Happy Halloween.
Cookies to the first person who can satisfactorily explain to me why life is not like literature. ::coughBolterahem::, or any of the numerous other learned readers of this LJ.
Page Summary
September 2009
|
Ummm...I've been giving this some thought for a couple of days and have arrived at the conclusion that I am not equipped in any way to answer that question. Every writer and professor of literature--indeed, every bum on the street--no doubt has a different opinion on the purpose of literature. Also, in literature there is metaphor and foreshadowing and stuff. But I run about trying to find parallels where there are none... I guess my take on it is that when you read literature, you have the sense all the time that every event being described has significance and leads up to this big-fucking-epiphany at the end of it all. Life... well, things never feel like they're adding up. There are "EUREKA!" moments, and then the next second you feel as though you had all the answers for that one moment, and now you've lost them all again. So you're back to nothing. Maybe if we could summarize life, and fast-foward to the end, life would mirror literature more. |