Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 4780. page

yes
too bad Chesterton writes from the Cathoćuck position instead of superior actual Orthodoxy

Heretics is shit.

>>7454784
Wow I can smell the faggotry on you, it's seeping out of the screen.

because sometimes i want to set people on fire

is te novul dad?

>>7454102

Tbqh girl with the dragon tattoo isn't complete shit. The writing is, but the plot's fun

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>tfw you check out five books at the library, read one fully and half of another, then return them all and check out five more

>>7454039
I know that feel. But multiply it by like 8.
At least it's entirely free. And it's a nice feeling you get when you quickly finish 2-3 half read books in a day or so. Sucks when it's a popular book with only a few copies and you have to wait months for it again, though.

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>desperately trying to restrain yourself from buying more books
>give in anyway.

tried to read Hard Boiled Wonderland. Didn't like it. Might try again. Might not.

Not Pleb, not Patrician.

>>7453860
I have mixed feelings senpai

I read WUBC first and I still love it. I think it's meditative, I love how dryly funny it can be with its passive narrative voice, and I love the supporting characters.

But then he writes NW and Tsukuru Tazaki which kind of establish their own sort of genre fiction and IMO just use the leftover themes and motifs of WUBC.

He's alright at his worst yet excellent at his best

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2/4

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I know I read too much science fiction and fantasy, need some non SF/F suggestions.

3/4

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4/4

btw I (OP) type at a relatively unimpressive 80wpm

>>7453707
I know that feel brother, I can only do 120 wpm

>>7453726
Yeah, I'm only in the 140 range :(

Lolita

your mums diary tbhf

i would suggest OP begin at the Vatican library.

>>7453417

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

>>7453429
I've seen this posted before, still gives me chills.

>>7453441

Their slam poetry debate reminds me of babies arguing

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JmA2ClUvUY

Actually the Bible is a beautiful work of art.. but nice try.

the inconsistency of the bible is a meme, and an untrue one at that

>>7453308
it's actually pronounced "meme"

really? not a single fan of words on /lit/?

My favorite is oxymoron

Least favourite word: mucus.
Favourite words: antithetical, callipygous (reddit tier i know), apodyopsis

celebrities usually have complexes like that, idk

>>7452273
he is ugly
that's why he embraces vulgarity

>>7452291
>ugly

yes, discredit yourself immediately

I tried reading him but couldn't get into it. His type of fantasy just isn't my thing.

>>7450991
Haha, epic my friend!

>>7450991
>wasting leather that could used for proper literate
Fucking hacks,decreasing the value of books.

>>7450942
97654323478998356789044567890654345678900987654678909876789

>you people

What's THAT supposed to mean?

500 or so

im a pleb

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I open my eyes. I'm in my living room. But this doesn't feel like my couch. Too soft. Too much room. It's a bed. A bed with black sheets. The lights are on. Everything else in the room is the same as it was when I last saw it. Except the man standing in the middle of the room. He is wearing yellow. A yellow jacket. A yellow hat. Yellow pants. Yellow shoes. He smiles.

"Have you accepted IT?"

"The job offer? How do you know about this? And no, I told her I needed time to think it over."


He looks confused. "Is it not a better job than your current one?"


"It is. But it's still a job. I'd still have bosses. People to answer to, a set schedule, customers. I don't like the job I have now, but I might just not like jobs. Who are you?"


He ignores my question and starts to take off the fingers of his left hand. It's not as gruesome as I would have thought. They come off with a slight tug. Tiny drops of blood drip from the wounds, as he tosses his fingers on the floor.


I jump from the bed, and scramble to the fingers on the floor, black sheet in hand. I gently pick up the fingers and start wrapping them in the sheet. I look up and ask, "Should I? Should I accept it? The job?".


His voice is almost sad. "Does it matter? Keep the old job. Take the new. Will you accept it?", he asks, quietly, almost as if he's talking to himself. He walks to the door and lets himself out.


I open my eyes. I'm in my living room. On my old familiar couch. There are no black sheets. Everything else in the room is the same as it was when I last saw it. Except there is no man standing in the middle of the room.

>>7450566

when picasso trained himself how to unlearn his art, i shall take the whimsy of madness and curl it to my whispy dreams, and kiss the starlight with my eyemouths.
what is the point of sublimation when there isnt a caboose to rifle through in the calumnious lessee, praddling with their tails swinging in the clockheaded breeze.

King Solomon poked his head out of the room with a rope around his neck, and the crowds looked with wonder as he mysteriously turned purple. Eventually his father came about and commanded him to be well, and all was well. Lethargic coriander seeds languished in the heat of the small jar in the cupboard, and there was no hope for them to be spread into the foamy languid tonsil soups of the crabtree brilliances.
Importune offerings left only the leveed scallions of orbital squarings in the clamp of tripoli.

those who murmur in the mud of sin, waiting for the whirlwind to come,
beg others to join in their fun,
as misery loves company.
creeds torn over on the rest of the plan, prostituting to the clapping of the crowd, the dollar, measly as it is potently portentous, blissfully unaware as the brass tacks stab into their trenchfeet, just as the spaldrings before them, they too felt as the rampant orchids blossomed, and the tuberculous stab of barnacles and whelks, prodding wastrel voices in their gullets, raping their peace.

Luring in the stamina of the campaign, the willows only sifted through a small percentage of the stench of the open sewer main upwind of the conference hall. Many of the staunch citizens approached their seats with a grimace of disgust and a gush of vomit splashing against the back of their throats, wondering what they'll have to agree to that day just to keep their fingers inside. Little did they realize that their hair cuts were in vain, and it was simply an execution of an aboriginal at the expense of the high royal society of Lieught Scleoupo. There was much revulsion at the sight of the blood of the native, which always served to titillate the impressionable revolutionaries, who had so much to prove with so little power to do it, they typically backed down from dissenting parties on a rate of 30% after that, which is tweaked magnificently later on in life when stocks are established to their social security numbers.

Palindromic allowances only bring gestures of noncommittal confirmation, and the bill passes, no new taxies without prostitution becoming a state ratified constitutional institution, where loans are distributed to the purloined homes of those who were in the unions before the civil war... well i'm getting ahead of myself, it's all on account of the newest release of the websters dictionary on the 30th of April, 1972, when the clearing house publishers awarded gretta jones her 48,396$ in small unmarked bills.

>>7450566

I feel uncomfortable criticizing English texts because I have a bad knowledge and instinct aesthetic response to the language. I can translate my own texts, but ussualy only literary, with no attention to sound and other effects. My criticism of the works here would be far from commendable.

>This is from the tragedy I am writing. The original is in Portuguese. It is a war speech (a piece of propaganda by the tyrant that is the main character of the work). Apologies for the bad English.

Make every drop of blood in your veins roar,
And that every single gland in your bodies boil in tigers:
War now grunts to you all the avail
- The assent that society and peace deny -
To unlock the deep wells of your instincts
And allow the darkness to climb them.
From the cavers of the mind unless the wolves,
Might the steel armor-plate your hearts and your brains
So that the prays of pity and the cold cheep
Of fear do not penetrate in your spirits:
That both this knots, of veins and of thoughts,
Disentangle their skeins of contradictions
And only the furious famine for victory sing on them.
Oh gods of war, that sculpt with blood
The labyrinths of human destiny,
Honor the sap with which our
Cuts do honor you, and that your records
Embroider tales of glory with the scarlet
Lines of our scars.
Our sacred texts speak of angels,
Well, to me angels are our own young lads
When in the wars they dew blood from their muscles
And drip sweat that smells of cholera.
Yes, this are my angels, the genies in front of whom
My faith knells and my deeply moved
Heart sing hymns, yes, this are my angels,
And not the storks of heaven, greasy
With butter of light and oil of stars,
Effeminate harp players
That dilute the golden eternity
Of their flaccid afternoons drinking champagne
Of ambrosia and eating bonbons of nectar,
Pinky and obese cherubs,
Raspberries that have swollen by eating to much manna bread.
We man have naked, wingless backs,
And only ambition, the fierce hunger
Allow us to fly to the heavens of the eternal.

dhammatalks.org

Of course it betters your life. It takes a lot of sitting doing nothing though.

>half-lotus
lmao @ that pleb

this is a reportable thread. not literature related.
>>>/adv/