Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 4398. page

>>7676918
>>7676918
Cuz they're gay. Next question.

>>7677118
Why is Jonathan Franzen so goofy looking?

>>7677118
Why does coffee make me have to shit? I thought it was a diuretic, not a laxative.

start with the greeks

Demian
Narcissus & Goldmund

>actual homosexuality
You were good up until that point anon. There is no "actual" anything on that matter in that sense you are looking for, the very term "homosexuality" can be argued not to be a thing in certain contexts, just because it's older doesn't mean it is "more true". What we have today IS actual homosexuality, just as much as any other forms in which it has developped throughout the world. Each civilization had its own way to deal with sexual behaviour, taboos and norms, ideals of gender, ideals of marriage and what constitutes a home or a family, way to handle jealousy and so on. In some places, even to this day, passive homossexuals are thought as gay, but active ones are not. In some places lesbians were accepted, but gay men not. In some places, it was fine to be a homossexual, but not marriage material. There is wide scope of things to be said on the matter and I certainly don't understand your way to approach this on "positive and negative sides", on what grounds would that even begin.

People said it was good but flawed, didn't sound like shilling to me

Kinda felt like making a thread about it yesterday. Read it about like three years ago and it was decent, bordering on the good. Bunch of pretty good ideas and esthetics choices that I'd like to see in other books, interesting writing style that you may enjoy or not (ask yourself, would you like a less messy version of Blake Butler?) - burdened by a fairly meandering plot and some general aimlessness. Overall, I'd rec it. If I can find the book I can post the first minichapter, it's like four pages.

>>7676874
Scratch that, it's who th fuck knows where and I don't feel like looking for it. Pretty sure you can find a sample on VICE, in that article Butler wrote about the book.

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>>7676828

>>7676838
nigger what?

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>>7676838
the memes are out of control these days.

>inb4 the shitstorm, the language of this book is impeccable, sustaining and increasingly resonating throughout the whole novel.

human nature

>>7676773
>Are there any novels that confirm my world view that aren't too difficult to read XD.
>>7676785
Nice spook faggot.

it's bad becuz da state takes away muh guns and muh freedums

>>7676732
I can think of at least two things wrong with that title.

shit, desu

The quirky adventures of le edgy beat gayman

>>7676639
IN MEMORY OF W. B. YEATS

by W.H Auden

I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly
accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II
You were silly like us: your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its saying where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

>>7676639
>translation

Shelley's Adonais is GOAT

Other good ones:

On Shakespeare. 1630
BY JOHN MILTON
What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The labor of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

Keats
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep;
The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told!
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep;
It is midsummer, but the air is cold;
Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold
A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep.
Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white,
On which I read: "Here lieth one whose name
Was writ in water." And was this the meed
Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write:
"The smoking flax before it burst to flame
Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed."

It's shit.
Now give me a few minutes to read it

>You need permission

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>link sharing is ON
gg, Google

The aged man's cherry face hid behind a thick balaclava, with only tired eyes being visible, peering over a wintery field.

Daylight was still breaking out; warm rays piercing snow and foliage in the large pines. The long, inky fingers of night were being batted away by shafts from the Sun. The cold air snuck into the crevices of the man camouflaged garb, leaving a familiar ache in his bones. To his side was his faithful shotgun, received as a gift, and from a time before his prime. Resting besides the man's fragile frame was also a sack with the name "HARV" crudely embroidered across its front, containing a filled canteen, compass, rations for the day, binoculars, additional slugs for the firearm, and a Kansas Deer Tag. Today was the last day of the hunt. The final day of the legal hunt, at least. The man had not been known to partake in the hunt of days and game restricted by the law, and he would make no exception after today.

The carefully observed field had a calming stillness. Trees lay bare, alongside scattered potentially alarming crisped leaves. The coarse wind aided the biting cold air in making the man as miserable as possible. The man was wrapped in a large dark green coat on top of overalls and thick wool sweats before that. He peered into the emerging sunrise for tracks and evidence of local prey. He panned his view across the field, in hopes to find any movement. The thick layers of cloth only helped so much in stopping the restless quakings from the rigid cold.

bump 2

>>7676463
i understand all his predecessors, contemporaries and followers but not him eh

I feel about the same way as I do about Yeats. Some really gorgeous poems, some which get bogged down in his particular conception of what poetry should be (return to the things themselves yadda yadda)

>translation
>of Middle English

Lad didn't your edition come with a glossary?

>>7676397
Read Riverside's Chaucer.

Thank me later.

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My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me,
you dirty little girl,
and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter.

I am delighted to see that you
do like being fucked arseways. Yes,
now I can remember that night when I fucked you
for so long backwards.

It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling.
My prick was stuck in you for hours,
fucking in and out under your upturned rump.
I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly
and saw your flushed face and mad eyes.

At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue
came bursting out through your lips and if
I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual,
fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside.

You had an arse full of farts that night, darling,
and I fucked them out of you,
big fat fellows,
long windy ones,
quick little merry cracks
and a lot of tiny little naughty farties
ending in a long gush from your hole.

It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman
when every fuck drives one out of her.
I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere.
I think I could pick hers out
in a roomful of farting women.

It is a rather girlish noise
not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have.
It is sudden and dry and dirty
like what a bold girl would let off in fun
in a school dormitory at night.

I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts
in my face so that I may know their smell also.

Love looks not with the eyes... (William Shakespeare)

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>>7676352
the ecstasy by donne is the single greatest love poem ever written and if you disagree with me you're blatantly incorrect

Just be born rich and have your parents pay for everything haha

>>7676326
Boo hoo I own a house and have a stable job boo hoo wahhh

I'm 19 years old.

I am handsome, smart, athletic and virile.

I have a novel that is in it's final editing stage, and a creative writing professor at my college has read the first draft and thinks it's saleable.

I have a girlfriend who is confident, articulate, playful and spontaneous.

I have a small group of interesting friends from different social and academic backgrounds, and I also have many other acquaintances who see me as a reliable source of humour and good company.

Both my parents are alive and in good health.

I have no regrets.

I have already experienced three existential crises, the latter of which was described as having the depth and profundity of a man twice my age.

I am a passionate lover, a sharp thinker, and a trader of witty repartee.

I am not self-pitying, meek or needlessly humble.

I will live a good life at your expense.

>>7676300
American Psycho.

bernays propaganda

>>7676300
>advertising executive
>the best way he can think of to relay his message is an image of his face with too much white text without a border that would make it readable

I'm confident that this man has never sold me anything

> i am cum

>>7676480

90's Nick Land:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXd20B2Oj5U

>>7676670

RHODESIA

>>7676222
sonnet 20!

Der Erlkönig

>>7676222
Hard to pick favorites, but here are 3 I like. I'm not including any long ones since you probably prefer to analyze shorter poems. These are relatively easy poems to analyze too.

The Journey of the Magi - Eliot
Birches - Frost
My Last Duchess - Browning