‘Farewell to all sentiments which rejoice the heart. I have played the part of Providence in recompensing the good. May the god of vengeance now permit me to punish the wicked!’- Alexandre Dumas. Literature brings much light to my life, it always has. Ever since a little boy I found myself rolled up in bed the lights off the bed lamp on and a book under my chin. I always cherished a good book and still do. Harry Potter came and never left, The light of a certain apartment on Baker Street still burns somewhere in my mind, I see Stokers beast in shadowy nights, plains inhabited with Orcs, Wargs and Goblins under a dark expanse and yet the peace of Riverun never seems afar. The Finches always halo over me and Hemingway runs in my blood.
Albeit the catharsis, I fail to find sentiment in many modern works. What come today under the banner of Literary fiction fail to astound and meet the requirements that push both heart and thought to feel and think differently than we’re accustomed to. Walking through a bookstore becomes as morbid as walking through a mausoleum of fetid thought, zombied books and a delirious crowd drunk upon silly,apallable emotion riffling through a stream of trash. Shelves decked with Vampire Diaries, Vampire School and alterations of a similar nature that revolve around a protagonist (11 out of 10 times a girl, seemingly on her worst period or an equally bad case of constipation) falling in love with a moving diamond who if he ever went to Africa would be chopped and sold in carats by the kilo. And if the slew of inter-predator-prey passion was not enough one is assaulted to the point of harassment at the sight of E.L. James’s closet diary making it to the shelves of best sellers. And, if this wasn’t enough a reader is further forced to witness as these wile fantasies find host in a lot of 13 yr old girls who seem bubbling with excitement at having so successfully fooled their parents into buying them classic filth. Parents yippying, cheery and puff chested grin past and glower at me as I frown over the titles in the hands of their tots. Taking my skepticism or leer as condemnation or appraisal of their child’s action. I’m afraid that as the years pass by we shall have a mountain of filth barring us from genuine literature.
Ernest Hemingway once said ‘There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’ and if this were taken in the context of what adorns bookshelves I’d say that Twilight is the product of a delirious bitch on a period. And Fifty Shades of Grey was written with secretion post a cocaine sex session gone bad. Most writing today is inexcusable filth and in order to navigate through it I wish to give you some sound advice, parents please take your children to Blossoms on Church Street and let them be. Landmark has gone bonkers. Watch what your children read (I shall post a list of instrumental works in the post script categorised by appropriate age ) Men and boys take up a bloody library membership at Goobe’s Book Republic on Church Street, it’s inexpensive and they let you borrow comics. Ladies, please burn any issue of Twilight you possess as it is known to cause a case of constipated coitus. And if my views don’t adhere to your literary tastes, do feel free to fuck yourself on a marble statuette.
Yours in all Literary Endeavors,