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There they sit, the great tomes of classical literature, taunting you with their length and difficulty, as you ask: which books are the most important and why - and what's actually any good? Why does most writing about the classics have words like 'seminal' or 'oeuvre' in it? What does postmodernism mean? Can I get away with just reading the introduction?
Now you can enjoy the classics without fear. This survival kit will guide you painlessly through the Western literary canon, century by century: from Ancient Greek drama to the modern novel, via Beowulf, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Romantic poetry, Tolstoy and Proust. There are entertaining plot summaries, unpretentious definitions of literary movements and fresh insights into authors' lives. With each work assigned ratings from 1 to 10 on Importance, Accessibility and Fun, you'll discover what's really worth bothering with and what you can safely discard without guilt.
This book will make the things you've read clearer, inspire you to tackle the ones you've always meant to and make you sound far cleverer than you really are.
320 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2012
“So we’re at Versailles. The flowers in the beds are changed every day for variety; there are a zillion fountains. Men wear puffy satin bloomers with tights and high-heeled shoes. They gesture gracefully using slender canes with ribbons entwined around them. It is, in a word, gay.”
“While the setting is the ultra-cynical world of the court, the main characters are strenuously, almost extraterrestrially, noble. Two out of three of them literally die of love. While they are suffering major organ failure from their love, they remain extraordinarily polite, expressing their passions in terms like ‘If I dared, I should even say that it is within your power to make it your duty, one day, to preserve the feelings you have for me.’ To which the only answer can be: ‘My duty forbids me ever to think of anyone, and less of you than anyone else in the world, for reasons which you do not know.’ Well then!”
One saving grace of The Faerie Queen is that it's in orgasmically bad taste. An example: in Book III, a giantess appears (out of nowhere, like everything else in The Faerie Queen), riding through the countryside, grabbing knights by the nape of the neck, slinging them over her saddle, and carrying them off to be her sex slaves. She will make do with animals if there are no knights. She and her brother Ollyphant, being twins, were already doing it in the womb; in fact, they were born fucking.Also, after recapping all of Dickens, she turns to "A Christmas Carol" and says: "You probably know the plot of 'A Christmas Carol.' If you do not, you are a priceless resource that should not be tampered with."
… the thick-skinned Romanians have adopted Ovid as “The First Romanian Poet.” Ovidiu is a common first name for Romanian boys. This seems more reasonable when you consider that, while Ovid hated Romanians, he probably also fathered a slew of them.
Paradoxically, the most interesting works of literature are often also the most boring.
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For modern readers, Milton’s masterpiece might more aptly be named Consciousness Lost.
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Sade writes like the Ayn Rand of sexual violence.
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Short poems are always a gift to modern people, who typically have no attention span and do have cable.
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Transcendentalism is Romanticism as preached in a Massachusetts church.
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Anne was the pretty one. This, sadly, is her main contribution as a Brontë.
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The great grandfather of depressing Scandinavians was the Norwegian Henrik Ibsen.
Basically, so many lines from Hamlet have become part of the language that the only fresh material is in lines like “He’s coming!” and “Ha ha!” There’s nothing to be done about this, just as we can’t change the fact that some symphonies now evoke ads for insurance products.