It is the bane of our existence in Junior High School.
It is the very thing we are told to dread.
It is that moment when we hang our head in defeat.
It is known as Literature class.
No child should have to suffer from numerous recounting of Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare or Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Oh, but we must! We struggled with the great authors of Literature and we read the winding poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and William Wadsworth Longfellow.
As we sat in class, we would not wonder, as Hemingway did, "For whom the bell tolls.." We would wonder WHEN would the bell toll releasing us from this nightmare.
What good does it do? What do we really bring away from such classes. I had Literature classes from 7th grade through 12 grade. I can sum up everything I learned in this one blog....
How do I love the, let me count the ways - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Beware the Ides of March - William Shakespeare
Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink. Water, water everywhere; nor any drop to drink. - Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Quoth the raven evermore - Edgar Allen Poe
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. - Charles Dickens
Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo? - William Shakespeare
Well, therein lies my literary knowledge.
In all reality, I did love my literature classes. I loved reading the old novels and the classics. Yes, I may not have learned as much from them as I did from Math or English, but with my love for reading, they did hold my interest. Far more than dissecting frogs or determining how atoms work.
