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Why do otherwise adequate writers use exclamations?!?

Why do otherwise adequate writers use exclamations?!?

Sometimes, with histories, I find myself wanting to read backward. Trucks replace horses, telegraph replaces courier notes, and this vast central Asian steppe is diminished. In the beginning it was empty and you could imprint your fears upon it; by the mid-20th century it's a dusty inconvenience with oil.

It really is a great sea. But sea-riously...

The Islamic period in the west is awesome. Amalfi, perched on its rocky coast, becomes a dominant entrepot, because the ancestors of Genoa, Venice, and Barcelona are quaking in their hovels, waiting for Muslim pirates to enslave them. Delicious.

Stephen is a cunning fellow, but I suppose we all knew it by now.

Now I understand how the world survived before I got into it: they had this guy.

I can't do it. What has happened to me? Is it just age? Or something deeper, more pernicious...do I have standards? These people make no sense to me, and they should, they should. Otherwise, what's the point?

A continent of scouser thieves. I knew it! Also, this Hughes guy can really ink it up. He should be an art critic or something.

Mr. Blanning's politics are mildly apparent. He's a bit of a Burkean pragmatist, I'd say, or a Whig-Tory conservative...ten pages on the benighted state of commons-dependent peasants and a scant few paragraphs on the appropriative aspect of enclosure. Riveting, still.

Through "Communication" and into "People" and I'm thoroughly percolatin'!

History's favorite gossipy Greek cavalry officer! What did Thrasymychus say to Alcibiades in Miletus? Why do Spartans wear thongs? Who will protect Athens from democracy? Now with more notes!

System 1, System 2. Lizard vs. Monkey, in my usual formulation. Personality as the unstable outcome of cognitive competition. Bias. Heuristics. And under all, a simple message: you are, and are not, who you think (you are). sigh Why do our brains hate us?

Oh Dr. King, master of macabre mystere, you've emerged from your long sleep, returned to your understated mix of Poe, Lovecraft, and Great American Paperweight, though I could do with less of that last. Still, I can't complain (yet).

Goddamned Richard. F@cking Joey. F@cking Patty. Walter, you pathetic miserable waste. All you aching bloody threads in this miserable dark tapestry, learning to deserve your awful world. And Connie, angel, who deserves so much better than these awful f@cks. You are tragic cherry atop this motor-oil sundae, aren't you?

A desperate and desolate book. Perfect.

This book sucks, unless I read aloud in the voice of David McCullough. That's the only way to make it fun.