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Literature Text
for some reason she’s dipped a paintbrush in ink, taking a thick oxhair brush and soaking it with a cheap replacement for india. “you see,” she says as she drags the brush across an enormous piece of banner paper, “this is art.”
no it’s not!, you want to scream at her, because something in you is rebelling against this scarring of a clean white sheet, at this waste of ink and time. your fingers ache to rescue her brush.
the curve of her lip when she smiles at you is another name for irony: you know she isn’t happy with you and the smile is a lie. she keeps smiling, though, maintaining the mask as she makes a dark slash across a white corner. your hands jerk, unconsciously.
“art isn’t only pictures,” she tells you, beaming at you pleasantly. to you it looks like the leer of a barbarian. the falling ink makes round black dots on the edges of the paper, inappropriately perfect. “art is expression of emotion. any expression.” she sounds almost as if she believes it.
for a moment you want to break her, want savagely to shake her shoulders and force her to drop the brush. her contempt for art is almost painful, almost sacrilege. you double over when she paints a sloppy circle, more oblong than round.
she finishes her loop and looks up, staring at you with a sardonic half-smile as if she knew your every thought. a moment ago you were tense with a half-formed idea of fury, and now your arms are shaking.
“look,” she says, standing up, her voice soft as a caress or a snowfall. she puts the brush down reverently, as if it were something precious.
LITERATURE
is what she painted, the lines of it very black, harsh against the white. abruptly you are seized by a need to shred it, to tear it to pieces and then burn it. you have a sudden craving for the smell of smoke.
but she puts her arms around you, gently, and she reaches on tiptoes to whisper “look again.” her hand on your back gives you strength to see—
that there is grace in the cross of her t
beauty in the curve of the u
something gorgeous in the slant of the r
and for a moment you are transfixed, because somehow the letters are beautiful.
you cannot see her but her voice is saying “almost,” and you do not understand. “almost,” she says again. “beyond the writing, beyond the paper and the paint. think about words and poetry and bedtime stories…”
you think incongruously of sunsets, and of ocean water. rose, you think, and sapphire. turquoise and cyan, gold. fire and breeze and salt. warmth…
you are conscious suddenly of her body behind yours and of her hands. you try to put words to the feeling of her fingers and fail. this is poetry, you think, dimly at first and then clearly, as if through glass. there is some sort of glory in this kind of speechlessness.
“don’t you see? literature is art,” she says to you and only you. you are humbled, because no one else is hearing these sacred words, and because you are hearing them you become sacred as well. “writing is not art’s plainer sister,” she whispers, her voice quieter with every word until her voice is a mere breath, like the personification of truth. “writers are artists too.”
no it’s not!, you want to scream at her, because something in you is rebelling against this scarring of a clean white sheet, at this waste of ink and time. your fingers ache to rescue her brush.
the curve of her lip when she smiles at you is another name for irony: you know she isn’t happy with you and the smile is a lie. she keeps smiling, though, maintaining the mask as she makes a dark slash across a white corner. your hands jerk, unconsciously.
“art isn’t only pictures,” she tells you, beaming at you pleasantly. to you it looks like the leer of a barbarian. the falling ink makes round black dots on the edges of the paper, inappropriately perfect. “art is expression of emotion. any expression.” she sounds almost as if she believes it.
for a moment you want to break her, want savagely to shake her shoulders and force her to drop the brush. her contempt for art is almost painful, almost sacrilege. you double over when she paints a sloppy circle, more oblong than round.
she finishes her loop and looks up, staring at you with a sardonic half-smile as if she knew your every thought. a moment ago you were tense with a half-formed idea of fury, and now your arms are shaking.
“look,” she says, standing up, her voice soft as a caress or a snowfall. she puts the brush down reverently, as if it were something precious.
LITERATURE
is what she painted, the lines of it very black, harsh against the white. abruptly you are seized by a need to shred it, to tear it to pieces and then burn it. you have a sudden craving for the smell of smoke.
but she puts her arms around you, gently, and she reaches on tiptoes to whisper “look again.” her hand on your back gives you strength to see—
that there is grace in the cross of her t
beauty in the curve of the u
something gorgeous in the slant of the r
and for a moment you are transfixed, because somehow the letters are beautiful.
you cannot see her but her voice is saying “almost,” and you do not understand. “almost,” she says again. “beyond the writing, beyond the paper and the paint. think about words and poetry and bedtime stories…”
you think incongruously of sunsets, and of ocean water. rose, you think, and sapphire. turquoise and cyan, gold. fire and breeze and salt. warmth…
you are conscious suddenly of her body behind yours and of her hands. you try to put words to the feeling of her fingers and fail. this is poetry, you think, dimly at first and then clearly, as if through glass. there is some sort of glory in this kind of speechlessness.
“don’t you see? literature is art,” she says to you and only you. you are humbled, because no one else is hearing these sacred words, and because you are hearing them you become sacred as well. “writing is not art’s plainer sister,” she whispers, her voice quieter with every word until her voice is a mere breath, like the personification of truth. “writers are artists too.”
Literature
India
The sea took'd me...
And oh my country of newlywed clouds how I remember you, dust and rain
and mud and spice in air. And in summer, baking roads and hot languages; a million
dialects, or eight hundred: I never learned you, I never will. I only loved you and I think
that is not enough, perhaps it never was, but how do I know? I know loneliness,
and how can you know that? I was a child, am a child, am something less or more now
And how can you think of beauty? Do you hear yourself? Your radios are blaring
noise; your television shows are preaching idiocy to a million people
who hear and conscious
Literature
How to Write Villanelles
Villanelles can be quite discouraging; they look simple but are actually quite difficult. However, when mastered, it becomes technically easy according to Conrad Geller. Just like riding a bike, right? The name Villanelle is derived from the Italian villa, or country house, which is where aristocrats went to refresh themselves. Strangely enough, the form is originally French and only appeared in the English language in the lat 1800s (19th century). Out of the 19 lines in a Villanelle, only two rhymes are used. Furthermore, two lines repeat throughout the poem; usually the first and last lines of the fir
Literature
Poetry,
She is stardust leaving sweet bones
in her wake. A trail of poetic destruction
conceived in verse--answering questions
with kisses. There is a hunger in her
freckled constellations, like spider webs
woven together with golden thread.
Like the wild roses she braids in her hair:
She walks backboned and head held high;
the strongest of letters on a page
left to rest in your mouth.
Suggested Collections
TEN DAYS LEFT!
The WRITING IS NOT ART'S PLAINER SISTER LITERATURE PROJECT ends officially on May 31st, after a very long three months of some very wonderful entries and lots of awesome community support. You rock!
I added a few more entries today, and I decided that it would be kind of cheap to beg people to write for a project and not write myself. So, here we are. Nothing particularly impressive, just something to be part of the project.
Okay, so, we have ten days left. Nine after I post this. A little more than a week to go, and about 40 entries total. I... kind of had my heart set on 50 ("aus, it's unfair to have your heart set on a goal! it's a community project!" yes, i know. ), because 50 is just an impressive number.
So... I'd really love it if any writers reading this right now who haven't submitted something could try to whip something up. It doesn't have to be amazing, although it probably will. (Like I said, you guys are awesome.) I just don't want to have to write the other ten myself, haha.
Anyways, even if we don't break 50, you still broke 30, which was what I thought would be the absolute highest when we started. So you all are pretty @#!*% cool. Thank you, lit community. You make me happy.
The WRITING IS NOT ART'S PLAINER SISTER LITERATURE PROJECT ends officially on May 31st, after a very long three months of some very wonderful entries and lots of awesome community support. You rock!
I added a few more entries today, and I decided that it would be kind of cheap to beg people to write for a project and not write myself. So, here we are. Nothing particularly impressive, just something to be part of the project.
Okay, so, we have ten days left. Nine after I post this. A little more than a week to go, and about 40 entries total. I... kind of had my heart set on 50 ("aus, it's unfair to have your heart set on a goal! it's a community project!" yes, i know. ), because 50 is just an impressive number.
So... I'd really love it if any writers reading this right now who haven't submitted something could try to whip something up. It doesn't have to be amazing, although it probably will. (Like I said, you guys are awesome.) I just don't want to have to write the other ten myself, haha.
Anyways, even if we don't break 50, you still broke 30, which was what I thought would be the absolute highest when we started. So you all are pretty @#!*% cool. Thank you, lit community. You make me happy.
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HOW HAVE I NOT NOTICED THIS BEFORE???!!!