Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 733. page

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Fucking normie pseuds...
Did u pass the pseud test? (No pausing)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7mTPaO80RI

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So what do I do now that I am spookless?

I was told "enlightened intelligence" would make me euphoric, that purging superstition would help me focus on what really matters, but that is not the case. I have no motivation to do anything because nothing matters in the end and all that's coming is death. I can't let go and enjoy anything without the nagging thought that nothing has value or meaning.

I used to be a happy go lucky whippersnapper who took what he could get and didn't lament what he couldn't, who tried to make something fun out of everything and had all sorts of goals and drives, now I am a jaded defeatist fatalistic nihilist. At least when I cared about bullshit I cared about something, now I don't care about anything except the horrors of reality which are impossible to avoid.

Life is bending over backwards to impress normies only to fail to meet their standards and be humiliated anyway. Even if I put in a herculean effort I will never achieve much more than a wage a bit above minimum and a few nerdy friends to share feels with and maybe a chubby gf who had to settle for me and will probably leave me for some random reason, I will never be as successful as people who put in a herculean effort AND were introduced to coding when they were 13 then were in college the cusp of the dotcom boom or something and were free from mental illness and acclimatized to socializing from an early age. The chances of me becoming a scientist and achieving biological immortality are minute to the point it makes me question whether that might be a spook and I would be wasting my only life dedicating myself to it. I am terrified of waking up alone one day and seeing a lonely old guy in the mirror, I unironically would welcome death before that point.

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ITT: Write a paragraph about a painting that you like

Some fuel for imagination, Heidegger about Van Gogh's shoes:
"From the dark opening of the worn insides of the shoes the toilsome tread of the worker stares forth. In the stiffly rugged heaviness of the shoes there is the accumulated tenacity of her slow trudge through the far-spreading and ever-uniform furrows of the field swept by a raw wind. On the leather lie the dampness and richness of the soil. Under the soles slides the loneliness of the field-path as evening falls. In the shoes vibrates the silent call of the earth, its quiet gift of the ripening grain and its unexplained self-refusal in the fallow desolation of the wintry field. This equipment is pervaded by uncomplaining anxiety as to the certainty of bread, the wordless joy of having once more withstood want, the trembling before the impending childbed and shivering at the surrounding menace of death. This equipment belongs to the earth, and it is protected in the world of the peasant woman. From out of this protected belonging the equipment itself rises to its resting-within-itself."

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Paper Books
>Heavy
>Huge
>Impossible to back up
>Highlighting or handwriting notes ruin it
>Can't change text size/font
>Harder handling (can't read comfortably laying on your side in bed).

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Is this book worth reading? I heard it was pretty bad if you have read the first. I liked the first book though

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what is a good introduction to marxist ideas, but is pure fiction?

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Hello, I am trying to write an adventure story with a mentally ill protagonist based off of some of my real life experiences. I am an amateur writer and I need some advice-- not necessarily on my writing "style", but on the content of my story. You can read what I have here: https://pastebin.com/QZw2bt82

it is hard because I know what I intend to convey, but I can't take an objective stance because I know too much about the story and characters.

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Is there any edition of To the Lighthouse with an actual good looking cover? Every cover I saw on Amazon is complete shite.

Don't usually care too much, though it's always nice to have a good cover design if you're actually going to buy it.

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I want to write a book but coming up with a plot that makes sense is really hard. Coming up with character's and motivations is hard. Why is writing so hard?

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>muh magic systems

Why are genre fiction authors such fedoras?

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What are Shakespeare's essential plays? Which are the best?

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Is there a type of novel that is centered around the setting, or the main character being an observer rather than someone pushing the plot forward?

If so what examples are there of this

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What are some poems/quotes/passages that melt your heart and remind you of your best friend?

The most wonderful person on earth?

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Grey light falls upon the surroundings. Walking down the side of the road in this town. The air has been turning away from summer, I can smell the cold. Dry leaves scrape in the wake of passing cars. Heading to a friends apartment.
The sound of frying meat, as I open the unlocked door. I did not realize I was cold until I felt the warmth of my friends home.
He is sitting on the couch, with the back of his head visible to me. His roommate is cooking ground beef on the stove. "Whats going on man?", I announce my presence. "Hey man, just watching some tv". "Sounds good, man."
He puts on his jacket and we head outside without a word. He packs up his bowl with some weed, while we watch the clouds move past the purple and orange sunset. Cars hissing by. "Hey man, we should do this in my car, listen to a cd my friend from work burned for me". "Sounds good to me" I say.
The red orange glow on the edge of the glass bowl pulses as I flutter my thumb over the carb of the piece. I exhale slowly, realizing my friend is in the middle of a story. "then he brought the bucket out and put it under the desk, we poured the shit from the cooler in it", "what", "yeah the cooler needs to be drained and it smells like shit when it has been awhile", "oh, yeah", "yeah, so he puts it under the desk and the manager kicks it over and the whole office smells like shit the rest of the day". I nod my head and grumble, while grinding my teeth, the weed is strong this time.
As we walk into his apartment he asks me what I thought about the cd. "It was good, man". His roommate is eating at the table with her friend. "Hey man, I need to head back, I will talk to you later".
I walk out, looking down on the sidewalk as the orange light turns to dark blue cement. The wind is whistling through the plastic coverings on the facade of the buildings being constructed. My teeth swirl as I envision the process that moves limbs.
Leaves crackle in the dark as I open the door to my home.

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>Jack struggled as the Nazi soldier attempted to impale him with his knife, using all of his strength. It wasn't until Annie snuck up from behind and smacked the Nazi soldier with her helmet. Jack, without thinking, grabbed the now dropped knife and plunged it into the German's neck. A red fountain ushered from the soldier's neck as he began to choke on his own blood, gurgling out "Mutter! Mutter!" occasionally. Jack took a moment before standing himself up and wiped the German's blood from his glasses
Jesus Christ, Mary I traumatized my nephew reading this to him last night