He then proceeded to expound the concept that had become a fixation with him: “Thee must acknowledge that Jesus Christ was himself a Jew. Living in P… - James A. Michener

No writer ever knows enough words but he doesn’t have to try to use all that he does know. Tests would show that I had an enormous vocabulary and through the years it must have grown, but I never had a desire to display it in the way that John Updike or William Buckley or William Safire do to such lovely and often surprising effect. They use words with such spectacular results; I try, not always successfully, to follow the pattern of Ernest Hemingway who achieved a striking style with short familiar words. I want to avoid calling attention to mine, judging them to be most effective as ancillaries to a sentence with a strong syntax.
My approach has been more like that of Somerset Maugham, who late in life confessed that when he first thought of becoming a writer he started a small notebook in which he jotted down words that seemed unusually beautiful or exotic, such as chalcedony, for as a novice he believed that good writing consisted of liberally sprinkling his text with such words. But years later, when he was a successful writer, he chanced to review his list and found that he had never used even one of his beautiful collection. Good writing, for most of us, consists of trying to use ordinary words to achieve extraordinary results.
I struggle to find the right word and keep always at hand the largest dictionary my workspace can hold, and I do believe I consult it at least six or seven times each working day, for English is a language that can never be mastered.* [*Even though I have studied English for decades I am constantly surprised to find new definitions I have not known: ‘panoply’ meaning ‘a full set of armor’, ‘calendar’ meaning ‘a printed index to a jumbled group of related manuscripts or papers’. — Chapter IX “Intellectual Equipment”, page 306

the burden of the thinking man is to calculate the probable good against the possible bad and to decide whether the change will be worth the risk.

The magnates of Poland used this tactic brilliantly, preaching loudly: “The most insignificant member of the gentry with one horse and sword is the equal of the most powerful magnate in his castle,” while at the same time depriving landless gentry of almost all rights and treating them with contempt. The peasant was kept happy by being assured that it was the magnate who defended Christianity. The townsman, who was allowed no rights whatever, was reminded: “It is the magnate who protects your freedom and your shop.