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.
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...)
| “ | When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? | ” |
-
Art
Peak pretentiousness -
Business
Money, money, money! -
Comedy
The science of funny -
Culinary
Food for the soul -
Film
Enter the Matrix -
Games
Recess time -
Gay
A gay ol' time -
Geography
Get lost -
History
Factually wrong -
Literature
Literally illiterate -
Internet
A series of tubes -
Music
Rock on! -
Politics
Politically incorrect -
People
The people's portal -
Religion
Speak of the Devil -
Science
Playing to be God -
Society
We live in one -
Technology
Breaking stuff easier -
Television
Turn your brain off -
Theatre
To be or not to be -
Video Games
Better than sex -
Zoology
Beware of furries -
Portals
Meta-Portal -
Community
The Community -
Main Page
The Uncyclopedia