Please Hold......  I am currently consulting the shade of Coleridge, I shall attempt to get back to you as soon as possible.

         Fine then I am not consulting him, there may be something against that in the Church Canon. But all I want to do is to ask Coleridge to finish Cristabel. I mean this lazy poet leaves perhaps one of his most interesting poems unfinished. When he finished things like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Which was slightly boring and somewhat over the top.  I mean a guy randomly kills a bird and is cursed to a long and cruel life starting with all  his shipmates killed. Or Kubbla Klan. It is short, sweet, exotic and with no plot. Sorry I really have to say I prefer ballads and stories to lyrics about watching paint dry or even worse about someones feelings as an adolescent. Spare me, Spare the world.

            But although Cristabel creeps me out, especially at one point (I'll give you a hint it was the same point more or less that freaked Shelley out too, actually mine is just a little later). It was very interesting and now it is very aggravating when he leaves his heroine under a spell from an old young snake woman  who has difficulty walking over thresholds. Although I have to admit in part one of the things that tantalizes me about the story is that it is unfinished. But it also happens to be the only thing by Coleridge that I can appreciate.

            Oh right, I perhaps ought to finish what I was saying in my post about a week ago. Realism. What I do not like about realism is there tendency to take themselves far to seriously. What I do not like about   romanticism is that it can be overtly flowery and they have a tendency to take themselves to seriously. I mean have a little fun at your own expense once in awhile.

            I mean just because it is realistic does not make it great literature nor does it mean everything that is not a hundred percent realist can not be good literature.

From the depths

             From the depths of the deep I arise. Okay that is somewhat repetitious.
             Well I am back to blogging because I am a low life who needs to post a literary diary on the computer, that is somewhat lame.
              But I have realized that college is the place for self fulfillment and learning your own personal identity. Thus far I have learned that not only to I belong to AIDA (a secret society devoted to, ohh never mind), I am also the superhero known as Flash. I have very little idea of who this entity is except that he likes to wear lots of red and that he has wings on his helmet. Oh and also he is a guy, which is just a little bit of a problem. Moving on.
                  It's all fine. Batman lives next door to me. Apparently we had reached a level of geekdom that I had hitherto only aspired too (blogs do not count).   I am also reading the romantic poets and the moment. I like Burns and I do not mind the rest of them as long as they stick to a story. But when you read some of their more repetitious and dramatic and mushy feeling ones, well the result is not pretty.
            One's eyes begin to glaze over and you continue reading wondering when will this ever end. Spare me your platitudes for lost innocence. Perhaps a platitude for lost intelligence would be more welcome in their case.
            But perhaps what the romantics needed in their poetry was more battles and less drugs. I'll give them that they have an excellent ability to manipulate the English language, but seriously I wish they would not have to burden the world with more poems about lambs and shepards.
             So fine I am not particularly interested in most poetry. Also I prefer the older stuff to the newer stuff most frequently. This constant need for realism is taxing and very Victorian. I do not mind realism in the right context but at the same time it is over rated.
            Wait did I just complain about realism and romanticism in the very same post? I have problems. Which I shall no doubt explain later.