I've always preferred older English literature to the new shit that people now a days think they're clever for writing.
They, would be nowhere without the dead white guys I like to learn about.
I like foundations and the starts of things. The birth of genre, double entendre, the birth of new words, expressions, ideas.
but, it's not always fun.
Sometimes i rethink my choice of taking Elizabethan Literature simultaneously with Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales.
I let impatience get in the way. I let their now forgotten style bore me out of my mind.
but i'm easily convinced that things are important.
And my professors always know what to say to get me really interested in every word of Sir Philip Sidney, or anyone, for that matter, who for a glimpse of time thought what they had to say was legitimate.
I just fall into this state of awe. I lick it all up because I can imagine with what passion each word was jotted down, maybe hurriedly, maybe with uttmost exactness - their author anxious to express the overflow of emotion with witch inspired him to put pen to paper.
They had something to say. They wanted to be heard.
And, no matter how God awfully boring 14th century text seems, Sidney got what he wanted. Chaucer got what he wanted. The poets and bards and dead old white guys who had the balls to try to spread what they believed in, refuted, ridiculed, satired, laughed at, loved, got what they wanted.
They, would be nowhere without the dead white guys I like to learn about.
I like foundations and the starts of things. The birth of genre, double entendre, the birth of new words, expressions, ideas.
but, it's not always fun.
Sometimes i rethink my choice of taking Elizabethan Literature simultaneously with Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales.
I let impatience get in the way. I let their now forgotten style bore me out of my mind.
but i'm easily convinced that things are important.
And my professors always know what to say to get me really interested in every word of Sir Philip Sidney, or anyone, for that matter, who for a glimpse of time thought what they had to say was legitimate.
I just fall into this state of awe. I lick it all up because I can imagine with what passion each word was jotted down, maybe hurriedly, maybe with uttmost exactness - their author anxious to express the overflow of emotion with witch inspired him to put pen to paper.
They had something to say. They wanted to be heard.
And, no matter how God awfully boring 14th century text seems, Sidney got what he wanted. Chaucer got what he wanted. The poets and bards and dead old white guys who had the balls to try to spread what they believed in, refuted, ridiculed, satired, laughed at, loved, got what they wanted.
700 and some odd years later and I’m in a class dedicated to these bastards.
Words live forever.
1 comments:
camille, you rock.
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