I'm reading this book for one of my classes this semester. This guy knows all about one of my very favoritest things in the whole wide world! And its name is READABILITY! I just love that Jonathan guy!
(I am also reading these books with the girls, as you might have guessed.)
Mostly, it's going well. But that Jonathan's assertion here has me howling:
We find ourselves back at the key question, 'What is literature?', which will not go away. But what sort of question is it? If a 5-year-old is asking, it's easy. 'Literature', you answer, 'is stories, poems, and plays.' "
Ha, ha, ha, ha. HAAAAAAAAA!
Clearly, no 5-year-old has ever asked that Jonathan this particular question. Because there is no way (none!) that this discussion is easier with a 5-year-old than with a literary theorist.
In my experience, no question beginning with "What is ..." ever ends well with a 5-year-old. I'm just sayin'.
I'm sorry. Once again with this post I'm going for the easy joke. But I'd like to point out that I whipped up a paper for my class this weekend in which I did my darnedest to talk about Michel Foucault. So, there you go. Serious Me. Although I somehow ended up working into the paper an anecdote about my public humiliation after viewing The Crying Game (midwestern girl reveals herself so naive she actually crosses the boundary into just plain weird!), which I completely blame on that Michel guy. At some point as a student, I will have to learn that not all writing needs to be confessional. Darn Blog.