Who is your favourite author or poet and why?
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Original post by Planar
I like TS Eliot because I identify with him. He was frustrated by the apparent futility and meaningless of life, and I often feel the same way. Solidarity is imperative in any piece of writing.
I get a real sense of that sometimes when I read Virginia Woolf... I think often very intelligent people tend to think about these things a lot more than others. That is why you hear so many stories about people like Woolf and Plath committing suicide... an eventual despair in the world... =/
x
Original post by lonely14
Anything by Brontes (though not really keen about Wuthering heights) and Khaled Hosseini. 
See I'm the opposite I think Wuthering Heights is the best one! Charlotte may have somewhat belittled it in her introduction but I think it's true to say that W.H was incredibly powerful and ahead of its time. It's a book that you carry on thinking about long after you finish reading it.
Which one is your favourite??
x
Robert Burns because I love the use of colloquial language in his poems and just the general style of writing. Also love Lewis Caroll mainly because a lot of his stories and poems were written where I live or are inspired by his time here visiting his sister and her husband.
Original post by xxxfairymaryxxx
See I'm the opposite I think Wuthering Heights is the best one! Charlotte may have somewhat belittled it in her introduction but I think it's true to say that W.H was incredibly powerful and ahead of its time. It's a book that you carry on thinking about long after you finish reading it.
Which one is your favourite??
x
Which one is your favourite??
x
I tend to dislike those novels where I can't see any attraction in the protagonist. I found it really hard to like Heathcliff and Cathy - the characters were extremely immature, selfish and narcissistic, making it impossible for me to sympathise with anyone of them.
I almost wished that terrible things should happen to them. 
Whereas Charlotte's Jane Eyre is the best.
It's so easy to sympathise with Jane and even at the start of the novel, she is instantly likeable. She is moralistic, passionate, selfless - ready to give up her only love (Mr. Rochester) for the sake of her morals. You learn so much from her.
So yeah, Charlotte has to be my favourite.
Original post by xxxfairymaryxxx
I get a real sense of that sometimes when I read Virginia Woolf... I think often very intelligent people tend to think about these things a lot more than others. That is why you hear so many stories about people like Woolf and Plath committing suicide... an eventual despair in the world... =/
x
x
Tolstoy spent a lot of time thinking about suicide too, although I'm not sure if it were for the same reasons.
Original post by Ideot
Yeats - For so many reasons. I think I have already babbled madly about Yeats to you already, Mary 
Ooooh on a side note - you got pooled to Oriel!! Is such an amazing college =D I nearly applied there x
Original post by lonely14
I tend to dislike those novels where I can't see any attraction in the protagonist. I found it really hard to like Heathcliff and Cathy - the characters were extremely immature, selfish and narcissistic, making it impossible for me to sympathise with anyone of them. I almost wished that terrible things should happen to them.
Whereas Charlotte's Jane Eyre is the best.
It's so easy to sympathise with Jane and even at the start of the novel, she is instantly likeable. She is moralistic, passionate, selfless - ready to give up her only love (Mr. Rochester) for the sake of her morals. You learn so much from her.
So yeah, Charlotte has to be my favourite.
I almost wished that terrible things should happen to them. Whereas Charlotte's Jane Eyre is the best.
It's so easy to sympathise with Jane and even at the start of the novel, she is instantly likeable. She is moralistic, passionate, selfless - ready to give up her only love (Mr. Rochester) for the sake of her morals. You learn so much from her.
So yeah, Charlotte has to be my favourite.
See I loved that the main characters weren't your typical perfect hero/heroines!! I liked the human touch to Wuthering Heights and I still felt sorry for Heathcliff because of how he had been treated by his brother and by Cathy - I think she did a great job considering she managed to make me feel that way towards such a tyrannical character x
Original post by lonely14
I tend to dislike those novels where I can't see any attraction in the protagonist. I found it really hard to like Heathcliff and Cathy - the characters were extremely immature, selfish and narcissistic, making it impossible for me to sympathise with anyone of them. I almost wished that terrible things should happen to them.
Whereas Charlotte's Jane Eyre is the best.
It's so easy to sympathise with Jane and even at the start of the novel, she is instantly likeable. She is moralistic, passionate, selfless - ready to give up her only love (Mr. Rochester) for the sake of her morals. You learn so much from her.
So yeah, Charlotte has to be my favourite.
I almost wished that terrible things should happen to them. Whereas Charlotte's Jane Eyre is the best.
It's so easy to sympathise with Jane and even at the start of the novel, she is instantly likeable. She is moralistic, passionate, selfless - ready to give up her only love (Mr. Rochester) for the sake of her morals. You learn so much from her.
So yeah, Charlotte has to be my favourite.
My favourite Bronte heroine by far though is Helen Huntingdon/Graham from The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. She is equally wonderful in the face of injustice x
to be honest, I am not a great fan of poetry (I love reading though) but this poem by E. Cummings is really lovely and I've liked it for years.
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
Original post by Ideot
Yeats - For so many reasons. I think I have already babbled madly about Yeats to you already, Mary
I literally started reading Yeats last night and loving his poetry so far
(I mean, I had read a couple of his poems before, but not many and not in any depth) I stayed up far later than I meant to as they simply blew me away 
Which are your favourites?OP, I am going to do 3 of each cos I can't narrow further than that:
Poets: Pablo Neruda, DH Lawrence (not a huge fan of his novels, just his poetry), Wilfred Owen
Novelists: Hemingway, Dickens, JK Rowling (I know she isn't a good writer - but I am one of the HP generation!)
Old Possums Book of Curious Cats, or something like that, is the best poetry ever written
Original post by BookWormShanti
I literally started reading Yeats last night and loving his poetry so far (I mean, I had read a couple of his poems before, but not many and not in any depth) I stayed up far later than I meant to as they simply blew me away Which are your favourites?
OP, I am going to do 3 of each cos I can't narrow further than that:
Poets: Pablo Neruda, DH Lawrence (not a huge fan of his novels, just his poetry), Wilfred Owen
Novelists: Hemingway, Dickens, JK Rowling (I know she isn't a good writer - but I am one of the HP generation!)
(I mean, I had read a couple of his poems before, but not many and not in any depth) I stayed up far later than I meant to as they simply blew me away Which are your favourites?OP, I am going to do 3 of each cos I can't narrow further than that:
Poets: Pablo Neruda, DH Lawrence (not a huge fan of his novels, just his poetry), Wilfred Owen
Novelists: Hemingway, Dickens, JK Rowling (I know she isn't a good writer - but I am one of the HP generation!)
Oh yay
Tell me about it! The first time I read Yeats, I stayed up the entire night reading as much as I could, then the next day I got numerous biographies of him out of the library.
My favourite poem is probably "Sailing to Byzantium", it truly shows his genius - I mean it is done in a stream of consciousness, no Heaney-like "Blacksmithing" of the poetry. When he makes a mistake (you know, originally he uses "song" and "music" to symbolise the hypnotic materialism of the world, then accidently, he uses it for spiritualism and aesthetic appreciation "soul clap its hands and sing..."), he doesn't go "Woopsy, I must fix that", he simply continues on, the poem flows beautifully, and he rectifies the mistake later on "Nor is there singing school but studying...", he is such a genius.
Also, just the way the content and the form are so brilliantly fused, you know like Pater said "all art aspires to the condition of music", Yeats achieves this in the poem
The beautiful synthesising of the philosophies ^^. Also, you know the sheer obscurity of his poetry, he is such an intellectual snob! "O sages standing in God's holy fire..." - that image is from the Book of David, I had to look that up ^^! The way he says something while simultaneously undermining it is so... Yeats The metamorphosis of the symbols... his self obsession...I could go on forever, but I'll shut up soon. I also love "Easter 1916" for its prophecy and brilliant perspectives, "The Second Coming", his story "Rosa Alchemica", "Lapis Lazuli"...
And you
? I'm so glad you like him too!Edit: Just reread this, and I apologise for the gushing.
(edited 13 years ago)
Original post by xxxfairymaryxxx
Ooooh on a side note - you got pooled to Oriel!! Is such an amazing college =D I nearly applied there x
I know, I was absolutely delighted
!Original post by xxxfairymaryxxx
My favourite Bronte heroine by far though is Helen Huntingdon/Graham from The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. She is equally wonderful in the face of injustice x
Ofcourse, Helen is an amazing character. It's such a shame that Anne was never given equal importance as her sisters.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is one of my favourite books, though I did find it somewhat boring and drawn at the times - you know how it's mostly written in a diary style, but yeah her character is way better than Cathy
and the fact that she actually learns from her mistakes by choosing Gilbert. Growltiger's Last Stand
GROWLTIGER was a Bravo Cat, who lived upon a barge;
In fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed at large.
From Gravesend up to Oxford he pursued his evil aims,
Rejoicing in his title of "The Terror of the Thames."
His manners and appearance did not calculate to please;
His coat was torn and seedy, he was baggy at the knees;
One ear was somewhat missing, no need to tell you why,
And he scowled upon a hostile world from one forbidding eye.
The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame,
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour ran along the shore: GROWLTIGER'S ON THE LOOSE!
Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its cage;
Woe to the pampered Pekinese, that faced Growltiger's rage.
Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships,
And woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips!
But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been vowed;
To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.
The Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear--
Because it was a Siamese had mauled his missing ear.
Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at play,
The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey lay.
All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide--
And Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side.
His bucko mate, GRUMBUSKIN, long since had disappeared,
For to the Bell at Hampton he had gone to wet his beard;
And his bosun, TUMBLEBRUTUS, he too had stol'n away-
In the yard behind the Lion he was prowling for his prey.
In the forepeak of the vessel Growltiger sate alone,
Concentrating his attention on the Lady GRIDDLEBONE.
And his raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks--
As the Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.
Growltiger had no eye or ear for aught but Griddlebone,
And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly baritone,
Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise--
But the moonlight shone reflected from a thousand bright blue eyes.
And closer still and closer the sampans circled round,
And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.
The lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives--
For the foe was armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives.
Then GILBERT gave the signal to his fierce Mongolian horde;
With a frightful burst of fireworks the Chinks they swarmed aboard.
Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and junks,
They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks.
Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly skeered;
I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared.
She probably escaped with ease, I'm sure she was not drowned--
But a serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.
The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on rank;
Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the plank.
He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop,
At the end of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop.
Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the land;
At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.
Rats were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock,
And a day of celebration was commanded in Bangkok.
GROWLTIGER was a Bravo Cat, who lived upon a barge;
In fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed at large.
From Gravesend up to Oxford he pursued his evil aims,
Rejoicing in his title of "The Terror of the Thames."
His manners and appearance did not calculate to please;
His coat was torn and seedy, he was baggy at the knees;
One ear was somewhat missing, no need to tell you why,
And he scowled upon a hostile world from one forbidding eye.
The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame,
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour ran along the shore: GROWLTIGER'S ON THE LOOSE!
Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its cage;
Woe to the pampered Pekinese, that faced Growltiger's rage.
Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships,
And woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips!
But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been vowed;
To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.
The Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear--
Because it was a Siamese had mauled his missing ear.
Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at play,
The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey lay.
All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide--
And Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side.
His bucko mate, GRUMBUSKIN, long since had disappeared,
For to the Bell at Hampton he had gone to wet his beard;
And his bosun, TUMBLEBRUTUS, he too had stol'n away-
In the yard behind the Lion he was prowling for his prey.
In the forepeak of the vessel Growltiger sate alone,
Concentrating his attention on the Lady GRIDDLEBONE.
And his raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks--
As the Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.
Growltiger had no eye or ear for aught but Griddlebone,
And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly baritone,
Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise--
But the moonlight shone reflected from a thousand bright blue eyes.
And closer still and closer the sampans circled round,
And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.
The lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives--
For the foe was armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives.
Then GILBERT gave the signal to his fierce Mongolian horde;
With a frightful burst of fireworks the Chinks they swarmed aboard.
Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and junks,
They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks.
Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly skeered;
I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared.
She probably escaped with ease, I'm sure she was not drowned--
But a serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.
The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on rank;
Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the plank.
He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop,
At the end of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop.
Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the land;
At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.
Rats were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock,
And a day of celebration was commanded in Bangkok.
Middlemarch is a babe of a book.
Loved Austen till the point where I know hate her, Wilfy O is a damn good poet, as is Larkin, but at the minute Donne is rocking my world with his phoenixes and phallic imagries. I've read on here that Lady Chat has had commendation, but personally I don't think its that great. He makes one point and elongates it into 302 pages, yes Ok Lawrence, the body needs to live in union with the mind but what else?
Dante is a dude, but for softer reading I like Mr.John Fowles.
Loved Austen till the point where I know hate her, Wilfy O is a damn good poet, as is Larkin, but at the minute Donne is rocking my world with his phoenixes and phallic imagries. I've read on here that Lady Chat has had commendation, but personally I don't think its that great. He makes one point and elongates it into 302 pages, yes Ok Lawrence, the body needs to live in union with the mind but what else?
Dante is a dude, but for softer reading I like Mr.John Fowles.
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