The
very word, “evocative,” is evocative.
The
dictionary definition, “Serving to bring to mind. Making
you remember or imagine something,” brings up feelings of hazy memories one can’t
quite place or anchor.
Good
poetry is supremely evocative. Good prose is subtly so. Good music evokes on
the most sensual level, as do smells and even certain qualities of light.
I
was mulling over a Leonard
Cohen song, AVALANCHE, whose words I find evocative. But— blimey—
if I know what they mean. I just know that the many attempts to analyze it fall
flat. From the literal to the highfalutin theses I read, none touch what this
song evokes in me, which is dread and impending doom.
This
is but one example. I find James
Joyce’s Ulysses evocative, but also unreadable. I wonder if,
on some level, he meant it to be. A sort of hiding in plain sight.
I’m
not this sort of writer, but I am intrigued by evocative writing.
