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Are there any books that take a real academic attempt and studying and deconstructing humour. Can be modern or old
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No, none
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I'm also interested in this, bump
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nice try jorge
Aside from his two colleagues, who are some authors and what is some fiction similiar to pic.
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Jean Ray
Fritz Leiber
Algernon Blackwood
Ben Okri
More modern ones:
Laird Barron, Thomas Ligotti, Clive Barker
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>>8486025
All terrible
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>>8486123
you're terrible
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Do any of you adhere to strict daily routines to aid you in your productivity as a reader and a writer?
If so, what does your routine look like?
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Usually I WAKE UP
GRAB A BRUSH AND PUT ON A LITTLE MAKE-UP
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>>8485922
Medition, study, gym, reading, sex with qt gf. Oh and LOTS of food
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>>8485945
HIDE THE SCARS TO FADE AWAY THE SHAKE-UP
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How many hours per day do you spend in the library /lit/?
Me? At least six. Since quitting my full-time office job in the city I have slept in my car, showered at a local swimming pool and spent the majority of my day reading and writing at a local library. It's a fantastic life, I don't know why I didn't live this way sooner. Almost all of my focus and mental energy is now dedicated solely to the consumption and production of literature. I pay no rent or utilities. I buy cheap food and eat it where I can. Sometimes I attend a local soup kitchen, and on the weekends I attend a local market where free samples are so abundant that I easily gather enough food for at least two days of eating. I charge my laptop all day at the library and spend the evenings cozy and warm in my car using any nearby wifi available. I've modified my car so that the back seat and trunk now form an insulated bed and storage area. I had $35k in savings when I started living this way, and after five months I have only spent around $500. You wouldn't believe how relaxing it is to wake up and stroll down to the swimming pool, sometimes taking a swim but usually just showering and then strolling again down to the soup kitchen or straight to the library. Seeing the commuter traffic and the people rushing around to their positions of voluntary servitude makes me so sad. I often think about the fact that I too would be one of them had I not transcended the malicious and sadistic (not to mention masochistic) cultural ideology which pressures a person into sacrificing the majority of their life and contentment for the sake of some role that usually could be fulfilled within a few hours but usually lasts at least eight hours simply because of the stubborn and narrow-minded nature of those who inflict cultural ideology on the rest of the population.
Has anyone else here ever lived like this?
Truly it's a god-tier lifestyle. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
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You're living the dream man. I don't have 35k in savings or a car so I have to slave away 2-3 days per week
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>>8485905
You sound like a loser desu. Go get a job.
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You know if have 35k in savings and a car, you're not really homeless. Try the real thing some time! I bet that swimming pool requires either a membership or you have to pay a daily fee.
Food is usually easy to obtain. It's when you don't have a place to sleep and when you're completely unable to shower or wash your clothes is when things start getting really fucked up.
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>In Paris if an intellectual coughs it makes the front cover of Le Monde.
What did he mean by this?
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>>8485903
He meant:
>please pay attention to my autistic anglo-kike analytic trash like you do to the charismatic cool kids who actually have something to say that relates to people's lives
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French culture has been and still is a masturbatory insular fest that freely ignores what's going on in the rest of the world. They rarely 'export culture' and they don't 'import culture'. Thus, there's little news to report since it's not a big nation, so every fart has to be published.
Chloé Thomas is on the front page of Le Monde today, ever heard of her?
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>>8485936
>they don't import or export culture
But that's not true at all. Don't forget at the the turn of the 20th century Paris was the biggest cultural center in the world, and French had been a lingua franca in the whole of europe ever since Napoleon. French intellectuals and artists have had a huge influnce on the humanities and the arts.
>Voltaire
>Bougereau
>Duchamp
>Ionesco
>Proust
>Durkheim
>Derrida
>Camus
>Sartre
Then when the attention shifted to america, they drew inspiration from them and developed distinctive styles in the new mediums that appeared around them, notably Cinema and the Graphic Novel, which they became a master of. France is the biggest importator of Anime and Manga, and Franco-Belgian comics are in turn known throughout the french speaking world beyond. Here in french canada at least, stuff like Asterix, The Smurfs, Spirou, Tintin are huge. They also have huge Electronic and Hip Hop scenes. French Electro was one of the major influences in dance music worldwide from like 2004 to 2012. The influence of people like Daft Punk, Justice and Mr.Oizo on major names in american music like Skrillex, Wolfgang Gartner, Boys Noize etc. is huge.
Chomsky is poking fun at the self important attittude of french people, which is a thing, but to deny that france has been one of the centers of culture throughout the renaissance, enlightenment and modern era, or that they've been deaf to what's going on around them, is contrarian bullshit.
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I've got an audible credit coming up soon. Should I spend it on this, or would something else be more worthwhile?
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How fast does Simon Vance read and what sort of accent does he have?
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>>8486919
>and what sort of accent does he have?
Whatever it is, it can't possibly match Northampton Wizardly Rumble.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YAuhLDUnC0
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>His empathy for his characters took a dangerous turn when he wrote the chapter based on Lucia Joyce (daughter of James Joyce), who died in a mental institution in Northampton, which is written in a complex invented language. Moore had to take over a year off from working on the book when he finished this section… Yet “the torturous mind-bending part of it was actually the part that I enjoyed the most. It took me almost two years to recuperate from it. But it was ecstatic and probably the most enjoyable thing I’ve ever written.”
Hello, I have an English assignment due tomorrow morning.
The Question is "write a narrative within which the main character experiences an awakening or realization".
Here is my story. What should I change?
Who would have thought a sugar cube has all the answers?
As it touches my tongue, I feel it corrode, its kindliness sweetness tantalising my mouth as the sucrose overpowers the flavour of the lysergic acid diethylamide imbedded within its grains.
Now we wait.
My mirror on my wall paints a picture of me. Six hours until I’m thirty six, what have I accomplished? A lone silver hair plunges from beneath my fingertips, landing upon my shoulder, speckled with crystals of dandruff. I hate my eyes, even in this light they’re a dull, decaying singed brown. What have I accomplished? It’s nearly my birthday and I’m alone, resorting to a brief diversion to materiality, the fruitfulness of my life. The antiquated time piece upon my mantle seems to be faster than usual. Its hands pulsating, its heart creeping further towards its death with each beat. Such a comical contrast that it’s situated next to a photo of us within the valentines frame you presented to me. You with your foul strawberry hair at the perfect length, your corrupt sapphire eyes, and your malevolent smile tearing us apart because of my innocent mistakes.
The time piece ticks once more, its hour hand twisting, bending, growing and condensing. Five hours until I’m thirty six. My room itself seems grimy, tea cups spotted with camomile pods are stacked upon the floor, the hinges upon my door feeble and rusted arching the door ever so much closer to me, and my ceiling with its cracks within the plaster are some memoir, a tattoo of decades of disregard.
Three hours until I’m thirty six. My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all. I am here. I am alone. Nothing but dust moulded to be biotic. I am surrounded by dust filling our lives with the expectation for us to die, leaving behind but a trace, a memory ingrained into the minds of my descendants, until my second death when somebody says my name for the last time.
How grim. Tears fall down my cheek, dancing in slow motion as they slip away and decay upon the touch of the floor. My floor itself is alive, the hairs of the carpet are worms, breathing and intertwining themselves with each other. My carpet once was orange, but now it is yellow or peach, or marmalade. It is every shade, alternating spectacularly and coinciding with each press of the metronomic time piece upon my mantle. I am alone. Why am I alone? Am I alone always? Is everyone alone? Why am I alone?
(continued)
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Fuck I am sorry, that was the unedited first part
Who would have thought a sugar cube has all the answers?
As it touches my tongue, I feel it corrode, its sweetness tantalising my mouth as the sucrose overpowers the flavour of the lysergic acid diethylamide imbedded within its grains.
Now we wait.
My mirror on my wall reflects a picture of me. Six hours until I’m thirty six, what have I accomplished? Dragging my fingertips through my hairline, I see silver hair beginning to replace what was once blonde, time is catching up to me.. I hate my eyes, even in this light they’re dull, decaying. Singed brown. What have I accomplished? It’s nearly my birthday and I’m alone, resorting to a brief diversion to materiality, the fruitfulness of my life. The antiquated time piece upon my mantle seems to be faster than usual. Its hands pulsating, its heart creeping further towards my death with each beat. Such a comical contrast that it’s situated next to a photo of us within the Valentine’s frame you gave to me all those years ago. You with your repulsive strawberry hair at the perfect length, your corrupt sapphire eyes, and your malevolent smile tearing us apart because of my innocent mistakes.
You disgust me. You’re just like the rest of the people on this decrepit planet. All you do is destroy. You’re the reason I’m alone tonight. You don’t care about me. You’re the same as everyone else. I’ve done nothing to deserve this
The time piece ticks once more, its hour hand twisting, bending, growing and condensing. Five hours until I’m thirty six. My room itself seems grimy, tea cups spotted with camomile pods are stacked upon the floor, the hinges upon my door, feeble and rusted, are arching the door ever closer to me, and my ceiling with its cracks is a memoir, a tattoo of decades of disregard.
Three hours until I’m thirty six. My room is there. That’s funny. No, my room is there. My head is here. How peculiar. Why, it does not seem to be here after all. My thoughts shouldn’t make sense. But the LSD arranges them perfectly.
I am here. I am alone. Nothing but dust moulded to be biotic. I am surrounded by dust, a system filling our lives with the expectation for us to die, leaving behind but a trace, a memory ingrained into the minds of my descendants, until my second death when somebody says my name for the last time. I will die leaving no trace upon this Earth. How grim. Tears fall down my cheek, weaving in slow motion as they slip away and decay upon the touch of the floor. My floor itself is alive, the hairs of the carpet are worms, breathing and intertwining themselves with each other. My carpet once was orange, but now it is yellow or peach, or marmalade. It is every shade, alternating spectacularly and coinciding with each press of the metronomic time piece upon my mantle. I am alone. Why am I alone? Am I alone always? Is everyone alone?
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>>8485790
Eleven o’clock, eleven or ten, eleven or ten. The hand can’t decide, it’s moving between them. No. It is eleven. It was ten last time. When was last time?
The hairs on my arm are waving, an ebony forest rustling in the wind. Why are they not alchemising into silver, like those that rest upon my crown. This voice I hear. Why do I hear a voice? Am I compos mentis? Are you my conscious?
No, I am the answer.
Who are you?
Who am I?
Yes, who are you? What are you?
You know who I am.
Help me. Why am I nothing?
But you are nothing. You’re atoms on some rock within nothing.
Did you create me? Are you God?
You are nothing, a speck within the universe.
God, why am I alone?
You are alone because of you.
Why me?
Look upon the picture on the mantle, what do you see?
A whore and I.
What do you want to see when you look upon the picture?
Her and I.
Why is this not so?
Because of me.
I open my eyes, greeted with a multitude of colour, spiralling and uncoiling itself within my wall. The wall breathes in, draining the possessions of my room into it, reversing and reverting upside down, the clock upon the shelf is horizontal and diagonal and vertical and it’s trading places with the mantle. The mantle is contorting too much to make out the face of the clock, whose hands have now distorted into a blurred mess, with a tracer dragging itself behind the hands, giving me déjà vu over and over again as it repeats itself indefinitely.
Everything’s okay.
Is that the sunlight floating on a river through the window? Is it that early?
The mirror upon my wall is shimmering, with slight ripples still upon its surface, but nothing like the tidal wave from the past hours. I can clearly see the definition on my face. My eyes are beautiful. I love my eyes, they’re a brilliant hazelnut with a tincture of vermillion and their shape is jovial. The framed photo of her and I upon the mantel makes me smile, a snapshot of achievement’s, proof I am worth being loved. I will write a letter to her, she will see I’ve revised myself. The time piece beside the frame beats once more, counting down to the start of an alluring auspicious new day. I am thirty six years old.
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Do you even know what some of the words you're using mean or did you just flip through a thesaurus? A lot of the phrases you wrote sound awkward as fuck.
Why start with the Greeks for philosophy?
Literally nothing matters before Descartes and Hume. Of course sometimes a classical Greek philosopher is mentioned, but it's not necessary to have read them to understand the argument made.
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>>8485697
Modern philosophy sucks and classical philosophy is good.
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>>8485707
>modern philosophy
>sucks
>literally from Spinoza to Wittgenstein
wew lad
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>>8485697
Socrates was a fun man to read about though
How do I into mysticism? What are some good introductory works?
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I've been reading The Secret Teachings of All Ages by Manly Hall. It's long and feels a little disorganised when you're reading on a Kindle, but it makes some fantastic connections and goes into detail about almost everything. Give it a shot, but I don't know what to suggest to you if it's too heavy.
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>>8485695
Which mysticism do you want to be introduced to?
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>>8485720
this, that's a really vague and broad subject
>library has late fees
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>an amazingly altruistic system that could never develop again on account of a content producing system suing it into oblivion, a system that gives and gives and gives and occasionally wants you to chip in a little bit when you abuse the system
>what an outrage
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>>8485698
I was only pretending to be retarded
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>>8485698
You already chip in a little by paying taxes.
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Is having bi-polar disorder /lit/?
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i work with a guy who has it and i can tell you it's definitely not
a treated bi-polar person is very far from being "/lit/"
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>>8485803
what about an untreated person who uses it to distinguish their writing?
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>>8485959
If all you have to distinguish your writing is a mental disorder, choose a different field.
What is some literature that resembles the scene in Spongebob where Squidward transcends time and reality and dissolves into a non existence
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Part 4 of Gravity's Rainbow
Fuck, now I'm interested in this as well, someone gibe recs
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>>8485575
>>8485571
>books
you need drugs
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holy shit i need this
Anonymous
Yugoslav literary canon 2016-09-08 06:58:56 Post No.8485569
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I speak Serbian (diaspora), but am ashamed to admit that I've never read anything by a Serb/Croat/etc. What do you guys consider the serbocroatian literary canon? I have honestly never heard of anyone but Andric. What are your recommendations?
pic related, my mom's face when she realized she raised the world's worst Serb
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>>8485569
Hazarski rečnik, senpai
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>serbocroatian
Fuck off with this meme
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Regarding the "Croatian" part, Matoš, Ujević, Krleža and Marinković are probably the best known, so read those.
Any books I can read to further support my hatred towards people? Anti-humanist book thread
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The Conspiracy against the Human Race
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who /posthuman/ here
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De Maistre
Name one single atheist writer who didn't end up embracing at least a grudging, tentative theism before he died.you can't
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me
because i'm killing myself tomorrow
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CS Lewis
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>>8485534
the accusations of a death bed confession is an embarassment to christianity, showing it's real, base nature