Gertrude Stein…a name I now have learned to fear.  We have begun reading some of her works in my English 104A class, and I have to say, it is utter gibberish to me.  Sure, maybe I’m not “deep” enough to grasp the “genius” that is at hand, but to me, hyper-realism is even less practical than stream of consciousness literature.  I’m sure many literary critics will grimace at hearing this, but it’s true; if there are a select few people who “enjoy” her works, little can be said for the rest of the population, literature snobs included, that does not understand or enjoy her writing.  Part of me is wondering if the people who claim to love Gertrude Stein are just walking around, blindly crashing into things that are in front of them because their noses are held up so high in the air with the pretense of having a higher understanding of that which does not even deserve to be understood.  It’s frustration speaking, of course, that so guides my speech to excessive lack of gracious acceptance, but at the same time, it’s the kind of Joycean vs T.S. Eliot approach to pop culture.  Whereas Joyce chose to embrace it and paint it as utterly brilliant despite how ordinary it is, Stein takes the opposing camp’s approach by writing something so clearly written for those who are, perhaps, borderline conspiracy theorists with their level of analysis.  I think that I will never grow to appreciate literature that requires readers to completely twist how they read the literature in order to understand it; I feel like the truly brilliant literature is one that can be understood universally.  But then, again, what do I know?  I’m just like Kramer in Seinfeld when I read Gertrude Stein…



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