And he's quick with a joke, or to light up your smoke. But there's someplace that he'd rather be. —Billy Joel
If you are never alone, you cannot know yourself. —Paulo Coelho

In earlier posts, I have explored the idea of verbal portraiture. Verbal Portrait No. 1 and Verbal Portrait No. 2 describe a bookish lady and a troubled writer, respectively.

I encourage you to read the above portraits in full for proper context on this style, however, I empathize with the there-aren’t-enough-hours-in-the-day crowd. Below is an excerpt that briefly explains my angle and aim:

From vivid descriptions of my most minute observations, I attempted to create a coherent verbal “image.” Like the pointillistic brushstrokes of Seurat, my words would obfuscate if read individually, but render clarity when taken as a whole. Hence, the idea of verbal portraiture was born.

A Verbal Portrait is a specific, hyper-detailed description of the reality an individual sees in front of him/her.

Verbal Portrait of the Garrulous Gladhander

The first thing people noticed about him was his hand.

Upon meeting, it shot out quickly and precisely, just like a rattlesnake does when it strikes. But there was no venom in his grasp, no menace in his smile. Only an eager enthusiasm so overwhelming it bordered on desperate.

Though you never caught his name, it was clear shaking hands was his game. He extended his hand to anyone with a pulse—it was a reflex, a compulsion, a necessity.

His grip was firm and practiced, his palm callused from a lifetime of swapping both sweat and skin while rubbing many different shoulders. His very existence was a repudiation of Dunbar's number.

He was almost as wide as he was tall, which made him approachable—disarming, even. He spoke with a whimsically pleasant lilt, an unplaceable accent that mesmerized and drew people in.

His charm was effortless, his jokes quick, his stories endless. But his words were waves crashing against the shore—loud, constant, rhythmic, shallow.

His voice was well-practiced in easy conversation, but not introspection. He could talk to anyone but the man in the mirror; indeed, he could seldom meet his own eyes.

He had a contact for everything, a name and a number for every need, but not a single friend.

He despised the sound of silence and never let it settle.

Pauses in conversation weren’t moments to absorb; they were cues for the next line.

To him, stillness was a sin, something dark and foreign and unexamined.

His preferred background music was the chorus of conversation, the symphony of small talk.

All his bluster was meant to keep people at bay; light chitchat muddying the waters to make them seem deep.

He kept everyone at the surface; never letting anyone past pleasantries.

His depths were his to dive down into alone.

He was the loneliest socialite you’d ever meet, a Gatsby of his own making.

At the center of everything, yet somehow, always far, far away.

He heard but never listened.

He responded but never reflected.

He was living proof that the life of the party is often dying inside.

The furious frenzy of his activity inhibited the stillness of his soul.

Amidst the noise, he could find no signal.

Did he crave company because he hated himself or did he crave himself and hate company?

He wasn’t entirely sure. But there was no time for such trifling matters.

There were people to meet, after all.Verbal Portrait of the Garrulous Gladhander