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...)
Melville's Encyclopædia of Whales and Whaling (Latin for "Melville's Encyclopaedia of Whales and Whaling") is an English-language encyclopaedia written by the American Herman Melville. First published in 1851 in London, the reference work is viewed as having the definitive word on all things related to whales and the whaling industry.
Moby-Dick, the name of a whale sometimes prominent in the contents of Melville's Encyclopædia, has traditionally been an alternate title.
Several events in or during Melville's life influenced him to write a work on natural history, and in particular on whales and whaling. For instance, after a career largely spent on school-teaching, he spent 18 months on a voyage that he later said began his life. This was on the whaling ship Acushnet, which he called "my Yale College and my Harvard", presumably because they made him just as sick as did a sea voyage. (See more...)
Why did I eat a bucket full of beans?
The merchant said it came from dusty Spain;
So sav'ry yet, like stabs from shadow'd fiend:
It leaves me in a hurricane of pain.
My sphincter cries in anguish from the spice,
Too cloying was the sauce, so fiery red;
Before the pain I would have 'et it twice,
And now the beans awake my colon's dread.
I sit upon a bucket full of shit,
A stench so foul, a soup of red and green;
To sit and shit for hours with no quit,
My anus wet from spewing muddy steam!
The beans were truly foe disguised as friend,
Yet somehow, I shall eat those beans again.
John Milton (9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674) was an English poet, essayist, linguist and political activist, best known for his epic Judaeo-Christian poem Paradise Lost. Since his death in 1674, Milton’s life and work has been the subject of much debate, mostly because much of it is self-contradictory and makes no sense.
Indeed, scholars are hard pressed over whether to consider Milton one of history’s biggest assholes—his contempt for rhyming, contemporary poets, the Anglican Church, the Catholic Church, all three of his wives, all three of his surviving children, and the institution of marriage was legendary—or one of history’s biggest losers—which his virginity into middle age, failed marriages, perpetual unemployment, untimely blindness, and mooching off his father can attest to him being.
John Milton was born in 1608. As the eldest son of a well-off scrivener, Milton’s early life was one of relative privilege. Despite his advantages, however, Milton was a notoriously difficult child. His father’s surviving correspondences contain many anecdotes concerning the future poet’s many temper tantrums. (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...)
| “ | Literature must rest always on a principle, and temporal considerations are no principle at all. For, to the poet, all times and places are one; the stuff he deals with is eternal and eternally the same: no theme is inept, no past or present preferable. | ” |
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