Portal:Literature

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The Litterature Portalle
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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...)

Featur'd Article
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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...)

Featur'd Image
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I am a coal-truck / by a broken heart / I have no sound / the sound of my heart / I am not.
Image by Cédric Spatiotemprel
To-dayes Featur'd Poëm
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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.

(See more...)
Select'd Biographie
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Ernest Miller Hemingway (July 21, 1899 – July 2, 1961) was an American author. He lived. Primarily in the first half of the twentieth century, then for a while in the last half. He wrote things (such as books), drank things (such as alcohol), and shot things (such as his face). He had a beard. He married more than his fair share of rich women. He once owned a tiny Jewish slave named Windemere.

Let us examine this complex man and his complex works. Without neglecting his complexity.

Hemingway was born in the United States. His father was an Amish magician. His mother was not. He cried a lot when he was a baby. Babies cry a lot. Sometimes it is because their pants are heavy. Sometimes it is because they cannot have fine French wine. Even as a baby Hemingway could tell a good wine from a bad one. (See more...)

To-dayes Featur'd Newes
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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-dayes Wilde Saying
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