I'll start:
As he slipped the laxing cloak over his shoulders, the little pockets of heat in the gaps made his body warm. The colour-sweet tartan swore out sweat-patches and little puddles that dripped of melancholy dew. The grass padded his bare feet as he took strides to go outside, and the cultural soil held up his stance, muddying his soles. The conviction of fresh air shook the skinny man; he held up his cloak over his thorax to defend himself from this, as the pikeman holds up his leather and bolt-nutted shield to the blade. There, the man looked out on the green swells of land, that his thatched hut oversaw. There was a plodding valley, cut deep between two ground-waves, that harboured wisp frost as the man wiped his burning-cold nose in the stinging winter.
Going back in, there was little to think of, so minutes were sat looking at the lyre, the man's instrument of strings. The small glints and lights flighted on the pig-gut, those had hit the instrument from the vestal in the middle of the room. Incapsulated in stone, the hearth didn't spread, but sat gently droned behind the sitting man. The smoke-desert smelled of sweat and steam, and coughs were let out by a man, so rarely sweetened by the swinging nature of warmth. This cough shook the weak's ribs and bade him splutter on the ground. In the air were desires, to run, play and work words, but the first was the most forcible, only that he had numb feet, bound him to clodded ground of home.
Sleeping through morning, the man woke up to the white-noise and static of rain, stringing in strong groves over the Irish inlet. He leapt up when hearing a trundle over the beads and showers of the storm, and saw a band of neighbours, the sight of a few fields away. There was an old virgin, whose ropy face hung off her skull, and whose old lamb-features meant her whole face was full of curls and bumps. She was the only face and voice recognisable from the closest-lying homes, and he stepped over weeds and growing green to converse on walks and scouts and when they talked, he laughed and smiled laconically. Her elder character gave her liability to ramble in speech and country. When the man begged to sing for bread, he was given two loaves and miserably parcelled one out to himself the short way back home. He ate it fully, before he flew the blanket around himself.
The old lady had sailed on isles and ports immeasurable. The extent of the quiet and land which these east-islands held was described:
-In each island there is no life and no hill-side fort, nor pallisade: just plunders of rock and shattered earth-ruin.
>>7480538
The man sat and imagined. Shuffled sails bit the catch of the wind at last, as he tottered along each glaze on the sea, hitting the swollen vessel with foam and billow. The passing bubbles hiss with such great sanctity in temperance that the sea cries to see them absorbed. The waves too. Those waves that are there and seen, are really there. They only last a moment and then they're gone, only 1/4th remembered by the man who's seen them, and the rest unseen and unpurposed. Rough beaches of a dash of pebbles, and sweltered rocks come first, from there, there's a small piece of level ground until much of a hill. Heather and thorn, the plants to which massochistic children touch, swap here, and after that there are no more seen. The mountain after cannot be described. It is too big for detail. The only describing words are that it is green, it stands behind hazes in the summer, and it is like a god. The close ones are domineering, and the far ones are longing. They are to be explored. The man had the picture in his head, so vivid, that the hard sea air almost seemed to crack his greasy hair behind him.
The man snapped out with resolve and clear-mind, before living out the day again. He took some time, and walked to the small citadel in the county, and the last two hours of evening. The tracks there were fraying, and the tops of his feet were sprinkled with rustic mud. Once, they even sunk into one particular flapping hole, making a spurt of Irish grittle on his legs. The fresh cold was nippy, and frost crept behind the man. When he saw the town it was just a mass of wood, on a hilly slope. Smoke billowed from one house and another, and dotted people swarmed round their tiny nests, of wattle and dawb. There was a warm, tainting smell in the air, and the man waned forward, into the sea of sounds and small people with small livestock. The local brewery was a hive. There were 10 bearded, bawdy men all devoted to ale-cookery there, one he followed to the chieftan's court for the night's work.
>>7480539
Hollow floors and dusty space occupied in the hall of northern immaculation. There were no omissions and each beaded goblet lost itself in the face of each berserker. One man and the next, drunk with rigorous conviction and wrecking lust for a chaotic world to be comprehended in sedation. The hall was spacious and had lofty great pillars, carved out of the oak that grew on the foggy brooks around the city. The walls were bare and dowdy, and the only ornateship were in the rafters and beams of the high ceilings, where friezes of dragons and abstract whirls had been whittled away. The hall had been festooned with a warm, brown hue. The richness in the crisp skin of each feted hog or goat or hen were salted and paper-like, running with the juice of grease. Frivilous cheeses were passed round, blunt in taste. Men fought in droves, burying lists as they pounded each opponent or were pummelled thenselves. Women served, and bared bosom high and supple, and a fire pummelled an absolute swelter of heat around the room, along with the breath in each battler.
Our man burst forth tones, writhing from his belly. Though his weakling structure led others to believe he had the voice of a fowl, he sang with great bass sounds. As his voice swole up, his ribs shook through his pale, rubbery skin, and others around him opened their eyes or lifted their brows. Some notes were consequential, booming, between lulls of sound. Art moved everyone. Ancient as the hills, the songs had mindsets: the love ballad of heart-fluttered and late-night walks came first; next was the slow air of beauty, to the tune of small natural elements. The third was the war-song, heavily requested. A chanson about virtue, with hero honest, kind, unemmutable, who was handsome and muscle-packed. And the last, a god-praise to those who controlled all fates and much of everything else.
And when his voice weakly drafted off, the man stood up and walked away. He walked behind the burlers, eating and drinking, and one even lurched behind him to gently hit the man's leg. This act of painful kinship, stung the man's thigh in little ripples, while he still shuffled on. The room was densly hot, and as the man had endured glowing cheeks, embers to the touch, the cold out the door sent a powerful punch. The fresh cool meant all to the man, until his walk was out the citadel. After that, his stroll was becoming baltic, and the cold pulled up spots and pimples on the man's pale skin. The black was penetrated through by a shillelagh that touched for each beaten obstacle on the man's way home.
>>7480542
The sky cracks with the pale sunrise and it felt to the man like he had almost watched the plucking dew grow on the valleys and fens. The grass ran deep down through the crispen morning, brisk and clear. Sweet woods had been passed now, and the turns on the claggy road looked foreign and lush. However, each person has a home and a compunction to run to it, so the man kept plodding, donkey-like, until he found some similarity in the fields and woods he passed. Sometimes tree-trunks would have a slippery coat of frost on their dark, thin, being. This frost permeating on top of the sleek bark, in rings and spots, like a winter canker.
In the shadowy comforts below the hedgerows the dark warmth was sanctuary from the flanking, white cold. The frost stings, then your skin is doughy and numb. The pale man warmed his lanky fingers in his armpits, until he had to take them out, and they again grew stingy and cool. But he walked for hours, once nor twice passing through short villages and hamlets. Small, threaded veins connect the pulsating green in Éire, but the tracks are crusty over the soft mud as the frosty day wakes in crisp suit.
The man's legs drowned in lactic stings and warm pains. The swarthy, baggy breeches swaddled up his hairy, thin and pale stumps. Hung over the belting: a little blue piece, that flapped in washing winter. And that tartan cloak again, hung over gorgeously bony little shoulders, overlooking the collarbone-dents.
He was padding a road past the rushes and sallys, fields of unwound creels. Hollyhocks, ramblers, all wild flowers surely drove through. Past the wild heaths. The heather spindly and yellow as yock, between the fog. Clouds and clumps of rocks on the bump-lands, where you can almost hear the wooden pipes play, or see the older Fíanna roam. The weak willows, flanking the open, still in the morn. They would flop up from the clobber, and wind a circuit over the great lands.
A tough-man walked on the opposite way down the track. When you're nervous you rub the sweat off your palms and clear your nose. Then your head ferments, and decomposes before you bind down that heart-beat-tick and the feeling to empty your bowels. Stomach curls and you smell a stingy, sanguine scent. The man coming our man's way, was bearded and mean, but prepossessed little in the way of raw muscle. This scared our man, as those with a smaller being have much more to prove.
But then, scary men and beautiful nature. Isn't the drowsy lot for the folk, on the good island? This was Gaia's dainty flower, that lay in the swathing oceania and home to all that our man has seen. Aye, sweetness and light, if not that the wear and the strain of it all is the man's. Tossed and turnt by pithy life here, he knew that while he was walking, he had all he had. Wallet and clothes of new jet, even broach and lyre and shillelagh. Walk then, shall we? And with that cool thought, the man dreamt once more of the isles, and with weak legs, ran.
>I fell for the "classic books are good" meme
>>7491111
what classics did you read that werent good?
>>7491111
>books from hundreds/thousands of years ago still being sold successfully
>not good
Pick one OP
>>7491123
argumentum ad populum, anon
I'm going through a pretty rough time right now and I'm getting social anxiety and poor grades. I'm lacking motivation and my sleeping pattern is fucked.
I'm looking for any recommendations of a novel which has a character who is a hard worker and successful. I know it sounds pretty pathetic but I think it will help me a lot. I'm not looking for a non-fiction help book like "How to be successful" etc, just a book which has a character which gave you a role model for hard work. Cheers
>>7490745
dickens
>>7490767
>>7490752
But that's what he made bad grades on.
>>7490764
Any particular book by Dickens?
What does /lit/ do while readingor shitposting? I drink coffee and listen to music.
>>7490627
>drink coffee and listen to music.
Spotted the hipster.
>>7490627
>listening to music while you read
This is how I know you're from Reddit.
>>7490627
try to read but be overwhelmed by silence and bad feels so I go on 4chan and listen to music to drown them out.
don't get much reading done 2bh.
>adults shouldn't read books written for kids
>>7490434
only if they are reading them to their children.
>>7490434
Yes, this is true. We know this already.
>>7490483
>literally reading books meant for children unironically
pleb as fuck
Are there any good books about rejecting Industry, capitalism modernity, hedonism, or the sexual revolution?
I'm just really fed up with the world and want to live in a hut somewhere away from everything.
>>7490065
Try the Unabomber's manifesto.
The novels of Herman Hesse.
walt whitman, also kill yourself faggot, you're the worst kind of trash.
>>7490228
>I didn't understand hesse
Can we create a /lit/ canon that isn't composed of white males? Here are some of my picks:
>Aphra Behn - Oroonoko
>Naidine Gordimer - Burger's Daughter
>Carson McCullers - The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
>Ralph Ellison - Invisible Man
>Zora Neale Hurston - Their Eyes were Watching God
>Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o - Weep Not, Child
>A.S. Byatt - Possession
>George Eliot - Middlemarch
>>7489975
Iceberg Slim - Pimp, obviously.
And an ooga booga tampon doodoo to you too, anon.
What do you think you will think when you draw your last breath, on your dying bed?
"At long last, Comfy Oblivion."
>>7489727
You will take it like that, not fighjting to the last breath, but welcome it? You think? How brave
I have no faith or religion of any kind, only thing I will have is nolthing.
>tfw no gf
What do you think of the works of this beautiful man? What are your favorites?
Game of Thrones
>>7489264
TKB
Haven't read all of them yet (missing "The Idiot" and a few short stories), but my favouriute would be "The House of the Dead". Some of his most powerful pages are in there.
Just finished House Of Leaves and I'm looking to start on this one. What are your opinions on it?
b u m p
Nothing fucking happens. Enjoy the 15 year wait for the series to end. I bought the first book, and while I'm willing to see how it goes, I'm not going to spend $500+ to read it all. Get a library card.
That chinese kid is complete garbage.
He stole Kolsti's style and doesn't even do it as well.
R8 the favourite books of my uni's English faculty
>>7488735
Picked a weak Wodehouse, an edition of Anna Karenina with a cover that needs to be burned and the rest are irrelevant books to gather dust on shelves.
3/10 that's the best I can do
>>7488735
1. Anna Karenina
2. Tolkien
3 - 8. Never heard of
>>7488735
shit
Hi /lit/, I'm currently trying to create a character who's insanely charismatic, almost in an animalistic way, where you can't help but feel drawn to her, despite her numerous flaws.
Can anyone recommend some books that feature characters with that kind of charisma, some academic writing about the subject or, better, share your own opinion on the subject?
>>7488531
Fatale by Jean Patrick Manchette might have that sort of person. Really a lot of noir has that "flawed but irresistible" type of character devlopment.
>>7488531
tyfa by heinrichs
>>7488543
I'll check it out, thanks for your input Anon
I want to final get around and prove to myself that I'm not a total literary failure. What are some tips for beginner writers?
I've written short stories before, but I want to attempt something grander this time. I also don't want to drop it halfway between (which I've done, 2bh) in between
>>7487218
Make sure to fully understand the words you use, to carefully pick them when you need to establish a certain aspect of say someone's personality. Choose words with the connotations that you want that suit the meaning of your text.
Not everyone has a wide vocabulary but as you discuss more things with more people it grows, so what matters to me is to have a solid vocabulary.
>kek idk jus ramblin' desu famli
Don't try to impress people with your prose or with a formal tone
Don't write steam of consciousness
Don't make the obvious choices.
Have fun.
>>7487218
think twice before going through with a plot choice. why is it happening, how will it relate to the rest of what you want to write. the same with characters and places. how will it tie into itself further on etc. nothing worse than newbie writers who just put whatever crosses their mind in their book and then it just comes out a jumbled mess. think twice about what you're writing, basically.
hey /lit/
you can have one book for christmas, what will it be?
The Lime Twig by John Hawkes
Aniara by Harry Martinson
>>7486281
Women and Men
What are some strange /lit/erary habits you guys have? I pace for an hour or two immediately after finishing a book, lost in thought.
I pace while reading. I create strange loop scavenger hunts in library books. I throw out dust jackets. I use a knife to follow along. I read good books 5x in a row and take copious notes, then listen to the audiobook and eventually copy the whole thing by hand.
i don't breathe until i've finished a page
>>7485869
Post a pic of your copies