"December" I will sleep, in my little cup. - Ron Padgett

                                    Kate Bush/Stephen Fry, 50 Words For Snow

for more info about the POP POET you can check: 
http://www.katebush.com/
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/dec/07/david-mitchell-kate-bush-lyric-poetry
https://www.theguardian.com/music/2018/nov/23/kate-bush-every-uk-single-ranked

"Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy." Virginia Woolf

                                         by Stephanie Pfriender Stylander, 5 pm, Rome, Italy, 1998

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem" - Walt Whitman

Rino Stefano Tagliafierro is a director, art director and video artist. Over the years he has had experience as art director, visual-artist, graphic designer, animator and 2Dcompositor to realize video-art, commercials, short films, fashion video, videomapping, videoprojections and videoinstallations for exhibitions, museums and special events.
As an author he has taken part in several contemporary art exhibitions in Milan, New York, Paris, Sapporo, Moscow, Berlin, receiving international awards in many animation, shortfilm and experiamental festivals, including Short Film Corner Cannes, Festival d’Annecy, Clermont-Ferrand Short Festival, Rooftop Film New York City, Sapporo Short Fest e Milano Film Festival.

In 2014 he published the short film BEAUTY, obtaining great outcome and recognition wordlwide and gaining the approval of major national and international newspapers and specialized magazines, such as Le Monde, Le Parisien, Le Figaro, Wall Street International, Bild, The Guardian, France2, Wired, The Telegraph , Artribune, Daily Mail, Sky, La Stampa and La Repubblica.

for more pls visit: http://www.rinostefanotagliafierro.com/

Artists’ BookMarket 2019

There's still time to apply for the Artists' BookMarket at @fruitmarket and @StillsEdinburgh. If you're involved in getting artists' books into the world, applications for running stalls, workshops or events are being accepted until 7th January.

Calling all artist book makers, publishers and sellers

Artists’ BookMarket is Edinburgh’s annual celebration of artists’ book culture, with a Friday night ltalk and a fair running over two busy weekend days. Stalls are laid out across three floors of gallery, and two venues, and are complemented by a busy events and workshops programme. Our more than two thousand visitors come from across Scotland, the north of England and beyond to make this date with artists’ books and artist-led publishing.

The Fruitmarket Gallery and Stills partner to deliver this event.

Participants range from long-term experimental publishers to some of the most interesting new talent from university and college courses. There’s local talent on show alongside representation of those who each year travel to take part in this increasingly prominent fair in the UK’s artists book calendar.

for more pls check: https://www.fruitmarket.co.uk/artists-bookmarket-2/

POETRY APPS TO LEARN POETRY BY HEART

Dear Students,

If you are fond of learning poetry by heart, please consider downloading this APPS on your phone.

Poems by Heart from Penguin Classics (iOS): Need to memorize a poem for class? This app will help you do that.

Haiku Poem (Android and iOS): A poetry app by the International Reading Association designed to teach students about haiku and walk them through the steps of creating their own.

The Sonnet Project (Android): There are a lot of free apps with libraries of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but this one is different. The New York Shakespeare Exchange created short films at various historic locations in NYC, each based on one of Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets.

by A.J. O'Connel

'Poetry is what gets lost in translation.' - Robert Frost

A Functional Typology in Translation- Article by Christiane Nord
Published online: 27 November 1997
for more pls check:https://benjamins.com/catalog/btl.26.05nor

"I pass times, I pass silences, formless worlds pass me by" -Fernando Pessoa

Be aware of the Art of Performance or the Performance of Art.
for more pls check: https://www.khanacademy.org/partner-content/tate/participation-performance/performance/a/what-is-performance-art

“Şiir bir şey anlatmaz demek, anlamı yoktur, anlamsızdır demek değildir. Anlamla yola çıkılmaz demektir.” İlhan Berk

Dear Students,
I know that most of you are pretty busy due to the approaching exams. However it is the end of the WSE and those who are interested might want to visit a very nice poetry event called "Poetry Everywhere: İlhan Berk at 100” at
Yapı Kredi Culture and Art (http://art.ykykultur.com.tr/visit).
The exhibition is organized at the occasion of the centenaries of İlhan Berk, a pioneer of Modern Turkish poetry. It is composed of six sections: “Backbone/25 Poetry Books”, “Universe/Images”, “Orbit/Bookcase”, “Guide/Notebooks”, “Shell/Things” and “Letters/Attempts of Formalisation”.

The 25 poetry books of the poet form the backbone of the exhibition, which displays unknown paintings and drawings, notebooks with his hand-written notes taken from 1955 onward, covers of this notebooks, pages of his poetry books, contemporary opinions of major poets and authors about each book, videos and personal belongings of the artists.
for more please check: http://art.ykykultur.com.tr/exhibitions/poetry-everywhere
best
gh

“When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice.” ― Robert Frank

Words, Mabou 1977. Robert FRANK

Run mad as often as you choose, but do not faint! -Jane Austen

                               Happy Birthday to Jane Austen.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. -Percy Bysshe Shelley

                                                  Berndnaut Smilde -Making Clouds

The Cloud

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 

And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 

And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits; 

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits; 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 

Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; 

And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead; 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 

An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 

And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of Heaven above, 

With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbèd maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas, 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 

When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-coloured bow; 

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 

While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 

And the nursling of the Sky; 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 

For after the rain when with never a stain 

The pavilion of Heaven is bare, 

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

"A fine landscape is like a piece of music it must be taken at the right tempo." - Paul Scott Mowrer

                                                   "Everything changes, nothing is lost" (2014), Katie Griesar 


You can explore various classic music channels at:

https://www.accuradio.com/classical/?name=Avant%20Garde%20Classical&b0=Classical

“Overflow gently, don’t drown” - Albert Camus

                        
                                                                                       http://mashable.com/

"One benefit of summer was that each day we had more light to read by" -Jeannette Walls

                                                 Ed van der Elsken, Café "Chez Moineau" Paris, 1954

We write to taste life twice” -Anaïs Nin

Dear Students,
Do not miss the annual festival on Literature in Istanbul. Those who are interested can get more info and the program here: http://www.tyb.org.tr/10-istanbul-edebiyat-festivali-10-aralikta-basliyor-36295h.htm
Enjoy lisetning about "Writing and Living".
best
gh

“Beauty is not caused. It is.” ― Emily Dickinson

Happy Birthday to Emily Dickinson (December 10, 1830), who is one of the most interesting figures in the history of literature. She was self-secluded from the rest of the world writing poetry prolifically in the era of the Transcendentalism.
for more of her poetry please check: 
http://www.letras.ufrj.br/veralima/litam2/multimedia/dickinson/Dickinson-poems6x9.pdf

“A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.” ― John Milton

Milton's 17th century epic poem are accompanied by visuals and music. music by Matt Peterson  (solo piano, from "The Paradise Suite"), Craig Armstrong ("Escape") and John Debney (from "The Passion Of The Christ" soundtrack)

Paradise Lost: Book  1 (1674 version)

BY JOHN MILTON

OF Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit 

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast 

Brought Death into the World, and all our woe, 

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, 

Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top 

Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 

That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed, 

In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth 

Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion Hill 

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd 

Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence 

Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song, 

That with no middle flight intends to soar 

Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues 

Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime. 

And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 

Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure, 

Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first 

Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread 

Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss 

And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark 

Illumin, what is low raise and support; 

That to the highth of this great Argument 

I may assert Eternal Providence, 

And justifie the wayes of God to men. 

Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view 

Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause 

Mov'd our Grand Parents in that happy State, 

Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall off 

From thir Creator, and transgress his Will 

For one restraint, Lords of the World besides? 

Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt? 

Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile 

Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd 

The Mother of Mankind, what time his Pride 

Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host 

Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring 

To set himself in Glory above his Peers, 

He trusted to have equal'd the most High, 

If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim 

Against the Throne and Monarchy of God 

Rais'd impious War in Heav'n and Battel proud 

With vain attempt.   Him the Almighty Power 

Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie 

With hideous ruine and combustion down 

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 

In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire, 

Who durst defie th' Omnipotent to Arms. 

Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night 

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 

Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe 

Confounded though immortal: But his doom 

Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought 

Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 

Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes 

That witness'd huge affliction and dismay 

Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate: 

At once as far as Angels kenn he views 

The dismal Situation waste and wilde, 

A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round 

As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames 

No light, but rather darkness visible 

Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe, 

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 

And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 

That comes to all; but torture without end 

Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed 

With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd: 

Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd 

For those rebellious, here thir prison ordained 

In utter darkness, and thir portion set 

As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n 

As from the Center thrice to th' utmost Pole. 

O how unlike the place from whence they fell! 

There the companions of his fall, o'rewhelm'd 

With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, 

He soon discerns, and weltring by his side 

One next himself in power, and next in crime, 

Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd 

Beelzebub.   To whom th' Arch-Enemy, 

And thence in Heav'n call'd Satan, with bold words 

Breaking the horrid silence thus began. 

If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd 

From him, who in the happy Realms of Light 

Cloth'd with transcendent brightness didst out-shine 

Myriads though bright: If he whom mutual league, 

United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 

And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize, 

Joynd with me once, now misery hath joynd 

In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest 

From what highth fall'n, so much the stronger prov'd 

He with his Thunder: and till then who knew 

The force of those dire Arms?   yet not for those, 

Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage 

Can else inflict, do I repent or change, 

Though chang'd in outward lustre; that fixt mind 

And high disdain, from sence of injur'd merit, 

That with the mightiest rais'd me to contend, 

And to the fierce contention brought along 

Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd 

That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring, 

His utmost power with adverse power oppos'd 

In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav'n, 

And shook his throne.   What though the field be lost? 

All is not lost; the unconquerable Will, 

And study of revenge, immortal hate, 

And courage never to submit or yield: 

And what is else not to be overcome? 

That Glory never shall his wrath or might 

Extort from me.   To bow and sue for grace 

With suppliant knee, and deifie his power, 

Who from the terrour of this Arm so late 

Doubted his Empire, that were low indeed, 

That were an ignominy and shame beneath 

This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods 

And this Empyreal substance cannot fail, 

Since through experience of this great event 

In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc't, 

We may with more successful hope resolve 

To wage by force or guile eternal Warr 

Irreconcileable, to our grand Foe, 

Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy 

Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav'n. 

So spake th' Apostate Angel, though in pain, 

Vaunting aloud, but rackt with deep despare: 

And him thus answer'd soon his bold Compeer. 

John Milton (9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674) was an English poet, polemicist, man of letters, and a civil servant for the Commonwealth of England under Oliver Cromwell. He wrote at a time of religious flux and political upheaval, and is best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost (1667), written in blank verse.
Milton’s poetry and prose reflect deep personal convictions, a passion for freedom and self-determination, and the urgent issues and political turbulence of his day. Writing in English, Latin, Greek, and Italian, he achieved international renown within his lifetime, and his celebrated Areopagitica (1644)—written in condemnation of pre-publication censorship—is among history’s most influential and impassioned defences of free speech and freedom of the press.
William Hayley’s 1796 biography called him the “greatest English author,” and he remains generally regarded “as one of the preeminent writers in the English language,” though critical reception has oscillated in the centuries since his death (often on account of his republicanism).
Milton’s poetry was slow to see the light of day, at least under his name. His first published poem was On Shakespear (1630), anonymously included in the Second Folio edition of William Shakespeare. In the midst of the excitement attending the possibility of establishing a new English government, Milton collected his work in 1645 Poems. The anonymous edition of Comus was published in 1637, and the publication of Lycidas in 1638 in Justa Edouardo King Naufrago was signed J. M. Otherwise, the 1645 collection was the only poetry of his to see print, until Paradise Lost appeared in 1667.

source: https://courses.lumenlearning.com/britlit1/chapter/john-milton-biography/

“You feel your strength in the experience of pain.” ― Jim Morrison

Jim Morrison, Handwriting, lyrics

75. Geburtstag Jim Morrison 

(8. Dezember 1943 - 3. Juli 1971)

Riders on the Storm, the Doors-Morrison

“When one is highly alert to language, then nearly everything begs to be a poem.” ― James Tate

                                      Knockin' on Heaven's Door, (german movie), song Bob Dylan-Selig

“A Knock On The Door 

They ask me if I've ever thought about the end of 

the world, and I say, "Come in, come in, let me 

give you some lunch, for God's sake." After a few 

bites it's the afterlife they want to talk about. 

"Ouch," I say, "did you see that grape leaf 

skeletonizer?" Then they're talking about 

redemption and the chosen few sitting right by 

His side. "Doing what?" I ask. "Just sitting?" I 

am surrounded by burned up zombies. "Let's 

have some lemon chiffon pie I bought yesterday 

at the 3 Dog Bakery." But they want to talk about 

my soul. I'm getting drowsy and see butterflies 

everywhere. "Would you gentlemen like to take a 

nap, I know I would." They stand and back away 

from me, out the door, walking toward my 

neighbors, a black cloud over their heads and 

they see nothing without end. ” 

― James Tate

in memory to James Tate, American poet (Pulitzer Prize 1992), born in Kansas City Missouri on December 7, 1943 (d. 2015)

Je continuerai de te regarder briller mon étoile.

                                                                            https://www.hybycozo.com/

HYBYCOZO, the Hyperspace Bypass Construction Zone, is a series of large scale installations and artworks that investigate geometry through light, shadow, and perception.


The project is inspired by the intersection of math, science, technology, material, and light. HYBYCOZO consists of Yelena Filipchuk and Serge Beaulieu, plus an assortment of expert fabricators, handlers, installers, and a powerful community. We create, fabricate, and install our artwork all over the world.

About the Artists

Yelena Filipchuk (b. 1987) Yelena thrives in the creative process, creating thought provoking artwork that investigates patterns and forms as a way to educate and inspire herself and others. Yelena currently resides in Oakland developing her craft and growing her practice as an artist, entrepreneur, and educator.

Serge Beaulieu (b. 1981) An Industrial Designer for over 10 years, Serge is now creating large scale artworks that expand the boundaries of technology, geometry and fabrication. Constantly investigating materials and processes in order to harness design as a tool for art, Serge resides in Oakland CA operating studios and workshops for creative and exploratory growth.

UPCOMING EXHIBITIONS

2018 - Descanso Gardens, Electric Forest of Light, Nov-January, Pasedena CA
2018 - Morton Arboretum, Chicago IL
2018 - Bank of America Tower, Downtown Los Angeles, Nov-Jan
2018 - 100 California, SF
2019 - LMNL, San Francisco
2019 - two permanent installations at 27th and Valdez. Downtown Oakland.
2019 - UAP permanent install in China
2019 - Mint Plaza, SF CA

Email with any questions: hybycozo@gmail.com
Follow our facebook page here: www.facebook.com/hybycozo
Folow our instagram here: www.instagram.com/hybycozo
Shop our sister site, COZO here: www.cozo.co

"Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky" - Khalil Gibran

                                              Albarrán Cabrera, "The Mouth of Krishna", 2017

Trees

BY JOYCE KILMER

I think that I shall never see 

A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day, 

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in Summer wear 

A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 

Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me, 

But only God can make a tree.

In memory to Joyce Klimer, American poet, (6 December 1886-1918), known for poetry that celebrated the common beauty of the natural world as well as his religious faith.

Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by. ― Christina Rossetti

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI - POEMS - DELUXE COPY BOUND IN VELLUM & ILLUSTRATED - 1910

Born today (December 5,1830) Christina Rosetti is one of the most important female poets of the Victorian period. Rossetti’s poem explores the difficulties of women in the Victorian era, struggling to find a place where they are valued for themselves and what they can offer in a world where – sometimes – men seem to have all the power. Bleakly she asks the question: would anyone notice if I were gone? It’s a heartbreaking lyric poem which speaks to the misery that seems to have haunted Rossetti for a good part of her life.

for more pls read: http://charlotteunsworth.com/?p=1799
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/christina-rossetti
for more you can listen to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tguVhe4Gw8&t=114s


Who Has Seen the Wind?
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,

The wind is passing by.

Color
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!

Dream Land
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.

"I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world" - Rainer Maria Rilke

“I love the dark hours of my being.

My mind deepens into them.

There I can find, as in old letters,

the days of my life, already lived,

and held like a legend, and understood.” 

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God 

Rainer Maria Rilke – ahead of his time in life and death

On this day 4th December in 1875 the Bohemian Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke was born. Rilke travelled a lot through Europe and eventually settled in Paris; he was part of the amazing artistic maelstrom that existed there in the first decade of the 20th century.

His mystical and existential themes show him to be a modernist writer ahead of his time, but his poetry also contained great passion.

source:https://www.poetrychangeslives.com/rilke-ahead-of-his-time-in-life-and-death/

Comparative Literature in an Age of Globalization

There are painters who transform the sun into a yellow spot, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun. -Pablo Picasso

Due to the International Day of Disabled People, the artist Hülya Kücükali accomplished a wonderful project working with little children. Those who are interested can visit their art exhibition (only for today) at the AKM, Cumhuriyet Mah. Atatürk Bulvarı No:26 Beylikdüzü located in ISTANBUL.

“The sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.” ― Joseph Conrad

                                                   http://cedarbank.co.uk/
Born today (December 3, 1857) Joseph Conrad (Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski) is one of the greatest novelists in English:
"He wrote stories and novels, often with a nautical setting, that depict trials of the human spirit in the midst of an indifferent universe. He was a master prose stylist who brought a distinctly non-English tragic sensibility into English literature."

Please check the links for detailed summary, plot analysis of Conrad's bio and novel Heart of Darkness:
https://prezi.com/eanebx2vsyag/heart-of-darkness/
https://prezi.com/9eftd_owtrmo/heart-of-darkness/

Intro to Figurative Language: Metaphor, Simile, Allusion