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This can be through music, trends, fashion or basically anything that has a social value. A certain contingent can thrust an entity into the spotlight and create domination (e.g. Justin Beiber, One Direction, Gangnam Style or Twilight), not always to the delight of others. This brings me to literature, perhaps the most important of all mediums in human construction. Younger generations take a while to grasp the strength of books, but once they do the content shapes their lives and builds who they are, for all stories are simply a human in conflict. This teaches us about ourselves, with more influence than any teacher or parent can project. So, in the current age, what are the trends of this necessary tool?
Unfortunately, it is impossible to suggest that it has improved. Literature has gone from Orwell (1984, Animal farm) to E.L James (Fifty shades of grey), from Nabokov (Lolita) to Meyer (Twilight). Basically, from storytelling and language to poorly written sex and lust. How can we expect an improvement in society if our growth as people is reliant on this transformation into pop culture?
I could juxtapose Orwell and James, but the analysis would be complex due to them being from different eras with alternative inspirations. Instead, I place a few extracts from ‘Fifty shades of grey’ above my own attempt at a short, descriptive piece,that hopefully illuminates part of the human condition.
Fifty shades of grey by E.L James:
“Suck me baby.”His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes around him, sucking wildly. Holy F***. This is wrong, but holy hell it’s erotic.
“I thought it was chocolate hot fudge brownie sex that we had, with a cherry on top. But hey, what do I know?”
“I found some baby oil. Let me rub it on your behind.” “Christian squirts baby oil onto his hand and then rubs my behind with careful tenderness — from makeup remover to soothing balm for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid.”
“I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible.”
Here is a piece I call ‘The girl with hair aflame’. I try to convey the essence of desire in a more literary format. You, the reader, is the judge.
The rapidly flashing lights bounce off her scorching red hair, a crackling flame burning brightly for all to see, to be entranced by, warmth that reaches within.
He dances behind her in an environment of deafening tune, of people drugged, of gang bangers and men of prey, but it doesn’t matter: for she is all that protrudes, an illumination through the sea of flailing bodies, epileptic.
Her energy and enthusiasm is unmatched, thrashing seamlessly to all that reaches her thrice pierced ears. She is in a different world to surroundings, yet her bronzed tone and loose top attract every eye in the club, a flare that cannot be doused, a beacon to bring the ships to shore.
Despite attention from confident men she turns, staring at him with a hazel gaze, luminous coals, a smile then rising through puffy lips to reveal teeth the colour of purest snow. In that facial expression he enters her personal world, and all periphery vanishes through the sole form of the dancing flame.
Bumps and words from other dancers are invisible, silent, for he is no longer here but there.
She finishes her drink with eyes for him, seductively sucking the vodka off a piece of ice without the realisation of appearing so radiant.
She turns away but moves backward slowly, embers flickering before him, displaying a hint of interest towards an average identity, and all he remembers is a face that shone through darkness and strobe effects that wouldn’t allow a proper look, like a dream that haunts the mind.
He wants to reach out and hold her by swaying hips, to swing the fire back around and be face-to-face with the roaring red curls that framed a portrait of danger and remarkable beauty.
She spins as though connected to his thoughts, a sign that she has burrowed into his mind and discovered his lust, his desire to be a part of the sparkling flame. Their eyes connect briefly, before both turn away simultaneously, afraid the lock would devour everything within the vicinity, fuel to the bright chaos, heat unleashed.
But he knows nothing can happen, not here, not now, not ever. For this flame was too hot for him to touch, others understood, including the blaze herself, yet he would never forget the two looks he’d earned.
The second stare may have lasted only a moment, but with the memory etched in his mind he felt as though he would be part of that unstoppable flame forever.
In this short tale I try to capture temptation through the analogy of fire, rather than dwell on breast, arse and the use of swearing. Orwell’s totalitarian environments were constructed from his experiences of war, as our experiences create ideal reading through added imagination. James uses ‘Twilight’ as a reason behind her story, yet I shudder to think of the true inspiration.