Explanatory essays - The Power of Knowle: Essays That Explain the Important Things in Life - Sykalo Eugene 2025
Comparative Analysis of Literary Movements and Their Cultural Impact
Comparative literature and cross-cultural analysis
Romanticism: The OG Heart-On-Sleeve Vibe
Romanticism hits like that one friend who’s always crying about the sunset but somehow makes it profound. Born in the late 18th century, it was a middle finger to the Enlightenment’s obsession with reason, logic, and all that stiff-upper-lip nonsense. Wordsworth, Shelley, Goethe—they were out here worshipping nature, chasing the sublime, and basically inventing the idea of “feelings are valid.” I mean, imagine Wordsworth wandering the Lake District, muttering about daffodils like they’re his therapist. It’s unhinged in the best way.
But here’s the thing: Romanticism wasn’t just about pretty landscapes or brooding poets. It rewired how we think about individuality. Before, you were a cog in the feudal machine—know your place, serve your lord, blah blah. Romanticism said, “Nah, your soul’s a universe, and you should scream about it.” That’s why it’s still echoing in every TikTok poet aestheticizing their mental breakdown. The cultural impact? Huge. It gave us the blueprint for self-expression, for better or worse. Every time someone posts a moody Instagram caption about “finding themselves,” they’re low-key cosplaying Shelley.
And yet, I’m torn. Romanticism’s obsession with the individual can feel like a trap now. Like, cool, you’re unique, but what about the collective? It’s almost too indulgent, too “main character energy” for a world where we’re all just trying to survive algorithm-driven chaos. Still, I can’t help but stan. It’s the literary equivalent of blasting Taylor Swift and crying in your car—cathartic, messy, human.
Realism: The Brutal Reality Check We Didn’t Ask For
Then comes Realism, stomping in like a buzzkill at a poetry slam. Mid-19th century, Europe’s industrializing, cities are grimy, and writers like Balzac, Dickens, and Tolstoy are like, “Enough with the ethereal vibes, let’s talk about how much life sucks.” Realism’s whole deal was holding a mirror to society—warts, poverty, and all. Think Dickens describing London’s smog-choked streets or Tolstoy dissecting the petty dramas of Russian aristocrats. It’s not pretty, but it’s honest.
What gets me is how Realism weaponized storytelling to expose systemic rot. Dickens wasn’t just writing about orphans; he was dragging Victorian England’s class system. It’s the literary equivalent of a viral X thread calling out corruption—except, you know, with better prose. The cultural impact here is undeniable: Realism made literature a tool for social critique. It’s why we still turn to books (or, let’s be real, prestige TV adaptations) to process inequality or injustice.
But, ugh, sometimes Realism bums me out. It’s so determined to be “truthful” that it forgets how to dream. Like, I get it, life’s hard, but can’t we have a little whimsy? Reading Balzac feels like being stuck in a meeting with no snacks. Still, I respect the hustle. Realism forced us to look at the world’s underbelly, and that grit still shapes how we tell stories—whether it’s a novel or a Reddit post about late-stage transforming capitalism.
Modernism: When Everything Got Weird
Okay, now we’re in the early 20th century, and Modernism crashes the party like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Joyce, Woolf, Kafka—they’re not here to hold your hand. They’re here to make you question reality itself. Modernism was born from the ashes of World War I, when the world felt like a cosmic prank. Suddenly, linear narratives and happy endings were for suckers. Stream-of-consciousness, fragmented timelines, unreliable narrators? That’s the Modernist vibe. Reading Ulysses is like trying to solve a puzzle while someone’s yelling surrealist poetry in your ear.
The cultural impact of Modernism is wild because it basically invented “difficult art.” It said, “You thought literature was supposed to make sense? Cute.” It’s the reason we have pretentious book clubs arguing over what Mrs. Dalloway really means. Modernism gave us permission to embrace ambiguity, to lean into the chaos of human consciousness. That’s huge. It’s why we’re still obsessed with unreliable narrators in everything from Fight Club to Fleabag.
But, real talk, Modernism can be exhausting. I love Woolf as much as the next sad lit major, but sometimes I’m like, “Virginia, can you chill with the run-on sentences?” It’s elitist in its own way—demanding you have a PhD to keep up. Still, it’s hard to hate something that gave us the tools to wrestle with a fractured world. Modernism’s like that friend who’s always overanalyzing everything but somehow makes you see the world differently.
Postcolonial Literature: Rewriting the Narrative
Fast-forward to the mid-20th century, and postcolonial literature kicks in like a truth bomb. Writers like Chinua Achebe, Salman Rushdie, and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o are done with the colonizer’s version of the story. Things Fall Apart isn’t just a novel; it’s a reclamation of history, a middle finger to the idea that Africa was “savage” before Europe showed up. These writers center the marginalized, exposing the violence of empire while weaving stories that are vibrant, complex, and defiantly alive.
The cultural impact here is seismic. Postcolonial literature didn’t just add new voices to the canon; it forced us to question who gets to write the canon in the first place. It’s why we’re having conversations about representation in publishing, why “decolonize your bookshelf” is a thing. Achebe’s Igbo proverbs or Rushdie’s magical realism—they’re not just stylistic flexes; they’re acts of resistance. They’re proof that stories shape who gets to be human.
And yet, I sometimes wonder if postcolonial lit gets pigeonholed. Like, we praise it for “giving voice” but forget how these writers were also just trying to tell good stories. Reducing them to “important” feels like another kind of colonization. Still, every time I read Midnight’s Children, I’m floored by how it balances history’s weight with this wild, almost playful energy. It’s literature doing the most.
Why This Matters in the Internet Age
So, what’s the throughline? Romanticism taught us to feel, Realism forced us to see, Modernism made us question, and postcolonial lit demanded we listen. Each movement rewrote what stories could do—culturally, emotionally, politically. And now? We’re living in their aftermath. The internet’s a chaotic stew of all these impulses: confessional TikTok monologues (Romanticism), viral exposés of systemic failures (Realism), fragmented meme-driven narratives (Modernism), and marginalized voices finally breaking through (postcolonialism).
But here’s where I get stuck. The internet makes everything immediate, disposable. Literature used to have this slow-burn power to shift culture over decades. Now, a tweet can spark a movement in hours but fizzle by tomorrow. I’m obsessed with how these movements shaped us, but I’m also anxious—do we still have the attention span for their depth? Like, are we just doomscrolling through the ruins of Modernism?
I don’t have an answer. Maybe that’s the point. These movements didn’t wrap things up neatly; they left us with questions. Romanticism’s individualism clashes with postcolonial calls for community. Realism’s grit grounds us, but Modernism’s weirdness sets us free. It’s messy, contradictory, alive. And honestly, that’s why I keep coming back to books. They don’t just tell stories—they argue with each other, with us, with the world. And in 2025, when everything feels like it’s moving too fast, that argument still feels like home.