Style is a mini Macintosh word-processor with scripting capabilities that picks up where Simpletext left off. Unlike Simpletext, it doesn't have a 32k limit on the amount of text it can read, making it an ideal replacement for the Mac's somewhat dubious standard text editor.

Features from the Read Me -

• Built-in XTND technology lets you import and export documents in several different file formats.
• Ability to create stand-alone “AutoViewer” documents.
• Outstanding AppleScript support. Style is scriptable, recordable and attachable and supports most of Apple’s Standard Suite and Text Suite of terms, with several additions.
• Built-in hierarchical script menu for convenient access to your favorite scripts. The script menu now rebuilds automatically when you add or remove scripts.
• Multiple undo/redo.
• Drag-and-drop text editing, now with optional translucent text drags.
• Optional WYSIWYG Font menu.
• Appearance-savviness, including support for non-Platinum themes.
• Basic contextual menu support.
• Optional Navigation Services support (requires Mac OS 8.5).
• Support for Mac OS 8.5 proxy icons.
• Support for Mac OS 8.5 proportional scrollbars.
• Support for Sherlock’s Find By Content searches.
• Full WorldScript awareness. Style can handle multiple
languages in the same document, including non-Roman script systems like Japanese and Arabic.
• Inline input (TSM) support for users of Far East script systems.
• Transparent line break conversion for DOS and Unix text files.
• Word Services support for interfacing Style to external spell checkers.
HTML conversion scripts, now including the ability to generate UTF8-encoded, multi-language web pages.
• Balloon Help for all interface items.
• Internet Config awareness.
• Support for Marc Moini’s Smart Scroll control panel.
• Support for Frontier menu sharing.
• Support for extended print records (requires LaserWriter 8.4 or newer) for having all of your print settings stick with documents.

Track number 8 of Orbital's 1999 album The Middle of Nowhere. It has no lyrics as such (as few Orbital pieces do) but it is, in my opinion, Orbital's greatest work to date. It uses some rather obscure synth sounds in such a way that you really must be in a certain frame of mind to fully enjoy it.

I don't want to spoil to for those who have never listened to it, but I'll give you hint about it. One word... telephones.

Answer to the prompt: What words have reached you?

On the evening of February 14th, 2004, Style crawled ashore the polluted sands of Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. He rasped deeply, his hair matted and his face unshaven. His suit was tattered and hung loosely from his shoulders. He effused exhaustion, not absorbing anything's energy but simply acting as a pitless black hole, wilting the sand's dreams of becoming glass. He dragged himself towards me, ignoring the grit collecting under his fingernails and between his teeth, his glasses' missing lens, and that he was supposed to be dead. Style couldn't simply die at sea. He finally reached my feet and crumpled onto his side. He pursed the butt I'd been smoking seconds ago between his lips and inhaled deeply, savoring the taste, filling his lungs to the brim, smiling. He exhaled, the cinders dimmed, and his life extinguished. He resembled a soldier that had died with his finger in the pin of a grenade. Through the rising wisps of smoke the reflection of an hourly hotel's pink neon sign in his lens reminded me: today was Valentine's Day.

Approximately twenty-two hours earlier, the day before Valentine's Day, my cell phone began to ring Mozart's Requiem in D minor. I can be ready by 10PM tomorrow. I scribbled the order down with a grease pencil: no need for discretion, keep the silencer at home, the Wharf. Yeah, I know that pier. The line was dead. I put out my cigarette in the tray next to the phone. My hands were sweating. I rubbed my index finger on the tray's circumference, then suckled it, the ash's flavor reminding me that all was ephemeral.

I arrived at the pier to find that I was part of an entourage. We all had our cuffs just past our sleeves, our pants hemmed to the exactly appropriate length, and expensive suit jackets with perfectly cut pockets. The phone caller paced the aisle of impersonality we formed.

The one next to me whispered, "They say he's a ghost."

I remembered someone once saying that about me.

The caller stopped abruptly, facing away towards the sea. He paused, letting his pupils take in the gentle crests. He clapped. "Let's go. Five meter spread. No sound."

I positioned myself behind the pier's third support pillar. There was a short symphony of safety clicking, cartridge snapping, and hammer cocking followed by silence. The water washed up against my legs and the pillar, harmonically tapping a floating Dr. Pepper bottle against the wood. A seagull cried in the distance. Listening carefully I could isolate the familiar whooshing noise of cars slicing the night's breeze. The floorboards creaked.

"Fire!"

The heat from the onslaught of bullets distorted the midnight air. Damp pine pelleted me from all directions, splinters drilled into my face. I fell, firing towards the explosion of lead. I slammed into the water just in time to see the pillar's foundations crack below the surface.

I focused. The chaos around me dimmed. I rose in vacuum. I pushed both hands upward. The pier crashed down on me, my arms holding, tearing through the wood, as if I had jumped and burst from below. As the pine settled on the waves, I looked ahead and saw him at the edge of the pier, and for a moment we were incredulous of each other. Style let the second pass, then raised his pistol. I realized the ringing in my ears had stopped. We were the only ones left. I anticipated the muzzle flare, the useless flinch. He pulled the trigger.

Miss. He fired again. Miss. He took two steps forward. Miss. He ran towards me, emptying his entire clip save for a single round. I stood up as he held the pistol point blank to my head. I flinched. Miss. I looked down at my own firearm, and back at Style. He ran. I fired. His torso contorted, he spun, and collapsed.

Valentine's Day. Basking in the pink glow, I tried to remember those I loved and had loved. I tried to remember my enemies, my friends, the name of the caller. Who I had betrayed, who betrayed me, the promises I broke and the ones I kept. My childhood, puberty, leaving home. My principles, if I had any. But nothing came. All of my relationships, my history, the arch of my life. Nothing. They seemed, and I seemed... artificial.

I knelt next to Style. I remembered the cigarette. I struck a match and cupped it so as not let my hair drip on it, and relit the nicotine. I remembered how he had inched across the shore to reach me. I let my hand out, and carefully poked his flesh, watching how the skin pulled as I applied pressure. I ran my fingers over his jacket, caressing the material, noting the difference in texture due to moistness. His hair was oily in my palm. I had other characters to meet, other plotlines to play out, but somehow I was inferior to a man smoking as he died from bullet wounds under the Valentine's Day Special sign for a cheap hotel. I knew it then.

Style is substance.

Style (?), n. [OE. stile, F. style, Of. also stile, L. stilus a style or writing instrument, manner or writing, mode of expression; probably for stiglus, meaning, a pricking instrument, and akin to E. stick. See Stick, v. t., and cf. Stiletto. The spelling with y is due to a supposed connection with Gr. a pillar.]

1.

An instrument used by the ancients in writing on tablets covered with wax, having one of its ends sharp, and the other blunt, and somewhat expanded, for the purpose of making erasures by smoothing the wax.

2.

Hence, anything resembling the ancient style in shape or use.

Specifically: --

  1. A pen; an author's pen.
    Dryden.
  2. A sharp-pointed tool used in engraving; a graver.
  3. A kind of blunt-pointed surgical instrument.
  4. Zool. A long, slender, bristlelike process, as the anal styles of insects.
  5. [Perhaps fr. Gr. a pillar.] The pin, or gnomon, of a dial, the shadow of which indicates the hour. See Gnomon.
  6. [Probably fr. Gr. a pillar.] Bot. The elongated part of a pistil between the ovary and the stigma. See Illust. of Stamen, and of Pistil.

3.

Mode of expressing thought in language, whether oral or written; especially, such use of language in the expression of thought as exhibits the spirit and faculty of an artist; choice or arrangement of words in discourse; rhetorical expression.

High style, as when that men to kinges write.
Chaucer.

Style is the dress of thoughts.
Chesterfield.

Proper words in proper places make the true definition of style.
Swift.

It is style alone by which posterity will judge of a great work.
I. Disraeli.

4.

Mode of presentation, especially in music or any of the fine arts; a characteristic of peculiar mode of developing in idea or accomplishing a result.

The ornamental style also possesses its own peculiar merit.
Sir J. Reynolds.

5.

Conformity to a recognized standard; manner which is deemed elegant and appropriate, especially in social demeanor; fashion.

According to the usual style of dedications.
C. Middleton.

6.

Mode or phrase by which anything is formally designated; the title; the official designation of any important body; mode of address; as, the style of Majesty.

One style to a gracious benefactor, another to a proud, insulting foe.
Burke.

7. Chron.

A mode of reckoning time, with regard to the Julian and Gregorian calendars.

Style is Old or New. The Old Style follows the Julian manner of computing the months and days, or the calendar as established by Julius Caesar, in which every fourth year consists of 366 days, and the other years of 365 days. This is about 11 minutes in a year too much. Pope Georgy XIII. reformed the calendar by retrenching 10 days in October, 1582, in order to bring back the vernal equinox to the same day as at the time of the Council of Nice, A.D. 325. This reformation was adopted by act of the British Parliament in 1751, by which act 11 days in September, 1752, were retrenched, and the third day was reckoned the fourteenth. This mode of reckoning is called New Style, according to which every year divisible by 4, unless it is divisible by 100 without being divisible by 400, has 366 days, and any other year 365 days.

Style of court, the practice or manner observed by a court in its proceedings.
Ayliffe.

Syn. -- Diction; phraseology; manner; course; title. See Diction.

 

© Webster 1913.


Style, v. t. [imp. & p. p. Styled (?); p. pr. & vb. n. Styling.]

To entitle; to term, name, or call; to denominate.

"Styled great conquerors."

Milton.

How well his worth and brave adventures styled.
Dryden.

Syn. -- To call; name; denominate; designate; term; characterize.

 

© Webster 1913.

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