Sunshine in Literary Titles

Sunshine in literary titles.

The sun is out, spring is in full swing and people are sitting on the cricket pitch: if students sitting around on grass in college doesn’t say ‘sunshine’ I don’t know what does. If you are looking to match your reading material to the weather, the following pieces of literature have extremely sunny titles, although the contents of the works is not always so bright.

Half of a Yellow Sun by Chiamamanda Ngozi Adichie

Half of a Yellow Sun
Half of a Yellow Sun

Adichie’s title comes from the emblem of Biafra, a

half sun. Biafra was a breakaway state in Nigeria that only lasted three years. The novel is concerned with the Biafra-Nigerian war and the impact of such a civil-war on civilian life.

“Ah! Sun-flower” by William Blake.

“Ah! Sun-flower”

“Ah! Sun-Flower” is an illustrated poem included in William Blake’s Songs of Experience. It’s basically a poem about a longing and desire to be somewhere else; something we have all felt sitting in the library and looking out at the sunny cricket pitch.

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

The Sun Also Rises
The Sun Also Rises

Hemingway’s famous novel follows a group of friends from Paris to the Festival of San Fermín in Pamplona to watch the bullfights. It is supposedly based on Hemingway and his friend’s own trip to Pamplona and the experiences they had there. The title comes from Ecclesiastes 1:5: “The sun also rises, and the sun goes down, And hastens to the place where it arose.”

“Mossbawn 1: Sunlight” by Seamus Heaney.

will leave you with a Heaney poem dedicated to his aunt Mary baking in his
childhood home of Mossbawn, because what more could you want from a Heaney poem
other than domesticity, sunlight and loveliness?

I. Sunlight

There was a sunlit absence.

The helmeted pump in the yard

heated its iron,

water honeyed

in the slung bucket

and the sun stood

like a griddle cooling

against the wall

of each long afternoon.

So, her hands scuffled

over the bakeboard,

the reddening stove

sent its plaque of heat

against her where she stood

in a floury apron

by the window.

Now she dusts the board

with a goose’s wing,

now sits, broad-lapped,

with whitened nails

and measling shins:

here is a space

again, the scone rising

to the tick of two clocks.

And here is love

like a tinsmith’s scoop

sunk past its gleam

in the meal-bin.