Tag Archives: literature

Literature hacked to death at *-Mart

I’m going to spare the rant about the quality of the book – most people have already expressed it.  I came across a great blog post this morning (as I am avoiding doing any type of grading or producing). The writer raises a fear that I’ve had for a while now. In the post  Assault on Literature through 50 Shades of Yuck, the writer laments the current phenomenon of inserting into already existing stories.

The prime example here is the phenomenon that swept the world by storm, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.   Yeah yeah, I can hear the post-modern protests already. But But But. It’s funny. But but but, it’s not hurting anyone. But but but lighten up.

book knifeI’d be less worried if I knew that everyone’s spawn actually knew works of literature. I’m disheartened on a regular basis that they do not, in fact, know much about literature at all (or care, or want to care). I fear the parody of these works (and the thriller/comedy/sex ification of them) is replacing the works themselves (insert rant on education/values/art/entertainment).

Hey, I think spoofs are funny. I think they’re only a good idea, however, when we know what they’re making fun of and why.

The decade of the reboot and the remake (not that these haven’t existed before) in such proliferation and zeal has annoyed me. I’ve enjoyed some, loathed others. But I knew the originals. Sure, some are going to argue that the reboot or remake may inspire seeing the originals. Ok, but that’s giving people a lot of credit. Yet, I’ll readily believe that people will see the original movie before they read the original book.

Flaubert spent 5 years writing Madame Bovary. Not due to laziness, but rather to an obsessive attention to words, sentences, and sounds.

I wonder how long the mommy porn author took to copy Sade’s homework before class.

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A-typical post

atypical post or maybe a typical post.

Jonathan Culler makes a point about how we view poetry, or even recognize it.  Sometimes I use this point with my students when we cover something from the avant-garde.   Usually, students are accustomed to dealing with poetry on classical terms.

Poem by Guillaume Apollinaire from Calligrammes.

How do they recognize a poem? Its (predictable) orientation on the page (at first glance).  Perhaps it’s a sonnet with two stanzas of four lines each and two stanzas of three lines each.  It doesn’t extend down the whole page, some say.  It doesn’t cross the whole page, others offer.

So, in taking a cue from Culler, I often write a line on the board. Something like.  Heat fully before serving.  And I ask them to tell me about what they read. Often, they tell me, “Well, that’s clearly from cooking directions.”  Good! I enthuse.  Then I ask them, “Is this a poem? It’s isolated. It doesn’t have any context, right?”   I see their faces screw up and their, lips pursed, brows furrowed.  Usually, there’s one leader in the pack who then offers, “No, that is not poetry.”

Ok, why isn’t it poetry? I ask them.   The response is usually something like, “It doesn’t sound like poetry.”   Aha! I say.  So, “Poetry has to sound like poetry?”  They nod their heads affirmatively (everyone hopping on board). I then ask them to tell me what poetry sounds like.  And they do.  Long (and studious) explanations about rhyme schemes, patterns of sound, and so forth. Very smart stuff.

Then I ask them to consider something. What if I take our excerpted line of directions and I do something like this with it:

Heat
F U L L Y        B
E
F            s
O             e
R                r
E                  v
i
n
g

“Ohhhhhhhh”  They say.  “That’s different.”   Different? How? I ask.   Well, that doesn’t look like directions any more.   What does it look like?  “Some kind of art,”  they say.