It's not a word you hear much; I like it. I connotes puffery, prolixity and pomposity -- and a whole heap more.
And the Internet (whatever the hell that is) is replete with it. Great gobs of twaddle.
And yet, no one wants to call it out, lest still the bullshit.
I know it's easy and cheap to make these points but I long for the day, perhaps in Bukowski "style" (see below), where someone, graciously and with decorum, calls it out. Of course, they'll have to be prepared for the pile-on and the brickbats, but I'm sure their armoury can withstand allcomers.
Style
by Charles Bukowski
Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it.
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men,
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
Jesus.
Socrates.
Caesar.
García Lorca.
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water,
