Too many things take too long. This may appear an odd complaint given the often bewildering pace of modern life; but it comes from the heart. And it applies to many forms of activity.

Take baseball, for example. Why should Red Sox games so often last four hours?  I want them to end in two.  Let’s go back to one pitcher per game. It beats the inevitable parade of single-inning (or single hitter) specialists. This kind of thing costs money and ruins sport.

Movies too. Most of them ought to last an hour and a half. Only great artistry can justify long films. Even then, I must admit that admirable films like last year’s “Tree of Life “ (138 minutes) present a considerable challenge to my Sitzfleisch.

If I were hired as a cinema consultant, I would urge another change. Ban previews. They are counterproductive (at least for me) and tend to dull our appetite for the main feature.

In everyday life, even short cell phone calls last too long.  Presumably land line calls do so too; but their users do not talk in public.  We stand prisoners of cell phone conversations.  And we have no idea when we will be set free.

In fact, speeches of all kinds offend my sense of size, perhaps for the same reason. The rule that I propose for speakers is “Half as long, twice as good.” All orators should be guided by the events at Gettysburg on November 19, 1863.  The politician Edward Everett spoke for two hours. President Lincoln spoke for just over two minutes. Which speech do we remember?

Books, of course, can be too long; but we can usually choose when to put them down.  And there are great long books.  This summer I read the latest volume of Robert Caro’s monumental biography of Lyndon Johnson. It went on for some 600 pages, and every word of it counted. I would gladly have read 600 more.

On the other hand, there are 200-page books that cry out for the editor’s pencil.  Their authors lack a sense of shape and economy of expression. I’ll name no names, and I hold out little hope that they know who they are.

The temptation to write shapelessly must inevitably increase in an age of digital communication. Writers of earlier ages had certain constraints: the supply of paper and ink; the length of the papyrus; the width of the stone tablet.  Now there is only the ether, and the opportunity to express oneself at infinite length.

Can something be done about this? Not through external rules, certainly. We can only count on the writer’s or speaker’s sense of style and measure, and her (or his) compassion for fellow human beings.

Public speakers we beseech you to give jus some idea of what you plan to say, and how long you expect us to listen to you.  Cell phone users, have pity on your unintended audience, and take your conversation elsewhere.

And fellow writers: remember that we are all part of a long tradition of wordsmiths who respected their craft, and expressed themselves with care and clarity. Let us remember E. B. White, who was haunted by his college writing instructor’s motto: “Omit needless words!”

And do not forget the great French thinker Blaise Pascal, a genius in many fields and a master of style.  Apologizing for the length of a letter he explained that if he had had time he would have made it shorter.

Let’s adopt our own rules in the same tradition. Put some art into it. Take your time. Make it short.