Literature

As my German Lit class is coming to an end, I now have the time to reflect on what a whole year of reading Literature has done for me. Also I have had some time to collect my thoughts on the subject.

What these classes have done for me, is given me insight into the interesting world of modern German Literature (modern as 1700s and on), not to say that a book from the 1700s is very modern. The printing press really enabled the masses to read and authors to... well become authors en-masse, but it seems overtly presumptuous to say that Literature began in the 1700s while I enjoy reading much from earlier periods.

Anyways, the world of German Lit is a rich world that contains some of the towers of European culture yet with many falsely high towers. Goethe, Schiller, Lessing, Storm, and Mann..etc are all towers of German culture. Other authors are like a tower that is high, yet its base is cheaply made, rotten and doomed to fall. I won't go into naming these authors as I'm sure my list would be woefully inadequate.

As I was talking with a friend, he made me realize what had bothered me so much in the back of my head about some books. Some books are wrote to be written. The goal is to state events as if they had happened, that is their ultimate extent. There is no point, no goal, no lesson, no reason other than that someone with some talent put words on paper and you read it.

I can't help but feel like I'm being shat on when I read some books. If a bird were to poop on my face, I couldn't deny the fact that the poop existed, that it has form, texture, smell and body. It certainly was thrown upon my face with authority and "authenticity". Yet do the aforementioned facts give me a good reason to enjoy or like this poop? Should I not wipe it off of my face quickly, hoping that is never happens again. Shaking my fist at the bird in rage but perhaps also smiling a little for the simple fact that the bird got a lucky shot and I was the unknowing victim.
This is like reading some books. I'm not going to name any but I can't help but realized the similarities between several of the books I've read and this act of being shat upon. Yes the author wrote a story, it exists. Yes the book imparts specific feelings and imagery, it has texture and form. Is there any meaning in the book? Perhaps, does this meaning merit investigation? Possibly. Does this investigation profit, reward, enrich, entertain, or educate me in any way? No. Is the subject matter in this book disgusting, pointless, meaningless, and depraved? Yes. Yet you read through the whole thing, ending up with nothing but some words to talk about, that leave you feeling rather dirty and needing to take a mental shower.

Some lit is cool however. Just not all of it.