As I stated in class, the genre of literature I prefer to read is poetry: no matter what period, no matter what meter, no matter what length. Indeed, I do have my cliches, (e.g. I am a sucker for Frost, I must admit; if you despise Frost, try reading “After Apple Picking”: your feelings will change), but I also do have my pet peeves (e.g. William Wordsworth, who is often beaten to death as the premiere English Romantic poet). Aside from these, I am pretty much open to any type of verse, whether it be Beowulf or Bukowski.
And Billy Collins. Oh, Billy Collins. Now THERE’S a man.
I suppose I read so much poetry because I am attempting to be a poet, and enjoy studying the poem as an artform overall, in order to sculpt a style of my own. I used to write humourless limericks back in middle school and now I’m attempting some nameless, less formal version of what we may call “Auldistic” poetry. Wish me luck.
And yes: poetry is meant to be recited. That’s where it got its roots. The next time you come across a poem, do yourself a favor and read it out loud.
I also love dramatic literature, particularly any theatre of the absurd. (Mmmm Beckett.) The entire process of theatre intrigues me: from script to rehearsal to performance. All of the work that’s involved in the production of one single play fascinates me, and I am still a bit depressed about the decline of quality theatre in the contemporary age. (Although Martin McDonagh has captured my heart.)
I am a bit cliche in adoring Shakespeare, too, but the Stratford Theatre Festival in Ontario may be responsible for that. (You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Brian Bedford’s Lear, trust me.) If you hate Shakespeare, you’ve probably only read him. He wasn’t meant to be read. Go to Stratford (or any other Shakespeare festival) if the opportunity ever arises.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore fiction, particularly any kind that showcases real, human characters in their most pathetic and lamentable states. Anyone I can draw some hopeless existentialism from, from Kafka to Vonnegut, I welcome with open arms. (If you do get the chance, read Rex Pickett’s Sideways, the book before the movie: it will leave you chuckling and make you want to drink yourself to death at the same time.)
Ah, yes: reading in the Information Age. I occasionally read the news online, particularly if anything but celebrity gossip comes up on a main search engine page. In fact, one day I discovered that my hometown was recently voted one of the Top Ten Coolest Small Towns in the U.S. by Budget.com, and all I had to do was click on a link on the main Yahoo! page. I still can’t explain why my hometown was voted for this, but I found it interesting nonetheless. Most of the time, though, I attempt to retrieve my news from The New York Times or some dumbed down version of what one may call a hometown newspaper.
I am a semi-active blogger and do have a Livejournal account, and, yes, I do read the blogs of my friends (especially those I don’t talk to everyday), but that’s about as far as I will take it with “blogging.” I have banished myself from Facebook entirely, mainly because it took up far too much of my time and ultimately took me nowhere. True, I could have fulfilled all of my online stalking desires, but those began to wear out quickly. I didn’t meet anybody new: friends made on Facebook only stay on Facebook. This is true for old acquaintances found on Facebook, too: they will always remain in cyberspace. What I found most interesting about leaving Facebook was that it asked for a “reason,” and this “reason” was required. I wasn’t aware at the time that Facebook needed a goddamned breakup talk, so I simply put, “Life is not just,” and we both went our seperate ways.
