In my files, I keep a yellowed copy of a story that first appeared on Page One of The Wall Street Journal.  It may be the most experimental story ever to appear in an American newspaper. The headline reads:

Some Guys I Know
March to the Beat
Of One Weird Drum

The byline is "By Dave Blum," who is described not as a "Journal Writer" but as "Our Staff Scribe."

In short, the WSJ discovered an eccentric club whose members rebel against pompous public language, so they communicate with each other only in words of one syllable (or one "pulse"). In for a dime, in for a buck, the writer and editor decided to write this feature in words of -- you guessed it -- one beat. Here's the lead:

May I have a small word with you?

I want to tell the tale of a group of folks, some here and some there, who like to talk in one-pulse words. There are no more than a few folks so far -- a cult, in a way -- but you will want to play their game once you hear more. I shall tell this tale in words of one pulse, if I can. So please bear with me -- it will, of course, be short and sweet.

Move ahead about 25 years and find me reading, in a recent Rolling Stone, a long profile of James Brown, the Godfather of Soul. It is written by Brooklyn novelist Jonathan Lethem. I happen to admire the work of both artists.

As I read the piece, I am struck by a tension in the texture of the prose -- the push and tug of long words with short words. This tension has existed in the English language at least since the Battle of Hastings in 1066, when the mix of Anglo-Saxon words and those of Latin origin accelerated, which is why earthy four-letter words can also be described by words like defecate, urinate and fornicate. George Orwell expressed a bias for the Anglo-Saxon when he advised writers: "Never use a long word where a short one will do."

But back to some typical Lethem sentences:

"The players seem jolly and amazed witnesses to their own virtuosity."

"They resemble humble, gracious ushers or porters, welcoming you to the enthrallingly physical, jubilant, encompassing groove that pours out of their instruments."

"The James Brown Show is ... an enactment -- an unlikely conjuration in the present moment of an alternate reality... ."

"I'm also struck by the almost extraterrestrial quality of otherness incarnated in this human being."

Polysyllables galore. Then something amazing happens when James Brown speaks:

"Sounds good, but it sounds canned. We got to get some James Brown in there."

"Get that hard sound. ... Hard. Flat. Flat."

"If it gets smooth, we gonna make it not smooth."

"Just jive."

"I'm wrong. Play it like you mean it. I like that, Jeff."

It's as if Jonathan and James speak two different languages, elongated and decorated versus hard and flat.

I feel a set of writing tools lurking somewhere: Longer words, especially with Latin roots, are round, stretchy, abstract, ornate, erudite. They may help you when your mode is critical or analytical. But short words, especially strings of them, will ground your prose, make it feel real and true.

Lethem understands this, which is why, when he reaches the profile's final words, he dons the word cape of his idol: "James Brown spots me there, standing in the wings. The smile he gives me is as natural as the one he gave Fred Wesley, it is nothing like the grin of a statue, and if it is to be my own last moment with James Brown, it is a fine one. I feel good."

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