You’ve seen them. The writers who drop “hitherto,” “alas,” and “wherefore” into everyday blog posts as if they’re drafting a royal charter. You read their work, and a strange mix of emotions washes over you: a faint nostalgia for a lost linguistic grace, immediately followed by a visceral cringe.
You know exactly what they’re doing. They’re trying to sound smart. But instead of sounding timeless, they sound like a teenager wearing a three-piece suit to a drive-thru.
You cannot resurrect a dead era by putting on your grandfather’s linguistic suit.
We love the prose of the 1600s. We grew up reading the King James Bible and old English translations of classic novels. There is a rhythm to it, a heavy, rolling cadence that feels deeply important. But here is the twist nobody wants to admit: that ‘wordiness’ wasn’t ornamentation. It wasn’t a deliberate aesthetic choice made by geniuses who wanted to sound fancy.
It was just how they talked.
The original register of historical prose was a natural product of its time. It reflected a different cognitive and communicative environment. They didn’t have modern punctuation conventions, rapid-fire media, or the clipped, efficient syntax we use today. When a writer in 1650 used ten words to say what we now say in three, they weren’t showing off. They were navigating their world.
When you try to do it today, you are committing a bizarre form of cultural appropriation. You are stealing the voice of a dead language register to mask your own insecurities.
Affectation is the death knell of understanding; when you care more about the costume than the clarity, your prose is already dead.
Think about it. Can you imagine someone talking like that while buying groceries? “Prithee, hand me the finest of thy canned tomatoes, for my stew doth require it.” It’s absurd. Yet, writers do this every day on the internet, hoping to command the same respect as a 17th-century philosopher.
The modern revival of archaic prose is driven entirely by status anxiety. The writer feels their modern voice isn’t enough. They feel their ideas are too thin, so they wrap them in velvet and lace, hoping the reader won’t notice the lack of substance underneath. But the reader always notices. We can feel the friction between the ancient vocabulary and the modern, hollow intent behind it.
If you want to write great English prose, you have to write from your own time. You can appreciate the elegance of the past without desperately trying to inhabit it. The best homage you can pay to historical literature is to master the tools of your own era.
Write with the rhythm of how you actually speak, sharpened to a fine point. Don’t reach for “thus” when “so” will do the job better.
True elegance isn’t mimicking the past; it’s making your language so sharp that the future wants to mimic you.
FAQ
Q: Can't we borrow archaic styles for artistic effect?
A: You can, but there's a razor-thin line between a deliberate, well-executed stylistic homage and a cringe-worthy display of pretension. If the archaic vocabulary is doing the heavy lifting because your underlying ideas are weak, it's not art—it's a disguise.
Q: How do I improve my prose without sounding pretentious?
A: Focus on rhythm and clarity, not vocabulary. Read your work aloud. If it sounds like you're trying to impress a 19th-century duke, cut the fluff. Write with the tools and cadence of your own era, but do it with precision.
Q: Isn't modern minimalist writing just as affected as archaic prose?
A: Sometimes, yes. Hemingway-wannabes who strip away all adjectives to sound 'tough' are also performing. The goal isn't minimalism or maximalism; it's authenticity. Write in whatever style serves the truth of what you're trying to say.