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.
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