Such a publisher is like a lover who will not accept that art requires research for the sake of truth, and so to describe the moonlight playing on thrashing sheets, a poet might require a comely young person’s assistance in recreating a scene from The Shepherdess’s Delight, a thing done in absolute innocence and in no way affecting the vows of eternal devotion that poet has made to such a lover nor in any way justifying that poet’s ejection unclad into the streets with insults and dinnerware hurled at his head.
But enough of the failings of others. A Dzur knows battles cannot be fought as they should be fought, but as they are fought. A publisher who demands a thousand words knows almost no one reads forewords. Such a publisher is buying a block of verbiage with a name above it that might help sell the book. Perhaps Glorious Mountain saw that Paarfi’s audience likes thick books, so I was hired to attract those who like slim ones. Whatever the reason, there is a reason I am a poet and small-minded people are publishers. Did I get a word of praise when I delivered the only necessary word? No—I got a note saying I was 999 words short. When I offered my poem, was there any acknowledgment of its cleverness? No—there was only a note saying, “985 more.”
So I conclude my efforts are not read by one who values quality over quantity. That such a person should publish Paarfi’s work is an affront to all the gods of art, but so it is. Obviously, my pages are given to a clerk who serves as a computer, a word tallier, who ticks off the count.
Word Tallier, I offer you vengeance on those who treat you like a lowly Teckla—by which I mean no insult if you are a lowly Teckla, for it strikes me now that lowly Teckla may take umbrage at being called lowly Teckla. If so, know that I mean no insult in reminding you of your lowliness, nor, Word Tallier, did I mean to imply that you are a lowly Teckla if you are not a member of that base House. Tally the words in this piece. You shall find a full thousand. Assure your oppressor that the count is true and my money should be sent posthaste. A landlord will be content, an unhappy lover will be wooed at a fine tavern, and a poet who you may count as comrade whether you are a lowly Teckla or a child of a noble House will be grateful.
What, I am a word short?
Kumquat.
—Shetwil, author of This Volume Will Adorn Any Bookshelf in the Most Becoming Way and If My Quill Is a Rapier, Have the Grace to Die