>His list of those whom he calls the “good writers” — Melville, Dostoyevsky, Faulkner — precludes anyone who doesn’t “deal with issues of life and death.” Proust and Henry James don’t make the cut. “I don’t understand them,” he says. “To me, that’s not literature. A lot of writers who are considered good I consider strange."
>mfw I look up the quote, and the site it's on described him as "the best unknown author in America."
It explains why I dislike McCarthy.
He's one of those writers forcing a design onto experience, or designing an experience to showcase, rather than teasing a meaning out of experience of following a whim to its logical conclusions. His writing is intensely inhuman: it's thematic. It's also often adolescent because his designs are all intended to show something about violence, toughness, etc.
I feel writers like him are unable to grasp that Henry James and Proust have an immense amount to teach us about how to properly reach our big ideas about our lives. Proust shows us memory. James shows us the intricate workings of society. These are the problems of our lives, our experiences and our loves.
that girl with boy hair is clearly trying to give off this image of being some sort of interesting person with an air of elegance.However, this facade belies cookie cutter tumblr sensibilities and passe mental illness (see: depression if your LUCKY, but probably borderline or histrionic... free side serving of daddy issues of course)
I didn't say that they were obscure, or that they weren't famous.
I'm insulting him, if this isn't completely obvious.
>A black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled, back. Loud on left Thor thundered: in anger awful the hammerhurler. Came now the storm that hist his heart. And Master Lynch bade him have a care to flout and witwanton as the god self was angered for his hellprate and paganry. And he that had erst challenged to be so doughty waxed pale as they might all mark and shrank together and his pitch that was before so haught uplift was now of a sudden quite plucked down and his heart shook within the cage of his breast as he tasted the rumour of that storm. Then did some mock and some jeer and Punch Costello fell hard again to his yale which Master Lenehan vowed he would do after and he was indeed but a word and a blow on any the least colour. But the braggart boaster cried that an old Nobodaddy was in his cups it was muchwhat indifferent and he would not lag behind his lead. But this was only to dye his desperation as cowed he crouched in Horne's hall. He drank indeed at one draught to pluck up a heart of any grace for it thundered long rumblingly over all the heavens so that Master Madden, being godly certain whiles, knocked him on his ribs upon that crack of doom and Master Bloom, at the braggart's side spoke to him calming words to slumber his great fear, advertising how it was no other thing but a hubbub noise that he heard, the discharge of fluid from the thunderhead, look you, having taken place, and all of the order of a natural phenomenon.