Portal:Literature
As the generally accepted definition of literature today hugs folktales to its warm bosom, we might well conclude that literature began with one frightened caveman grunting (see language) his fears to his fellows by firelight. This, however, would be wrong. Scurrying, short and bitter academics in dank bare cells have clinically proven that 'literature' is caused by writing down things which never happened and which afflict the reader with acute boredom , in some cases literally boring the victim to death.
Today, the study of literature remains a major academic discipline at nearly every educational institution around the world, often being the most heavily required class for graduation. This is because academics have declared that finding themes (which the author totally intended to put in the work) is far more important than learning first aid, basic home and auto repair, or how to do your taxes. However, there is one major benefit to the study of literature: without it, as many as half of the jokes in your favorite TV shows would fly right over your head. (See more...)
Twilight is a book about hardship and boyfriends and vampires, and it is also hard — to read, that is; the author, Stephanie Meyer, fills it with parentheticals and asides that sometimes get so far off track that it's hard to tell what the sentence, let alone paragraph, was even about, and sometimes, sometimes it gets to the point where the entire thing might as well be a nice, long, careening, self-contradictory minivan, because it's hard to tell where the entire thing is going when it's not going anywhere — which is hard, like Edward Cullen and Jacob... Jacob whatever his last name is; everyone just refers to him as Jacob (and he doesn't even appear much in this one anyway).
The novel itself is the first book in the Twilight saga — a compelling tale of romance and vampires — followed by New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn, all of which are quite hard — they are, after all, targeted toward one of the lowest demographics: high school girls. Film adaptations and a graphic novel have also been made, or are in the process of being made, but tend to be much better than the books due to, according to some, a decreased influence by the original author on their creation, though as both were still closely supervised by Meyer, how much that is actually saying is dubious. (See more...)
A hundred meals of oats and grain I ate;
But water I had yet to sip and drink,
Now crowning from my anus as of late:
The largest poop I'd ever done, methinks.
It bellowed as it plopp'd into the bowl,
A wave of water splash'd upon my ass;
So empty was the feeling in my hole,
No chunk of poo, nor vented fetid gas
Almóst a foot it measured toe to tip,
A waxy sheen upon its pimpled face;
Both hands could never hold it in clos'd grip,
Too wide and hard, yet smelled of clove and mace.
A solid, brownish trophy of my strain,
But like all shits, it must go down the drain.
Joseph Conrad you say? Heh, I knew such a man once, he was, what you might call... a Pole. Therein lies the problem you see, for he was not what might be described as a thin rounded piece of wood, perhaps adorned with a flag, perhaps not. Nor was he an extremity of an axis through a sphere. No! Begad good sir! He was a native of Poland. You see now, he was an impenetrable mystery, that Conrad—always cadging for blow too, but that's another story. Wait, no it isn't.
His early life you say? Well, 'tis presumptuous to assume I would provide you with this particular chap's tale. Yes, I may be an old seaman, but yarn spinning is not my forte good sir. No indeed, one can probably tell from my unsophisticated vernacular that I—Marlow, a man of humble origins and humble endings—would have such skills. But Conrad, my God man, he had eyes that could pierce a man's soul; his lips were thin and pale like eels; his very skull seemed to cry "I am depressed!" or something of that nature. One night he came to me in my quarters, screaming (and I quote): "Marlow! Marlow! It is my fate that I should wander these halls like a ghost, festering away my... genius! Why should such a man as you presume yourself beneficiary to this ship eh? What? Speak up man!" (End quote.) Needless to say I was startled, not least because than man was fully nude. My word. Crack is one hell of a drug, I could tell you that twice, but I shan't for brevity is man's saving grace and I shan't waste your time dilly-dallying hither and thither with no clear end in sight, indeed that would be a tedious practice for all parties involved, not least myself, or any other party for that matter. (See more...)
BOSTON, Massachusetts – Pushed up against a far corner of the wall and beneath a shelf of dusty books in the living area of a humble little one-bedroom apartment in Back Bay sits an old maple desk. Sunlight from a window casts upon it, illuminating dancing little specks of dust which settle upon its varnished surface like noble drops of morning dew. Posters of impressionist paintings line the walls above, peeling, poetically.
"You like this?" says the owner of the desk. "It's an antique. From the 19th century. I find old things rather inspiring. Makes me think about the sorts of people who once used them and all the stories their lives once told."
Alan McPherson, amateur poet and curator for a local Tupperware museum, spends almost nine hours a day here at this desk, thinking, dreaming, and doodling in his various journals, stopping only to eat and use the restroom. (See more...)
| “ | To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul. | ” |
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