How flowery is too flowery? How flowery can a flower be before it becomes a bush, and then a tree, and on into an entire forest? I love flowers; I love what they imply, by their mere existence.
So, too, with words. How flowery can they be? An english teacher–ironically–would likely discourage it in most cases, in the same way a piano instructor would discourage too many flourishes of the keys. Moderation carries grace too, though. Yet, I still wonder: where does the boundary lie between beauty and gaudiness? Gaudí surely would have answered differently than Mies.
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