How literature has changed

Today, Literature is not only high-sounding writing; it can be any kind of printed material, such as circulars, leaflets, or handbills. Literature with a capital "L" can also be literature with a small "l".

Things have changed. It used to be that literature had to be learned; it had to be lofty, beautiful, or profound. Today, much that passes for Literature isn't any of these things.

Today, there's no precise definition of the word learned. No single body of knowledge is universally considered as essential to an elite education. Greek, Roman, History, and the Classics are not mandatory in the college curriculum. If you're well-versed in any of such diverse fields as computers, radio broadcasting, or dentistry, you may be considered learned. The same is true for the word literate. If you're barely able to read and write—if you're barely able to pass a literacy test or get a driver's license—some cultures classify you as literate.

Even poetry is subject to these kinds of ambiguity. Formally defined, a poem is a composition in verse, especially one that is characterized by a highly developed artistic form and by the use of heightened language and rhythm to express an intensely imaginative interpretation of the subject. Or a poem may be a composition that, although not in verse, is characterized by great beauty of language or expression.

Once upon a time poetry had to be taught in schools to be considered Literature; today, much of the poetry that's taught in schools doesn't fit the old molds. And poems aren't illiterate simply because they aren't lofty.

Not anymore. By today's standards, writings of all different sizes and shapes qualify as Literature even though they do not fit within yesterday's parameters. Many poems are thought to be Literature even though they do not fit the time-established prescriptions. The ancients and 19th century pundits thought they understood beauty with a certainty, but today a precise definition of beauty evades our grasp.

Nevertheless, most people know a true work of literature when they see it. For the Muse's money, no matter how amusing, titillating, or edifying, the poems of Joyce Kilmer (Trees), Edgar Guest (A Heap of Learn'n), Robert W. Service (The Shooting of Dan McGrew), and Ernest Lawrence Thayer (Casey at the Bat) are not Literature. On the other hand, the amusing, titillating, and edifying poems of J. Ogden Nash, James Whitcomb Riley, Edward Lear, and Dorothy Parker are Literature.

Writing doesn't have to be profound to be Literature; even light-hearted poems like these can qualify. The idea of why one poem isn't Literature and another is Literature isn't always easy to put words around.

But who's to say? People perennially debate this issue. Like many of life's most rewarding gifts, Literature (with a capital "L") is one of those things you can't quite put your finger on but wish you could.

What is certain is that literature is only a label we apply to written works we have good reason to cherish. Such works are what they are no matter what labels we assign.

The litmus test? We can recognize a work of Literature because it affects us in certain ways. If it's Literature, it expresses some facet of human experience, past and present, fickle or profound, and it expresses it originally, delightfully, precisely. It touches our inner core. It moves us to care or to feel joy.