Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 1259. page

>>9410332
Remove every single adjective. Then keep the ones which are absolutely necessary.

>>9410332
Why don't you read it all yourself?

No idea what the shit is about. Spends too much time describing the nothing that's going on in cliches.

Your grandad was a dick. Probably a closet homo, and definitely a shitty writer. Go kick over his tombstone for making me read that filth.

>>9410282
Yep. Ockham's Razor might be useful as an underdeterminative tool when choosing between competing hypotheses, but it is merely a guiding principle, not an inviolable law. There is no boundary in nature that favors simplicity.

>>9410538
>There is no boundary in nature that favors simplicity.
I can't give you a list of all the phenomena where this statement is untrue off the top of my head but I can recall that at least in organic chemistry Occam's Razor is indeed often used.

>>9410282
>t. Hegel

Marx literally worked out at the library for 10-12 hours a day for almost three decades

>>9409283
>being a freeloader, living of the wealth of a friend while doing some writing in your spare time
>hardworking

pick one

>>9409283
Amazing how someone can write so much and yet produce so little

The Iliad. It tells you everything you need to know to live a good life and more.

If you want to go an extra step further start with the Sumerians and the epic of Gilgamesh.

Stop seeking certains. Embrace the caos.

My diary desu

“...I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire...I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”

File: Tips+fedora+m+lad+_e41da07ca6732860b16023436a8665a5[1].jpg (5KB, 259x194px) Image search: [Google]

5KB, 259x194px

>>9409049
>“...I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire...I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

>>9409062
dont talk shit about faulkner

Any good books with a little girl protagonist?

>>9408701

Sabriel.

She's a girl and comparatively little.

>>9408701
>every thread
degenerate

I havent read that but did read and enjoy Fathers and Sons although as with many famous russian novels i didnt get the shock of the political commentary that made it famous as I am not a 19th century russian. It was good though.

>>9408630
He is good, and kind of a stylistic oddity amongst Russians. Have read Fathers and Torrents, both of which read quickly.

My favorite novel... I'm learning Russian because of it

>>9408410
Everything in today's popular culture encourages hedonism. It shouldn't be surprising to see that there are effects of that.

>>9408413
Not to mention the marketing of that popular culture has been honed to a nearly exact science. Even if you make up your mind to resist it, the lure is pretty potent.

>>9408413
I think it varies from culture to culture.It's mostly the west that encourages it

it tru doe

>>9408205
>transrelational gender modes
What did he mean by this?

File: Prophetic.png (293KB, 1096x357px) Image search: [Google]

293KB, 1096x357px

>this used to be a joke

Woolf is shit. Kill yourself.

If you haven't read Proust in French you can't understand what good prose is

File: 220px-TropicOfCancer.jpg (26KB, 220x289px) Image search: [Google]

26KB, 220x289px

>>9408150
>hasn't read Woolf

>>9408143
Good taste. I have a hard time getting started on her books but when I finally do, it's very rewarding

>pic related
Once I thought that to be human was the highest aim a man could have, but I
see now that it was meant to destroy me. To-day I am proud to say that I am
inhuman, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing
to do with creeds and principles. I have nothing to do with the creaking
machinery of humanity -- I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow
and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples. I can see about me all
those cracked forbears of mine dancing around the bed, consoling me, egging
me on, lashing me with their serpent tongues, grinning and leering at me with
their skulking skulls. I am inhuman! I say it with a mad, hallucinated
grin, and I will keep on saying it though it rains crocodiles. Behind my
words are all those grinning, leering, skulking skulls, some dead and
grinning a long time, some grinning as if they had lock-jaw, some grinning
with the grimace of a grin, the foretaste and aftermath of what is always
going on. Clearer man all I see my own grinning skull, see the skeleton
dancing in the wind, serpents issuing from the rotted tongue and the bloated
pages of ecstasy slimed with excrement. And I join my slime, my excrement, my
madness, my ecstasy to the great circuit which flows through the subterranean
vaults of the flesh. All this unbidden, unwanted, drunken vomit will flow on
endlessly through the minds of those ho come in the inexhaustible vessel that
contains the history of the race. Side by side with the human race there runs
another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by
unknown impulses, take the listless mass of humanity and by the fever and
ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the
bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and the inert
slag they breed a song that contaminates. I see this other race of
individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their
feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always
clutching and grasping for the beyond, for the god out of reach: slaying
everything within reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their
vitals. I see that when they tear hair with the effort to comprehend, to
seize this, forever unattainable, I see that when they bellow like crazed
beasts and rip and gore, I see that this is right, that there is no other
path to pursue. A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high
place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails. It is right and
just, because he must! And anything that falls short of this frightening
spectacle, anything less shuddering, less terrifying, less mad, less
intoxicated, less contaminating, is not art. The rest is counterfeit. The
rest is human. The rest belongs to life and lifelessness.

IJ.

why bother reading someone who couldn't even live with himself. the only sincere moment in the life of David Foster wallace was when he kicked away the chair. the rest of his life was a lie, the new sincerity was a joke whose punchline was the creaking of a leather belt around the rafter.his literary career was a menagerie of self help lies told to keep his depression at bay. the audience pussy and drugs were the ghosts at that feast of hypocrisy. the depression was warranted because behind all the gimmicks and the self awareness and the bandannas was no discernible talent

>>9407040
this should be in the sticky

Mark Fisher is very good. You can read his stuff on k-punk.org and if you like it then get Ghosts of My Life and Capitalist Realism (if you're a lefty, it's required reading).

>>9406449
Land made a post about The Weird and the Eerie, apparently Fisher's final work, on one of his blogs, and it seemed pretty interesting. Ever read that one?

Plant is probably a bit too feminist for /Lit/'s "enlightened" tastes...

File: Nintendo-Hard by byron seventh.jpg (631KB, 2400x3000px) Image search: [Google]

631KB, 2400x3000px

Okay, so I have multiple pages done with their drawings. I don't have all the poems with drawings yet.

Here's my first non-jpeg poem...

“Epitaph” by byron seventh
(Picture of a tombstone with John and Jane Doe engraved, and laid next to each other)

I just found out, yet another great one's been dearly departed
I don't ask God “why?” because I know how it's started

we're thrown into this world
on a throne or ragged robes

I know others that I'd prefer gone
but, that's not for me to judge, I suppose

I wish death onto no one
but, justice onto those too wicked few

a grown child's innocence lost
once there's blatant blame askew

wrinkling in lines that are drawn and drew
even if it seems temporary
make whatever wrong turns turned right and true

we turn to wormfood, then ashes once laid in cemeteries

it's on your conscience, for now, not mine or the customary
life's too short, keep it simple,
as I write in solitary

…I am doing my best
it's learned, humbling honor and what's fucking necessary

Damn.

File: A Rose by Any Other Name by byron seventh.jpg (1MB, 2400x3000px) Image search: [Google]

1MB, 2400x3000px

'Begotten Ashes” by byron seventh (picture of an ashtray)

ordinary, every day life
taken a south turn

like the guarantee of birds flocking
in the fall, n in the spring return

it's not “what” that matters
it's “how”, which does

smothering, smithereens into ashes
into the phoenix, as she was

though there is no exact return
from prior “glory”

there is always the here and now
or, so goes the story

File: Blank Journal by byron seventh.jpg (1MB, 2400x3000px) Image search: [Google]

1MB, 2400x3000px

“Red Curtains” by byron seventh

“HA Ha ha.”
we laugh
roaring sounds
echoed, faded,
and last

*Curtains close,
second time,
show's over*

at last!

I struck “big”
“what now?,”
I ask

How did you not see it all along, fool?
Those people with soft compliments
were strongest, n coolest of cools

The haters hate,
but don't always turn a blind eye

the saviors have grace,
they're the ones who care for you and I

don't listen to their “logic,”
if they're stuck in old ways

you must be strategic
keep it simple, stay AND stray

I've learned from others' mistakes
as much as my own

we are one,
searching glory separate,
when it should be together
we grow

curtain opens again
another night
who will the humble mic hold?

This invitation is open
they're out there
as great as we may be bold

stand up

File: police-reaction-face.jpg (27KB, 323x323px) Image search: [Google]

27KB, 323x323px

>The Trail - Kafka
>never get to hear the verdict

>song of solomon
>it's a book

>>9405159
>Ulysses
>no one named Ulysses

>>9404747
From my diary desu:

With the last gasp of Romanticism, the quelling of its florid uprising against the vapid formalism of one strain of the Enlightenment, the dimming of its yearning for the imagined grandeur of the archaic, and the dashing of its too sanguine hopes for a revitalized, fulfilled humanity, the horror of its more lasting, more Gothic legacy has settled in, distributed and diffused enough, to be sure, that lugubriousness is recognizable only as languor, or as a certain sardonic laconicism disguising itself in a new sanctification of the destructive instincts, a new genius for displacing cultural reifications in the interminable shell game of the analysis of the human psyche, where nothing remains sacred.

>>9404751
me likey :^)

https://pastebin.com/2cUJM9uj