Let be known on this date, and for ten years hereafter, the phrase “casual violence” is heretofore stricken from usage in the English-speaking world. No longer will embryonic Nabokovs carry this hackneyed expression in their back pocket, to be deployed as clichéd shorthand, masquerading as profundity, when they need a quick summary of a dangerous character they do not understand.
Granted, there are many, many examples already on record, such as “…this man who carries in his limbs the promise of casual violence…” (“Summer Boys,” Ethan Rutherford, pg. 31 in The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories). This example is not intended to impugn Ethan. He is undoubtedly like us—he gets hungry and tired and sometimes feels bloated and battles with ambition in a cruel and careless world. And at least he can brag about being a published author. True, it is a work that carries that unfortunate phrase, but it is one of many, many, many examples, little doses of literary meth sprinkled throughout our combined historical record, providing a quick, illusory high before one realizes, on closer examination, it is meaningless. We need new clichés.
