Recently I was on my literature class, and my professor, possibly still working on the introductions on the subject, started teaching regarding on how the society ‘canonizes’, or recognize a certain work of writing a ‘literature’. He showed three criteria on how to verify:
A literature must be printed/published
Obviously, to recognize something it must be accessible, and observable, either on print or published online
A literature must be read by readers
At this point, having written and published your work, if it’s not publicized, it cannot be canonized along the glut of other literary works
A literature must be critiqued
A critique is a detailed analysis and evaluation of something, particularly a literature. This is the crucial part of a written work. Though it was already published or read by many, without a critique, it cannot be ‘canonized’
We are aware that in this postmodern world, the populace of the entirety of the world is growing exponentially. The state of growing abundance of creative force derived from the growing population is worrisome, as the significance of every piece of work is getting, in actuality, more and more lesser, the more literature is recognized the less their prominence become. Continue reading “On Literature, Culture, Society, and Class Theory”→
Alas, what piece of work is a gift!
Blessings from our sworn fathers
Yet to be brought away from our hands
Truly a magnanimous, humble decision
Not to acquiesce but to assent
Yet He robs us of his opportune gifts
For the meek—to the giver—he sifts
Yet He fills us full once more
Like a perpetual hollow vessel
Doomed to be filled and emptied
He mocks us as we receive
He laughs at us as we give
He laughs, He laughs, He laughs!
At the duly time he must take them all!
Alas, yet too soon we were enamored
Of the sojourn on the quintessential bliss
Of the solace on our mortal plight
A perpetual plight, from womb to tomb
We are the smirk of the matron
As she stomps on the Fruits of Labor
As she holds a receptacle of fruits and luxury
As she gives her worthless, deadened heart
To her infinitesimal Deity above her head
A head garnered with wreath of greed
And to her meek visage that is us:
Looking straight upward—to the Haloed One
His affable countenance—a subtle subterfuge!
Consumed! By the avarice of the worldly hand
Away from the sight of the minute God
He laughs! He laughs, He laughs!