G is for greatness!

If you are reading this then I am guessing you love words.  So it follows that you love the people who have mastered our language to create wonderful works of fiction.  As we have arrived at G in our alphabet journey to 2016, I thought it would be a good time to look at some of the greats of literature – focusing on five of the greatest English writers.

I realise that any list is subjective and you may well have your own top five – but it would be hard to argue that these greats should not be included somewhere in a ‘best of’ list.

Geoffrey Chaucer (1343-1400)

 ‘Life is short. Art long. Opportunity is fleeting. Experience treacherous. Judgement difficult.’

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

‘In time we hate that which we often fear.’

William Blake (1757-1827)

‘Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.’

Jane Austen (1775-1817)

‘Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience- or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.’

Charles Dickens (1812-1870)

‘I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.’

All of these authors (and many more) were philosophers, using their writing to reflect the life around them. Scan through any of their novels, plays or poetry and you will see that they had strong opinions about society and used their skill to make those opinions known.

Should we write to reflect and share our thoughts, or should we aim to influence others?  Do we have a responsibility as authors to highlight injustices?  Or is it enough to use our writing to help others escape – even if only for a short time?

If you like the idea of reading more about any of these greats, take a look at this link: http://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/resources/best-english-writers/

Now, it’s over to you – who would make it to the top of your list?

Aye-Aye

 

2 Comments

  1. If the shortness and uncertainty of life is the theme, I would rather choose sonnet 73 for Shakespeare’s contribution:

    That time of year thou mayst in me behold
    When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
    Upon those boughs that shake against the cold
    Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *