Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 4324. page

Our Town was my favourite I think.

We read L'Étranger in my French class which was cool beans.

>>7709908

Crime and Punishment
introduced me to a favorite author and started my love for Russian lit

>>7709908
The Wheelbarrow by pirandello

Listened in a sleepy hour of lesson more than 10 year ago and never forgotten

That's a bit reductionist senpai

If you guys don't want to go to the link I can try to post the excerpt in multiple comments.

Wren stared at the prostrate body of the man on the gurney. A new pair of wings jutted from his back, feathers matted with blood. Two huge gashes crawled up from where they'd emerged and over his shoulders. His face was covered with a sheet to protect it from the sun, and beneath it he barely moved.

The crowd parted as the winged guardsmen carried him past. The women whispered to each other in words too low for Wren to hear. They jumped out of the way as the gurney got close, as if the wings were contagious. Wren shuddered and backed up a few paces. She knew she wouldn't catch it, but the sight of the blood made her stomach turn.

They passed through a few more tents and out of view. Wren went back to her usual wanderings, trying not to think about it. She'd never seen anyone fledge before, not for real. She'd heard whispers from the women in the caravan, or stories from her friend Armand, who told her about everything that went on in the guard. Seeing it was another thing entirely. Like seeing a dead body ready for burial.

The women stopped their chattering and dispersed, and Wren blended in with them until she was out of sight. This place made her feel like an ant tossed into a sugar bowl, out of place and unwanted. Ten thousand people called the caravan home, and the desert of Terres stretched on for so many miles around them that most people had never been anywhere else.

She tried not to make eye contact with anyone as she walked back to her family's tent. She didn't have friends here save for one, and she liked it that way. She'd tried, at first, to find other companions. But it was invariable in a place like this, where they wandered and stopped for no more than a month at a time, that everyone would eventually leave.

Of course, some stayed. Families who ran the markets--like her parents did--could make a living off the caravan, if they were prudent. Most weren't. Most budgeted poorly, had their stocks dry up, lost all their customers, then left themselves. It was to be expected in a place that attracted people who couldn't find a place anywhere else. She couldn't take that risk. She'd only kept the one friend around because he was a guardsmen and therefore could not leave.

She eventually picked her way to her family's tent with minimal conversation past a required 'Hi' here or there to one of her mother's regulars. The tents were pitched like patchwork, laid out with no particular rhyme or reason, with an occasional traveling wagon interspersed in between. It made it easy to avoid contact when she wanted to.

No one was home, which made Wren glad. They'd be busy at the marketplace, or packing their wares to leave at the end of the week. There was nothing she wanted more than to be alone, after the previous night's conversation with her mother. It seemed to be happening more and more often, talk of marriage, and it made Wren's skin crawl.

She ducked inside and breathed in the smell of old leather and dry air. It was comforting, like home, even though this place wasn't home. This place was the farthest thing there was from home. She pitied the man on the gurney, who was probably a long way from wherever he came from and probably just as scared as she was, when she'd arrived.

For the third time that week, tears welled in Wren's eyes. In four years it hadn't gotten better. Her heart still called back to the tiny village she once called home, a home she could never go back to. She longed to see the vast flats of nothing, ready to be chipped away and made into salt. She would do anything to smell the drying furnaces where they laid it out in racks, or to dip her hands in their one water pump.

But never again. That was gone now. She'd never get it back. Wren wiped her eyes and pulled a torn cloak off the shelf, then picked up a sewing needle. There was no point in dwelling over things you couldn't change.

Shit book, bad prose, boring plot into le dystopian garbage pile it goes. Sage.

Students do this shit because college is such a fucking joke nowadays, it's purely focused on idiotic performance metrics that cannot truly capture excellence.

When you create a game that tells its players "get your score as high as possible!", you can't be mad at players for doing that. And that is what college has become, a center for 'job training', getting your stupid piece of paper then going into the labor force to become a drone with your great liberal education.

it's really sad, if you give even a little bit of a fuck in undergrad you are better than 99% of people there. I had professors offer me TA positions out of the blue just for actually talking about things that weren't regurgitated from the class readings.

>>7709800
Read "Industrial Society and Its Future" if you want something better on a similar topic.

>>7709738
From what I can tell Langan's ideas mirror Boehme's, sans Schizophrenia. He's almost as neat as his head is big. Big ol' head guy, him

>>7709720
You can teach yourself, yes. None of the things you'd learn in a writing class or workshop are that valuable or irreplaceable.

Just know how to do the structure and don't sperg like saramago
You'll be fine

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Write every day. Every damn day. For years.

In The Park by Gwen Harwood


She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.
Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.
A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt
Someone she loved once passed by – too late

to feign indifference to that casual nod.
“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”
From his neat head unquestionably rises
a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing
the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet
to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive,”
she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing
the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.
To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

And The Days Are Not Full Enough by Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

>>7709756

Things ain't coming fast enough
There is no hood that's hard enough
I can't fold I need gold
product must be sold to yo!

Why don't you ask her?

>>7709636
I don't want to sound like a total pleb. What's the patrician opinion?

Onetti is boss.

Nothing to do with him except being south-american, but Barren Lives is p. good

>>7709506
haven't read it yet but The Bridge of San Luis Rey is like a hundred pages

Hemingway and Kafka wrote short books too

Breakfast at Tiffany's

>>7709490
Not really. It's like "Ok, and?"

Words per period would be more interesting.

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>>7709518
If you read the linked post it has words per sentence as well. I guess I'll just spam all the images 'cause people are probably not gonna check the link.

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Piotr Bukowski music https://xenony.bandcamp.com/

>make up some mystic mumbo jumbo
>use it to sell shitty antiques to white people
>they take it seriously

laughingasians.jpg

>>7709470

> Tao Te Ching
> Mystic

It's basically eastern stoicism, senpai

>he's not zen
gigglingfishes.jpg
>>7709470
that's the mohists, no?

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>brings Rimbaud to sit in
>more than halfway through
>he's doing it cover to cover
>yfw

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bump

i remember one of them being something like ancient: man vs god, modern: man vs society, postmodern: man vs reality

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>>7709289
It's on my next-reading list, but... is it really worth a read, or is it just schizophrenic copypasta?

>>7709289
Yes it's a borges object manifest.

>>7709324
Well the trick the second time through is to open it to a random page

I am schizophrenic