Tuesday, January 09, 2007

So I've been revisiting some of the literary classics that were forced upon me by the stale teaching curriculum of my youth...

... and I thought, "Who doesn't love reading about people reading?"

So here it is -- finally -- T.C.I.'s long-awaited, quasi-scholarly critique of...



Now, in order to fully appreciate the concept of turd-sniffingly rotten "classics," one must first ascertain exactly what kind of literature qualifies as a "classic." In order to do this, you must ask yourself the following questions:

1.) Does it hold your interest? Do things happen-- intriguing, exciting things-- at regular intervals throughout the story? To characters who don't make you want to shove your fist through the cheap drywall in your mother's basement?
2.) Is there a beginning, middle, and an end, occuring in precisely that order? Does it not drag out its insomnia-ending plot well past the breaking point of any sane reader?
3.) Does it refuse to harp in a heavy-handed manner on an extremely obvious theme symbolic of the author's frustration with the state of the world at large and his/her contempt for those who could overthrow the status quo but instead choose to do nothing useful... like, say, write a mewling book about it?
4.) Does it have widespread public appeal? Is it championed by regular, normal, likable, down-to-earth, humble, approachable individuals who don't pat themselves on their throbbing cerebellums whenever they let drop a pithy bon mot.
If you answered yes to any or all of these questions, you most definitely do not have a classic on your hands.
And in case you were wondering, you also do not have a John Grisham novel on your hands. Writing skills above the level of a third-grader are generally required before a book can be considered literature.
Classics are randomly selected by self-appointed critics and scholars, or pricks, who judge a literary work on its various merits, such as how effective it is in boring the ever-loving crap out of people, or how shamelessly it promotes socialism. For instance, does it have dinosaurs? That would be cool, so no, it is not a classic. Does it feature existentialism, homoerotic themes, and French people? Bingo! I probably had to read it in high school.
The following is an incomplete list of classic literature that I have read, partially or in full, that, quite honestly and without debate, reeked of day-old chamois shit.*
* The chamois (pronounced incorrectly) is an antelope indigenous to the mountains of Europe whose skin is apparently useful in washing convertibles and constructing bike shorts. Such is the majestic nature of humanity's love for its fellow creatures.

1.) Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
> Plot: A saucy cat named Heathcliff beats up dogs and eats lots of fish in a comic strip set on the tempestuous moors of England. He's also a completely irredeemable dick who fucks up every life he touches with impunity. Oh, and his girlfriend, Catherine, is a fucking bitch, too.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Cliff's Notes
> Why it's considered a "classic": We have flighty, pillow-headed womenfolk to thank for this one, folks. Throughout history, it has been proven beyond possible argument that women just loooooove bad boys. Heathcliff is the prototypical bad boy. Therefore, he's a misunderstood, romantic soul who simply needs a woman strong and caring enough to set him back on the right path. And the perfect woman for this ridiculously futile task? Why Catherine, the world's most manipulative [harsh slang term for female genitalia], of course.
I hated these two self-absorbed, crybaby bullies. They're pissed off because life is hard. Yes, that's right. Once again, literature foists on us two young, perfect, pretty people who whine about how unfair the world is to them. Excuse me for a moment while I cry into my handkerchief, please (Editor's Note: In the previous sentence, please read "cry" as "vomit" and "into my handkerchief" as "repeatedly on the grave of Emily Bronte"). How is it that the plain Jane people of this planet cannot seem to get enough of reading about underwear models with flawless complexions who piss and moan about how rough it is to be gorgeous while they're busy fucking other underwear models with flawless complexions?
And ladies, enough with the "bad boy complex" that seems to be an in-born trait with your gender. Bad boys steal your money; cheat on you with your best friend; count date rape among their "special skills;" freely abuse drugs, alcohol, women, various health codes, and the English language; and usually end up in prison as the property of some other bad boy. So how's about we give that cool guy with the motorcycle/your yard boy a rest and go on that date with Bill from Accounting, hmm?
Oh, does that sound boring to you? Well, something tells me you'd tire of "love marks" on your right eye after a few years, too.
> There must be something good about it: The character of Hindley fits T.C.I.'s bill as the much-maligned and unfairly reviled pseudo-villain that he tends to favor.
DEWY-EYED BRONTE FANGIRL: Oh, but he's so mean to Heathcliff! That, and he's unattractive.
Wow. Hindley is mean to Heathcliff. The same Heathcliff who gets taken in by Hindley's father to be favored and preferred over his own natural-born son at a formative age, the same Heathcliff who gets showered with affection by some crazy old codger at the expense of the dotty man's less-photogenic male offspring. Add to that the fact that Hindley's sister is the colossally repugnant princess, Catherine, and I'd say Hindley has more than one valid reason to be Asshole Quarterly's "Justified Misanthrope of the Latter Half of the 1800's." Oh, and then, after Hindley loses his wife Frances, the one person who actually gave a rip about him, Heathcliff helps the poor guy drink himself to death and immediately lays claim to his orphaned son to raise as something of a rancid little Heathcliff, Jr. Gee, that Hindley. What a jerk.
Another good point: Heathcliff and Catherine both die before their time. Unfortunately, it is not at the pincers of a crustacean-shaped robot from 8500 years in the future. So that's no good.

2.) A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
> Plot: Two cities -- er, let's say, Paris and... Waubeka -- have a tale to tell, so sit right back and you'll hear... a tale. Anyway, a bunch of hypocritical, whiny-ass radical Frenchmen, in a time when French people didn't automatically appease anyone who gave them a dirty look, overthrow the oppressive aristocratic regime and, like any true adherents to the principles of equality and love for your fellow Man, proceed to slice everyone's head off with a large blade. Also, this story takes place in an era when every romantic hero had a deux ex machina in the form of a slovenly, dispensable lawyer who happened to look exactly like him. How convenient.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Cliff's Notes
> Why it's considered a "classic:" Are you kidding me? It has all the essential ingredients: a tepid central love triangle, a paper-thin pair of young lovers, rampant political oppression and revolution, themes a-plenty, knitting, and, above all, it's so very, very dreary!
I will say this much for Old Man Dickens. The guy could sure come up with some catchy, memorable names: Uriah Heep, Mr. Murdstone, Ebenezer Scrooge, Martin Chuzzlewit, Seth Pecksniff, Wackford Squeers, Peg Sliderskew, Miss Snevellicci... I mean, come on. Those are some powerful, kick-ass monikers right there...
... Which almost makes up for the literary equivalent of dust and mildew the man's pen spewed forth with alarming regularity.
Anyway, the novel contains a noble, almost motiveless act of self-sacrifice in the name of unrequited love and an honor found too late in life. Critics love this kind of unrealistic horseshit. People who want to read about royal fatcats getting their heads handed to them -- guillotine-style! -- may want to look elsewhere.
> There must be something good about it: A large number of French people are miserable, killed, or both. No wonder the English love this book.

3.) A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams
> Plot: Tennesse Williams loved tiresome Southern belles who can't seem to shut the hell up, so here ya go.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it. For two different classes. Goddamnit.
> Why it's considered a "classic:" It's that fucking "bad boy" bullshit again. Stanley [some Polish last name] is, if you can believe it, an even bigger dick than prissy li'l Heathcliff. Stanley is about as cultured as a hunk of coprolite*, not nearly so intelligent, and puts himself above all others. Oh, and he also beats his wife and rapes her sister.
* Fossilized turd. Hee hee.


Oh my God. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.


You know what? I'm not even gonna apologize for that egregious breach of Netiquette. The fact that an abusive, beetle-browed rapist with the IQ of something that is physically incapable of having an IQ can be touted as any kind of sex symbol is conclusive proof that the human race is just a fad on this sorry lump of future Sun food.
Okay, enough about Magilla Gorilla and his raw animal magnetism that symbolizes the pent-up savagery of the human race unleashed on an innocent blah de blah de blah de blah. It is also worth noting that Blanche is a drip, Stella's a masochist, and that American Express guy is arguably an ever bigger idiot than Stanley. Also, the play is duller than the backside of a cardboard box.
Unsympathetic, dreary characters unleavened with humor or interest of any kind? Insta-Classic, my friend!
> There must be something good about it: The minor character Steve tells an amusing joke about a horny rooster. That's it. Really.

4.) Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller
> Plot: A salesman dies.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.
> Why it's considered a "classic:" Career sad sack Willy Loman is a failure as a father, a husband, a salesman, a human being... and a driver, apparently, because he crashes his car and dies. Aside from the unrelieved misery of the plot, the characters are instantly forgettable and there is absolutely no comic relief of any kind. Everybody whines, everybody feels sorry for themselves, and everybody thinks they have it worse than any other person who ever trudged across the face of this pathetic planet.
Critics, who love feeling superior to others, naturally cream themselves at the mere thought of this play.
Not Remotely Fun Fact: I had to play Willy's personality-deprived son "Happy" in a scene for a Dramatic Interp. class. How's that for irony?
> There must be something good about it: No matter how temple-throbbingly tedious the going gets, the title assures you that Willy will, in fact, die at some point.

5.) Lord of the Flies by William Golding
> Plot: Kids left alone on an island try to govern themselves and fail miserably. Not unlike every group of humans that has ever gathered together in one place at one time.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.
> Why it's considered a "classic:" There is a wildly popular theory prevalent among educators that any "classic" featuring characters of an age relative to that of the individual forced to read said "classic" is destined to be a winner.
This theory is stupid.
In any case, a bunch of spoiled shits acting like savages and killing one another while proving that humans are innately and irretrievably assholian in nature evidently appeals to the inner jackass of the literary scholar. I believe the novel also has something to say about the state of society vs. the individual. Or something about conch shells, I'm not really sure...
So guess which major characters die? That's right: the fat, ugly, unpopular one and the sweet-natured quiet boy.
Not Remotely Fun Fact: I had to write a paper about this novel on a topic offered by the teacher. Our teacher, a rabid Christian, naturally offered "The character Simon as Christ figure" as an option. T.C.I., being an equally rabid idiot, naturally chose this topic, knowing next to nothing about Christ or how the hell he figured into this putrid book, and proceeded to pen a god-awful (no pun intended) composition about... something. Anyone who got below a B- had to rewrite their paper. This amounted to about 90% of the class. T.C.I.'s grade?
And she knew I had no idea what I was talking about, but since I chose her savior as my theme, I got a free exemption from a useful writing exercise. All hail this Christ fella!
That reminds me: my equally evangelical shop teacher gave me an A on the world's shoddiest-looking cross because I chose to forge it instead of an anchor or a key.
I had no need of an instrument in school; I could play people like fucking fiddles, I tells ya.
> There must be something good about it: I dunno. That conch shell sounded kinda cool...

6.) Oedipus Rex by Gary Sophocles
> Plot: Guy unknowingly kills father. Guy unknowingly sleeps with mother. Guy finds out about this fucked-up shit. Mother/Wife hangs self. Father-killer/Mother-fucker blinds self. Brother-in-law/Uncle inherits kingdom and own set of shit to deal with.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.
> Why it's considered a "classic:" It's a pain in the ass to read and everyone overacts embarrassingly, even on paper. The only thing critics love more than histrionics are heavy-handed and inaccessible histrionics.
> There's got to be something good about it: The plot synopsis itself reads just fine. And now that you've read it, skip it.

7.) The Tragedy of [Reading] King Lear by William Shakespeare
> Plot: Senile asshole treats golden child like shit and shitty children like gold. Shitty children return favor by treating senile asshole like senile asshole.
In a related story, another senile asshole treats golden child like shit and shitty child like-- well, you get the idea.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it. But, oh, was that a tight race with "just give up..."
> Why it's considered a "classic:" This play is so much more criminally sleep-inducing than each of the Bard's other justifiable classics, Hamlet, Othello, and MacBeth, that it naturally leaps straight to the top of every self-respecting scholar's "Best Shakespearean Work" list.
I don't care about King Lear. I don't care about his dizzy daughter, Cordelia; I don't care about his noble dickhead supporter, Kent; I don't care about too-good-to-be-human, Edgar; I don't care about doddering old Gloucester; I don't care about the doesn't-come-anywhere-close-to-the-accepted-definition-of-the-word-"witty" Fool; I don't care about anything at all in the entire play. Everybody's a jerk, and deserves exactly what they get. And good riddance to the lot of 'em.
> There must be something good about it: Goneril and Regan, the deliriously wicked daughters, are, along with Mama MacBeth, the best female parts Shakespeare ever wrote. And bastard-in-every-sense-of-the-word Edmund has his moments (though he pales in comparison with Shakespeare's villainous master stroke, Iago [see below]).

8.) The School for Scandal by Richard Brinsley Sheridan
> Plot: A catty bitch runs a school for vicious gossips in 18th century London. Like all things in 18th century London, this proves to be far less interesting than it sounds.
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.
> Why it's considered a "classic:" As one of the most famous comedies of manners, it's incisive and witty and sharp and laugh-out-loud hilarious!
Or so I was told. I was grossly misinformed.
The play starts out well. We meet self-obsessed, morally-bankrupt she-weasel Lady Sneerwell and her consortium of informants, minions, and fellow rat bastards. Rumors are relayed, lies are spread, secrets are shared... and then the plot kicks into gear, the lifeless main characters are introduced, and the reader and the audience proceed to forget to refill their prescriptions for Ambien CR.
There's also the infamous "Screen Scene" in which the Teazles and the Surfaces hide behind a screen and hilarity is expected to ensue.
It does not.
The play ends with Sneerwell and cohorts, but too little, too late, Sheridan, you old dead windbag.
Not Remotely Fun Fact: In college, I was cast as Trip, a dopey servant who puts on airs. The character, while amusing, has one page of dialogue in a three hour play. I weighed the options and, after receiving a meandering, arty lecture from the pompous jagoff of a guest director, decided that playing a bit part in a play I loathed -- and which would take valuable time away from my liver-deconstruction -- was just not worth it.
Oh, and on the description list of physical traits he was looking for in my character, posted with the cast list for all to see? "Weird-looking." I scheisse you nein, my friends. What a cocksucker.
And T.C.I.'s Number One Most HATED "classic" of all time...?

9.) The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
> Plot: Wouldn't that be nice?
> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it. Oh, that I had just given up...
> Why it's considered a "classic:" I don't know. I honestly just. don't. know. Some kid has various life experiences that amount to pretty much nothing important over the course of a short book. Whoop-de-ding-dong. And this qualifies it as the novel-of-choice for rebels and delusional conspiracy theorists the world-round?
HOLDEN WANNABE CURRENTLY FOAMING AT THE MOUTH: You don't understand, man! Goddamn! It's all about a child's coming of age in a society--
Yes. Yes, moron. I got it. Society is cheap and commercial and Life is violent and cruel and People are selfish and shallow and the only way to effectively deal with it all when you're a young man coming into his own is to say "goddamn" a couple hundred times.
Very deep. Very profound. Very waste of my goddamn time.
> There must be something good about it: I lifted the slang term "helluva" from this book and use it in my writing constantly. For example: "I hope J. D. Salinger remains a recluse for a helluva long time."
Have you, my ever-loyal cynickites, grown weary of my constant bitching and belittling? Well, why have you stuck around here so long, then? In any case, as a slight respite from my avalanche of ire and just to try something new, the following is a list of classics which, in my undebatable opinion, rightly deserve their assignation as such:

The Tragical History of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
by William Shakespeare
Justly if arguably regarded as the greatest play ever written. Believe it or not, this grand tragedy contains more genuine laughs than all of Shakespeare's "comedies" combined. And what killer supporting roles, man: officious Polonius (another much-maligned non-villain who happens to be my favorite Shakespearean character), conniving but capable King Claudius, foppish Osric, the interchangeable duo of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the Gravedigger, that dispenser of drolleries and skull histories alike. Shame the women are such wooden saps.

The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice
by William Shakespeare
Forget the breast-beating theatrics and crybaby cries of racism from the monumentally dense Othello; forget his wispy twit wife, Desdemona; and please forget the plastic romantic "hero," Cassio; there is only one reason to herald this play as one of the most fascinating ever conceived, and his name...
...is Iago.
Iago is the great-granddaddy of all villains. Every memorable bad guy created since must bow down in abject worship of this manipulative master-hater. Surrounded on all sides by imbeciles, hypocrites, and boors, it's hard not to sympathize with Iago's cynicism and bitterness. After all, he alone understands just what the hell is going on at all times. He drives his boss insane, destroys the resident pretty boy's reputation, and runs his wife through with a sword. I guess you could say he was living the American Dream. And through it all, he still manages to maintain a wicked sense of humor and scathing wit. This is one hateful, unrepentant son of a bitch.
In fact, he-- he kind of reminds me of someone...

Inherit the Wind
by Jerome Larence & (non-General) Robert E. Lee
Easily my favorite American play; a masterful, clever, incisive condemnation of willful ignorance and bigotry (against rational thought and the free will to think for one's self, no less)... and it also features the character of E. K. Hornbeck, a super-cynical columnist based on hilariously acid-tongued misanthrope H. L. Mencken. I had an opportunity to play Hornbeck once (and hope to do so many times in the future) and damned if you could tell the difference between the two of us.
Oh, and it's not meant to be a documentary, Quietly, it's a creative re-envisioning free to implement poetic license, so eat it with a side of shaddup. Ohhhh, snap!

by George Bernard Shaw
One of the select few Shaw works I can enjoy without feeling like I'm drifting off in some required socioeconomics class, it also stars that crown prince of smartasses, Prof. Henry Higgins. Higgins despises ignorance, fluffy-headed feminine ideals, linguistic butchering, and being wrong about anything. Needless to say, he's always been a dream role of mine.

by Voltaire

"What's Optimism?" asked Cacambo.
"I'm afraid to say," said Candide, "that it's a mania for insisting that all is well when things are going badly."

How could a scathing, unrelenting indictment of blind optimism not be on my list of favorite books? I especially enjoyed Martin, the quintessential pessimist, and Signor Pococurante, a cultured Italian fatcat who collects famous works of art and literature and criticizes them without mercy. Highly recommended.
Are you seeing a trend here?

Brave New World
by Aldous Huxley
Meant to be a bleak dystopian vision of the future, the people in the society in question are allowed to fuck whoever the hell they feel like whenever the hell they feel like it.
Not-- not quite sure how this qualifies as "bleak," exactly, but hey, a good read is a good read, am I right? Especially when it's got a concept I can get behind (hee hee).
Keep an eye out for World Controller Mustapha Mond's telling and captivating dialogue with John Savage towards the end of the novel. Mond is a would-be baddie who allows people to have differing opinions without summarily slaughtering them and even thinks for himself, insofar as it's safe for him to do so. If only all world leaders tried this...

by George Orwell
Fascinating and relentlessly oppressive, this is an even bleaker dystopian vision of the future, where War is a business, sex for pleasure is forbidden, thinking for yourself is even worse, and everyone worships their leader with a frightening, unflinching fervor.
Pat Robertson called it "... the feel-good story of the less than 10,000 years the Earth has been in existence!" and President George W. Bush said, "I can't wait for the year 1984 to get here!"

Cry, the Beloved Country
by Alan Paton
Here is your very rare glimpse into the softer side of T.C.I.'s tortured, demented psyche: This is one of the most moving, poignant, powerful books you'll ever read, and the scene towards the end on the mountain between the black priest (father of the murderer) and the white landowner (father of the victim) left me, unashamedly, in tears. Do yourself a favor and give this one a shot. No cynicism here. Just magnificent storytelling.

by Jean Anouilh
Want to read a one-sided, laughable account of the Antigone story in which the heroine is unimpeachable and her antagonist has no redeeming values whatsoever?
Then go read the lousy Sophocles version, little Ms. Femynyst.
Wanna read an intelligent discourse on the trickiness of balancing the common good versus the needs of the individual, in which King Creon is a complex, rational personality hopelessly harangued by that self-righteous, uncompromising hypocrite, Antigone? Pick up a copy of Anouilh's version. It's loaded with great dialogue and moral complexities.
Ironically, I'm reasonably sure Anouilh intended Antigone to be the more sympathetic of the two. She definitely doesn't come across that way. Self-appointed martyrs rarely do, I suppose.

Animal Farm
by George Orwell
Pigs = Humans
Don't trust anyone named Napoleon
Crows represent organized religion
Hard work will only land you in a glue factory
Goats can read
Children enjoy fairy tales about barnyard animals' inevitable descent into an oppressive totalitarian regime

I see no problem with any of this.

The Devil's Dictionary, or The Cynic's Word Book
by Satan Ambrose Bierce
A book so chock full of brilliant, nasty, quotable definitions to common words that I won't risk neglecting any by listing some examples here. Just check it out, please.
And, despite the fears of a Baptist office manager I once knew, I assure you it has little to nothing to do with the Church of Satan.

The Grapes of Wrath
by John Steinbeck
Ha. Right. Just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.
A friend of mine who slogged through this mess (I only had to work backstage on an interminable stage version of the novel) told me that an early chapter deals entirely with a turtle crossing the road. Symbolic hoo-ha notwithstanding, it seems to me that turtles and the Dust Bowl would make ideal crests for the coat of arms of ponderous, unreadable classic literature.
Well, look at that. For once a list of my hates is tempered, albeit mildly, by a list of my likes.
I think I need a shower...
In closing, I hereby generously offer myself as the new sex symbol of the millenium. Have at it, ladies. Dakota, put that thing away.
What I'm currently reading: The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory by Brian Greene
What I'm currently not understanding: The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory by Brian Greene
What I wish I was reading: Anything in the Uncle John's Bathroom Reader line
As a man who is perpetually at odds with the planet and life in general, it should come as no surprise to you, my misery-adoring constituents, that 75% or more of T.C.I.'s dreams are nightmares of one sort or another. Therefore, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that on the night of Saturday, January 6, 2007, I was subjected to not one, but two sweet-ass dreams in succession.
1.) I was actively existing within the universe of the upcoming Transformers movie, which starred Kelsey Grammer as the voice of a troubled Soundwave. Best part: I dreamt that I found my missing Ravage action figure, a cool cassette tape that transformed into a black panther and was the pride and joy of my childhood. Alas, upon waking, its whereabouts remain unknown...
2.) I got to take a tour of Jabba the Hutt's palace, which was not unlike a natural history museum. Whatever. The thug slug turned out to be a surprisingly ingratiating host. He was also married, I seem to recall. Good for him.
It suddenly occurs to me that I am a dork. I used to have dreams that Charisma Carpenter (circa early "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," when she was my ideal woman with those ideal thighs) and Pamela Anderson (circa early "Baywatch;" not in her current haglike state) were jousting for my affections. Now I'm revelling in REM sleep that should be reserved for a ten-year-old living in 1985.

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Blogger Quietly said...

Everybody knows it's a sin to take poetic licenses, Happy.

Happy? Seriously?

I would literally pay you- with money- to see you do that scene again.

9:49 AM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

Yeah, well, it's an even bigger sin to be a fan of this blog, so good luck explaining *that* to St. Peter.

And I can quite honestly say that there is no amount of money mathematically known to Man that could convince me to sleepwalk through the role of Happy again. If it helps, just imagine me reading a book on outdated tax codes to you.

Actuallly, that's being awfully unfair to tax codes...

10:14 AM  
Blogger The Fourth Earl of Excelor said...

Can we at least get a shout-out for Gatsby?

5:09 PM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

I have never been required to or felt the slightest urge to read Robert Redford's "The Great Gatsby."

I also have yet to encounter anyone who has spoken fondly of it. Though I imagine Patelicious will soon change all that...

I hear green figures prominently in the novel. On account of it being the color of money and all.

Very subtle, F., very subtle.

5:48 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I agree, who decided these so called "classics" were so great?

If there has to be a Cliff Notes written for a book, that should be your first sign that the author should have found a different career.

Sgt Mellors

9:18 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

If it makes you feel any better about having to read it, the very first show I designed was Lord of the Flies...

Entirely in mime.


12:01 AM  
Blogger Patelicious said...

Yes, you're right; I do like The Great Gatsby. I also like Catcher in the Rye. But even more than this, I enjoy a good Grisham slam, so you're aces.

By the way, we read Antigone in French class, and I just want to say that Le Myth d'Oedipe is even more jolly to pronounce than it is to read about.

3:06 PM  
OpenID behnnie said...

I just read this again and oh God- I love it.

That-- that's really all I have to say...

10:22 PM  

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