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Literary Justification: What Gives a Story Identity?
If you were to bring up a list of your favourite examples of good storytelling, there has to be something about it which makes it unique. There is always something that gives a distinct feel or dignity to a piece. A lot of analysing in literature comes from wanting to delve into the secrets on how words can be woven into the character of a single piece of art.
What Gives a Story Identity?
How does a story gain character? How does a story separate itself in the mind as its own beast? When you yourself are writing, what concerns do you have for the personality of your works?
Death and CoffeeDeath and Coffee
"- and cyanide."
- your foot's too big."
Attention: Mr. Hood
I'm poor. Oprah's not.
Manifesto of the tired novelist with a day jobI'm tired of poets
"only a 'sensitive' man has the
'inspiration' to create".
As if you need 'inspiration' to write
words upon a page
and as though
without some degree of actionless pathos
one cannot be <<poetic>>
enough or indeed
It speaks rather of
rather than any great literary genius
What is <<talent>> ?
What is talent without the appliance of
a hearty demeanor?
StrawberriesIt rained yesterday.
It rained and it washed all the mud down our street.
I went in the garden, my shoes got all wet.
Darn summer showers that smell of soaked earth.
I went in the garden, I set down my fruit basket,
And started to dig.
Until I found strawberries, crushed by the foul phlegm of sand grains and
My hands still felt cold when I washed them with hot, steamy water
From under the tap. I closed it, and ran
Ran down the porous cement stairs that stung my bare feet,
To the beat of a popular tune our neighbor Jerry played,
To my friend's house.
My friend used to stick strawberries to the tips of her fingers and
Eat them off, licking her lips with vigor.
I knocked on the door twice and waited, strawberry basket in hand.
My hand wouldn't reach the doorbell those years,
Even standing on tiptoes.
When minutes passed and I heard nothing but the roar of an airplane's rotor,
I knew just where she would be.
Pushing my head between iron bars
CigarettesThe first cigarette went down smooth, like crème brûlée.
The second cigarette went down smoother, like sin.
Fool in the RainI heard that summer was just
around the open bend, cusped
by the sparkling tears of spring.
But, her hand, it had no ring,
so she gave way in a rush.
I guess that winter crushed
the weedy, spurious
hope we were on the brink,
but spring’s gonna come around here again.
I heard that summer came around rainless
I saw that autumn stole away the trust.
You know that winter always leaves her sting.
Ever freezing, whirring, blurring, slurring,
but spring’s gonna come around here again.
Creepy-Crawl.When it rains, the snail comes.
And he tells unto me
all his gastropedal tales
from moss and rotted leaves.
He speaks of insect friendships
and also enemies.
“Beware,” he says “the centipede
and other vicious bugs
Beware” he says “Our cousins
Beware the shell-less slugs.”
“Be kind.” he says “And please leave
no salt on the kitchen floor
and, oh, would you please remove
those pellets from near the door.”
“My helix friend,” I say to him “Your words are truly wise.
A way for us to live in peace
I'm sure we can devise.
You, the noblest of bugs, who can neither bite nor sting.
I do declare your shell to be
the palace of a crawling king.”
When it's dark, the spider comes
and whispers in my ear.
How she, the arachnid garden queen
is hardly a thing to fear.
“Let me live,” she says “within your house's darkened halls
and silver tapestries I'll spin
to hang on every wall.”
She says “
My England.I am no nationalist. I defend no ideology of solipsist words.
I believe in no man, whom by virtue of birth,
should demand privilege. Or by colour of skin, name of God or type of creed,
should have sway held over him.
I believe in an idea.
An idea called England.
My England has no borders. It has no capital. No limitations or boundaries.
My England knows not men by face or by name, but by integrity. By means and by deed.
My England welcomes those who have had injustice thrust upon them.
From all corners of the Earth, where-ever a voice calls out in need,
My England will answer.
My England speaks a hundred languages and worships both a thousand Gods and no God at all.
My England has countless sons and daughters.
My brothers and sisters.
My England forges its foundations not in war, but in the cessation of war.
The veins of my England flow not with gold or oil or money,
but with the freedom of true and equal commerce.
The power of the people, placed in the hands of the people.
BLOOD OF ASTERION: intro
Names are important.
There's a truth hidden in a name, and the adept can uncover this clue to the true nature of things. This was known to the young traveller, who now traded the right side of the mountain path for the left, where she thought the wind and the flying snow to be less intense. It had seemed an attractive route on the map, but the name of this Flensing Pass had been a forewarning to this night's hardship: its high altitude and north-western trajectory, straight as the blade of a knife, gave wind, snow, sleet and ice free reign. The orcs of the region believed that the Pass was where the god Bahgtru had accidentally dropped the axehead he had been forging, and the bare, steep rock-face on both sides certainly endorsed this impression, more so because this night, each crack and furrow had been clogged and glazed over by the flying ice and snow.
The young traveller knew she would not be running into any orcs tonight: her destination was already too close-by for that, and even
Chapter 1: Bad Publicity
Hulda liked being in this part of the temple – the High Priestess' apartments were a tasteful sanctuary of ornate grey oaken paneling and lush carpets from the corner of each separate room to the next.
Recently, some dolt had trodden these with dirty boots, she noticed as she placed her books on the round table in the little study that served as an antechamber to the salon. Doing so, she accidentally knocked the inkwell over, and a tin vase as she jumped to try to keep the stuff from dripping on the carpet by cupping it in her hand. Fussing and turning, she tried to mop up the ink with a wad of her robes, praying to Selûne it was oak apple gall and not real iron gall ink.
She never got the iron gall stain out of her previous robes...
-”Hulda!” the voice of the High Priestess came from the adjacent room. “Is that you?”
Hulda nearly knocked the inkwell over a second time.
-”Yes Lady Meldrys! I've brought the books you requested,” she