Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 1779. page

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pls..

Try speaking and writing more.

>>9148068
Let people make fun of how bad you are with French.

HILLARY

>>9147731
Rebora would be better known if he didn't cuck himself into the Church

>>9148124
He's still great imo

>>9147687

The Greeks

>>9147687
>"richfag who never read before today, but somehow seeing how le drumpf is president I want to no longer be a brainlet" starter kit

Start with Kafka, then acquire TB and die in a cell like Princip

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You dumb nigger, what are you doing?

In my country, we trade homosexual scalps for books. I pay four homos a month.

>>9147670

It depends on the amount of books i want to buy each month, but more than 10€

i spent like $2000 on used books a couple of years ago and now i have pretty much everything i want
it's difficult to choose what to read, i kinda wish i would have just got one at a time but i'd prob end up with the same stuff anyway

Philip Quinlan, Philip T. Quinlan, Ben Dyson. 2008. Cognitive Psychology. Publisher-Pearson/Prentice Hall. ISBN 0131298100, 9780131298101

>>9147487
thanks, have you read it?

>>9147469
Cosmic Trigger, Prometheus Rising, all of RAW... No joke.

I'm a newfag, what does YA mean?

Would that make John "The Meme Machine" Green the first boss?

>>9147381
Yale Accepted / Yale Approved

he is green

He's the scientist

he's a cuck

You aren't reading it for plot. It's just postmodern gibberish. The book is mere aesthetics and that's it.

If you like junkies and depraved sex, read on. Otherwise, you'll be hard pressed to find any merit in Naked Lunch.

>>9147026
It's a fun read.
Reading Junky and Queer will help congeal the Burroughs-specific old 1950s heroin addict vocab into your brain jelly. Junky even has a glossary.

>>9147026
Just look up all the words and terms you don't know

>postmodern gibberish.
is wrong. it just uses rarefied slang.

he is green

he is green

he is green

Such an evocative way to end Ulysses

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>"And thus," spoke Zarathustra, 'comes the twilight of gay science, eccespecially for homos'

>>9146990
>"Thus ends the tale of The Old Man And The Sea"
Really, Ernest?

A Detective Story

When a person goes missing
You send search parties
You let rogue flashlights skim through dusted rock
And sink into an off balanced air of urgency
As you blast pictures
Quiet disappearance
Need speaker phones

So when I realised you were missing
-no, when you went missing
Under soft-mauled fog
I became my own search party
And I am the best detective

The lights you mistake for smiles
Are more like flashlights
I’m more of a huntress.
Than a socialite
More of magnifying glass that a party popper

I breed sniffer dogs
In between my lungs
And I have learnt how to dust a crime scene for fingerprints
When I pick up diaries -medication -knives
I find yours all over it

When you go missing
I am the search party

And when I went missing
From underneath, my very own skin
They did not send search parties
Because flashlights were ultimately of no use
They sent me to Black Rock for therapy sessions
And I am jealous of how close the dart gets to the sea

And I am sick of a therapist telling me everything I do is sortable
As though the only problem is that I have forgotten where I left my breath
As though all I need to do is catalogue an index
Of breathing techniques
I’m the world’s best detective
I know how to breathe
I am looking for the man who took my breath.

But I’m finally retiring
From detective life
And I will not write your epitaph should you ever be found
The sniffer dogs
That I cultivated from my dry bones
Are retiring
Because I am sick
Of their barking
And I am sick of looking for a father
That does not want to be found.

>>9146970
pink hair or blue hair that is the question

>>9146949

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words,
Remembers me of his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

>>9146949

“Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

>Context: Written by Rudyard Kipling when his son Jack went MIA on the Western Front

>>9146949

I wrote a poem, but it is in portuguese


O gosto de um ente amado
Jamais se faz desbotado
No paladar do ser que ama.
Para as mães de filhos mortos
Perpétua a dor se proclama,
Dias nascem todos tortos,
Um luto eterno as assombra
Como uma segunda sombra.
Carrasco estranho é a memória,
O eco e voz morta da história,
Pois tortura com doçura,
Com fantasmas de ternura:
Eviscerante elegia
Tem as mães por nostalgia.
No ato de arrumar o quarto
Do filho que já morreu
O útero sofre um infarto,
Como a regressão de um parto,
Digestão do eu que nasceu:
O vazio seus dentes crava
No ventre que o bebê chutava.
A mesma dor do amputado
No seio que foi sugado,
No dedo, que a mão quentinha
Apertava, miudinha,
No corpo que era envolvido
Pelo abraçar e ternura
Do filhote já crescido,
O mesmo agredir sem cura
(O vácuo em mais feroz forma,
Dor dos danos sem reforma
Que é gêmea dos mutilados)
Nas mães de filhos finados
Flui, como a toxina da áspide.
Em cada gota de sangue
Seu luto abriga uma lápide,
Nas veias mofa um frio mangue.
Medo incurável é o luto
Que torna o peito poluto;
A ausência é um frio querubim
Que se recusa a ter fim.
A cama na qual dormiu,
As roupas que vestiu,
A mesa na qual jantava,
As salas onde vagava,
Os cheiros, sons, as risadas:
Todos estão tatuados,
Com lembranças encharcados.
As mães ficam povoadas,
Na carne, sangue e tutano
Por seu bebê, seu bichano.
Mas seu quarto está vazio,
Ele jaz no lodo frio:
Não há como protegê-lo
Dos vermes que vão comê-lo.
No escuro ele dorme, só,
Não tem mais vida que o pó

what are you talking about?

>>9146852
>This book is nothing but a cheap knockoff of Faulkner

fixed

OP hasn't figured out that literature is theft.

context is important

It was the best of times :D, it was the worst of times :(, it was the age of wisdom 8), it was the age of foolishness :p, it was the epoch of belief :F, it was the epoch of incredulity :o, it was the season of Light o.o, it was the season of Darkness :X, it was the spring of hope :3, it was the winter of despair XD, we had everything before us :B, we had nothing before us :C, we were all going direct to Heaven ;), we were all going direct the other way :T – in short, the period was so far like the present period :\, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received p.p, for good :) or for evil :(, in the superlative degree of comparison only \o/.

>>9146817
You exaggerate'd

the King of All Media

We all Need someone we can Pinch off..

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Is it safe?