I don't know why literature has the unique property among the arts that it must be puréed into rapidly digestible slush. Many here have already defended merits of connotative precision, so I shan't, but what of artistic precision? Language can innervate the soul with beauty, lilt with the lyrical pleasure of song, or revolt the senses. Shall the painter lock away his varied pigments? Shall the blue notes never sound? Limpid prose lacks those tongue-delighting tannins. I mourn each word ferried across the river Archaic.