Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 2494. page

>>8738253
lbh Italy probably

English has Shakespeare and Milton. As much as I like Hölderlin, English wins.

If we're not limited to those three, it's Greek

>>8738253
Obviously Britain.

I mean obviously Israel wins if we're not stuck with these three fucks, but Britain is actually decent in its own right.

Don't learn a meme language like Latin or Greek, certainly not if you're a monolingual English speaker. They're too limited in scope because few speakers and too difficult. Learn a living breathing language that can be used not just for reading but travelling and communicating with people.

Really French, Spanish and German are the best because they have the best cultural pedigree in literature, film, history and music. Also they can be useful for travelling because they're the official language of many nations and they're not too difficult for English speakers.

For a third language you can branch out and try something more obscure, but for a second language I would recommend keeping it practical.

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>>8738208
Esperanto. It has the best of everything.

>>8738260
Most ill-informed post for some time.

Latin is the best beginning to any lifetime of language learning anyone can have. Learn Latin and all other languages become easy; and you have then access to two millennia of literary and scientific masterpieces.

Latin is certainly easier than any modern foreign language. Greek is more difficult, however.

What else are you going to do with your life?

>>8738174
G A S S
I
A
N
T

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>>8738174
Grat authors cannot be fat.
Mens sana in corpore sano.

>>8738174
>who are the greatest plus size authors of all time
IF you had access to my webcam, you would witness him in real time.
But to be honest desu, I am much more than my fat body alone.

>>8738099
La vida del buscón Don Pablos is a fun read, but the old spanish is kinda hard to digest.

>>8738099
Potocki, The Manuscript Found in Zaragoza

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>>8738099

The Fault in Our Stars

Norwegian Wood

Looking for Alaska

>>8738054
wtf I hate jews now
jk i've always hated jews

>>8738054
MADE ME REDPILLED AS FUCK


PRAISE KEK

Shit.
For nazi stuff read Saint-Loup.

That is true patrician taste.

>implying i even went to college

>>8738046
yes

>>8738086
substantially so? i'm in uni at the moment and i've done jack shit for 3 years

I don't think changing our accents was a conscious decision.

>>8738062
?
I'm talking about how it was written relative to the accents of the time.

>>8738097
>how it was written relative to the accents of the time.
No dictionaries, spelling was fluid. Pedantry wasn't invented yet. Suck a dick.

>English
>poets

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>What can people get from reading that they can't from movies or television?
>I would say not less than everything. You can get a great deal of information, as such, from screens of one sort or another. You can dazzle yourself with images, if that is your desire. But how you are to grow in self-knowledge, become more introspective, discover the authentic treasures of insight and of compassion and of spiritual discernment and of a deep bond to other solitary individuals, how in fact can like call out to like without reading, I do not know. I suppose if I were to put it in almost a common denominator sort of way, I would say that you cannot even begin to heal the worst aspects of solitude, which are loneliness and potential madness, by visual experience of any kind, particularly the sort of mediated visual experience that you get off a screen of whatever sort. If you are to really encounter a human otherness which finds an answering chorus in yourself, which can become an answering chorus to your own sense of inward isolation, there truly is no authentic place to turn except to a book.

What the fuck is his fucking problem?

>>8738053
/thread

Dans la forêt

De quoi parlait le vent ? De quoi tremblaient les branches ?
Était-ce, en ce doux mois des nids et des pervenches,
Parce que les oiseaux couraient dans les glaïeuls,
Ou parce qu'elle et moi nous étions là tout seuls ?
Elle hésitait. Pourquoi ? Soleil, azur, rosées,
Aurore ! Nous tâchions d'aller, pleins de pensées,
Elle vers la campagne et moi vers la forêt.
Chacun de son côté tirait l'autre, et, discret,
Je la suivais d'abord, puis, à son tour docile,
Elle venait, ainsi qu'autrefois en Sicile
Faisaient Flore et Moschus, Théocrite et Lydé.
Comme elle ne m'avait jamais rien accordé,
Je riais, car le mieux c'est de tâcher de rire
Lorsqu'on veut prendre une âme et qu'on ne sait que dire ;
J'étais le plus heureux des hommes, je souffrais.
Que la mousse est épaisse au fond des antres frais !
Par instants un éclair jaillissait de notre âme ;
Elle balbutiait : Monsieur... et moi : Madame.
Et nous restions pensifs, muets, vaincus, vainqueurs,
Après cette clarté faite dans nos deux coeurs.
Une source disait des choses sous un saule ;
Je n'avais encor vu qu'un peu de son épaule,
Je ne sais plus comment et je ne sais plus où ;
Oh ! le profond printemps, comme cela rend fou !
L'audace des moineaux sous les feuilles obscures,
Les papillons, l'abeille en quête, les piqûres,
Les soupirs, ressemblaient à de vagues essais,
Et j'avais peur, sentant que je m'enhardissais.
Il est certain que c'est une action étrange
D'errer dans l'ombre au point de cesser d'être un ange,
Et que l'herbe était douce, et qu'il est fabuleux
D'oser presser le bras d'une femme aux yeux bleus.
Nous nous sentions glisser vaguement sur la pente
De l'idylle où l'amour traître et divin serpente,
Et qui mène, à travers on ne sait quel jardin,
Souvent à l'enfer, mais en passant par l'éden.
Le printemps laisse faire, il permet, rien ne bouge.
Nous marchions, elle était rose, et devenait rouge,
Et je ne savais rien, tremblant de mon succès,
Sinon qu'elle pensait à ce que je pensais.
Pâle, je prononçais des noms, Béatrix, Dante ;
Sa guimpe s'entrouvrait, et ma prunelle ardente
Brillait, car l'amoureux contient un curieux.
Viens ! dis-je... - Et pourquoi pas, ô bois mystérieux ?

Victor Hugo

A un poète ignorant

Qu'on mène aux champs ce coquardeau,
Lequel gâte (quand il compose)
Raison, mesure, texte et glose,
Soit en ballade ou en rondeau.

Il n'a cervelle ne cerveau.
C'est pourquoi si haut crier j'ose :
" Qu'on mène aux champs ce coquardeau. "

S'il veut rien faire de nouveau,
Qu'il oeuvre hardiment en prose
(J'entends s'il en sait quelque chose) :
Car en rime ce n'est qu'un veau,
Qu'on mène aux champs.

Clément Marot

I prefer english poets, perhaps less beautiful but they remain more interesting due to their ideas.

My favorite would be
Dernier poemes d'amour par Paul Eluard

Too much genre fiction desu

>>8738017
Watched the first episode of this and it's amazing how it perfectly describes so many people on here.

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Heh.

>>8737927
East Asian

>>8737927
Please go to the identity politics sites

>>>/tumblr/
>>>/pol/

The answer is the female race.

>>8737897
The love for Zizek is half him being an honest, sensible guy a great deal of the time and half irony.

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>>8737905

Zizek is the only living philosopher.

>>8737862
meh

>>8737862
>leftist scum

into the trash

I haven't read it

Marlow and Webster if you want stuff similar to Shakespeare

>>8737847
Marlowe

>>8737847

Ibsen