William Bartram never met a comma he didn't like. The eighteenth-century American botanist and explorer of Florida tosses commas in the air and wherever they land, there they lie. At first I found his prose annoying, but after a while it grows almost hypnotic, as here:
I had the good fortune to collect together a sufficiency of sticks, to keep up a light and smoke, which I laid by me, and then spread my skins and blankets upon the ground, kindled up a little fire and supped before it was quite dark. The evening was however, extremely pleasant, a brisk cool breeze sprang up, and the skies were perfectly serene, the stars twinkling with uncommon brilliancy. I stretched myself along before my fire; having the river, my little harbour and the stern of my vessel in view, and now through fatigue and weariness I fell asleep, but this happy temporary release from cares and troubles I enjoyed but a few moments, when I was awakened and greatly surprised, by the terrifying screams of Owls in the deep swamps around me, and what encreased my extreme misery was the difficulty of getting quite awake, and yet hearing at the same time such screaming and shouting, which increased and spread every way for miles around, in dreadful peals vibrating through the dark extensive forests, meadows and lakes, I could not after this surprise recover the former peaceable state and tranquility of mind and repose, during the long night, and I believe it was happy for me that I was awakened, for at that moment the crocodile was dashing my canoe against the roots of the tree, endeavouring to get into her for the fish, which I however prevented.
I could quibble about just about every comma in that passage but I won't. I find myself more and more eschewing commas where formerly I would have inserted them; future readers (if there are any left) will no doubt look over my prose and gasp over the commas I've omitted, but my defense is simple: I gave my share to William Bartram.
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