/lit/ - Literature

With schools all shutdown due to the shanghai shivers, I cannot access the huge library my college offers. I have to write several papers using resources that I am almost completely unable to access.

I am writing a paper on the poetry of Ezra Pound, specifically "Portrait d'une Femme" and I need scholarly work specifically about the poem. I have found a few sources already, but the one's I want I cannot fucking find anywhere online.

I know what I need is in these books, please /lit/ lend me a hand.

>The Poetry of Ezra Pound - Hugh Kenner
>A Companion to Twentieth-Century Poetry - Neil Roberts / Hugh Witemeyer
>The Oxford Companion to Twentieth-Century Literature in English - Jenny Stringer
>The Cambridge Companion to Modernist Poetry - Alex David & Lee M. Jenkins
>Ezra Pound: A Collection of Critical Essays (Twentieth Century Views Series) - Walter Sutton

I cannot order hardcopies and wait for them to arrive. I just fucking pdfs or something.
Any ideas?

I'm an adult student (English Major), having gone back to finish my degree after several years.

My classes are full of kids who want to be writers, screenwriters, poets, etc, but have nothing that makes them interesting.

So much of their work, which is shared online and/or presented in class, can be summarized as: "Everyone, let me tell you about how hard it is to be me."

Do they think you have to be a depressing, shy, maladjusted bitch in order to create art? Of course artists used their sadness sometimes to create worthwhile pieces. But these kids come across as caricatures of "sad, sensitive artiste" as if being a pussy and reading one's poem about how hard it is to be black/female/gay/poor makes one an artist.

I just don't get it.

Why don't these kids present themselves with any pride, or at least attempt to not present all of their weakness?

When did it become required that in order to be a writer, you must present the character of a sad, self-absorbed fool, unwilling to analyze yourself or your work critically? Because that's all I see from these kids.

Help me understand.

Accidentally dropped one of my books on the floor and the hard cover half ripped off. It was a gift from my SO and I feel terrible about it. Wat do?

>old man at the end of his days
>spends time with loving family
>had wonderful marriage
>wonderful kids/grandkids
>achieved a lot professionally and personally
>wants to spend his final days with his loved ones
>can't think of how he could live without them
>dies surrounded by his loved ones
>totally at peace with the concept of death
>thinks there'll be nothing, or heaven

>experiences strange feeling
>time seems to be moving slow
>yet he is moving rapidly
>void of blackness
>occasional prism blazes by
>hears whispers in the distance
>continues for what feels like forever
>probably only moments

>bright light
>screaming
>jumbled sounds
>has no perception of his surroundings
>cannot see and shouts into his surroundings
>hears only wailing

>time passes
>he is in a gigantic room
>being held by a woman?
>in a hospital gown?
>he is wrapped tightly in a blanket
>cannot move
>shouts, hears only wailing
>no
>nononononononono
>no it was supposed to be over
>cannot do this again
>please god no
>he recalls his family
>he will never see them again
>but what were their names?
>he recalls how successful he was
>but what was his job again?
>he wants to speak to this woman
>tell her who he is, all he knows
>tell her the secret, what happens after death
>only hears wailing
>ssshh mommy's here
>mommy? who was my mother?
>never will see family again
>he loved them so much

>he now weeps by his own choice
>hears the wailing
>what is my name?
>didn't I have a wife?
>how many children did I have?
>did I even have children?
>his memories slowly leave him
>he thinks hard about his wife
>then thinks about his son
>back to his wife
>what wife?
>he grasps at memories which fall though his fingers like sand the moment he looks away

>he was a man
>he understood the world
>he loved and lost and lived
>he learned the secret of death
>and now he must do it again
>there are no memories now
>there is only what was and what will be, two things which will never overlap
>hears only wailing