Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 853. page

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It's sunny and I just left the house after doing a load of chores that people always accuse losers of not doing (cleaning bathroom, washing and drying clothes, shaving, cutting fingernails, washing the dishes, trimming armpit hair). If I haven't made a passionate and long post by the end of today about how unfair life is and how ugly I am then a meteor must have hit me.

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When shop assistants act nicely towards me I feel mocked. But when people are handing out leaflets for nightclubs and offer one to me I feel like it's some sort of genuine "society reaching out to me" moment even though I'm too ugly to go to those places and they are paid to hand them our. Maybe because the leaflet people don't say anything.

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>The romantic withdraws from reality. He does this ironically, however, and in a spirit of intrigue. Irony and intrigue do not constitute the state of mind of a person in flight, but rather the activity of a person who, instead of creating new realities, plays one reality off against another in order to paralyze the reality that is actually present and limited.
>He ironically avoids the constraints of objectivity and guards himself against becoming committed to anything. The reservation of all infinite possibilities lies in irony. In this way, he preserves his own inner, genial freedom, which consists in not giving up any possibility. By this means, however, he also defends himself against the objection that would necessarily destroy his pretensions: that all the promises and the grandiose projects he has opposed to the limited achievements of others are unmasked as a fraud by his own real production.
>For him, the concrete accomplishments that are actually at hand amount to nothing more than byproducts. He protests against having himself or any of his proclamations understood within the limits of current reality. This is not what he is. This is not his ego. At the same time, he is still infinitely many other things and infinitely more than he could ever be in any concrete moment or specific expression.
>He regards being taken seriously as a violation because he does not want the actual present confused with his infinite freedom.

I see a lot of parallels here to existentialism and the post-modern brand of radical individualism. I think this description fits a lot of the well-off urban young intellectuals that see such an appeal in existentialism.

What is there to be learned from Schmitt's observations today?

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What is the measurable, fundamental difference between song lyrics and poetry?

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Rewrite some of your favorite parts from books in Blacktext, and compare the change.

>
This is Blacktext. This is the new /lit/
>

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*blocks your neoclassicism*

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Has a writer ever ruined their reputation by writing a potboiler under a pen name?

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>that feel when reading book and they talk about sleeping
>3:30am for me

EVERY TIME

THIS IS ACTUAL TORTURE

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>*blocks ur romanticism*
>heh.. nothing personel kid

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Looking for some LITTY, RAUNCHY books that are for the FANS to enjoy with the BOYS over SUMMER

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How do I know if something is aesthetic and is there anything objective about it?

I'm speaking in terms of art, literature, architecture etc.

For example - say I tell someone I absolutely LOVE a piece of literature by Tolstoy and they tell me it sucks, or I think author X's prose is beautiful but someone else thinks otherwise. Are differences in what you think is aesthetic or of high quality entirely subjective? Similar scenarios apply for admiring architecture, like some classical building vs a postmodern piece of shit, and so on.

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The daily stop fapping thread on /pol/ raised interesting discussion whether erotic works, particularly BDSM as pic related, might be as destructive as watching visual medium corn-holing. But is it only ladies reading this sort of stuff, so no harm done?

What is the opinion of /lit/ on the short erotic fiction genre?

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I hope someone can help me. As a child I once read this short story about a society where physical activity is discouraged and everyone is completely dependent on technology and lives in some kind of individual underground bunkers. Physical contact is also frowned upon and there was a passage about this woman, probably the mother of the main character but I'm not sure and time isn't helping me, who was once traveling on a flying shuttle. The shuttle made an abrupt stop and the woman lost her footing. Before she could fall down one of the flight attendants reached out her hand and grabbed the woman so that she won't fall. As a result though the woman was very angry and berated the flight attendant for daring to touch her. We then find out that even if she had fallen, the floor had some technology in it that would prevent people from getting hurt by altering gravity.

I know this is a very vague request but it's the only passage I remember and I'd really love to read that story again now as an adult. My guess is that it was probably an Asimov short story but I really can't remember much else.

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Does literary criticism have a purpose? If so, what is it? Does it affect society en masse, or are its effects isolated to an educated few? What do critics themselves argue?

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Opinions on this book

Is it worth the read?

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Hi. Relatively new to writing.
Or maybe not, I don't know.
So I wrote this piece yesterday; it staggers along, not really getting to the point.
I'd appreciate if y'all could give me some constructive criticism.

A body washes upon a shore.
It is limp. It's careless.
It has an attire that refers loosely to a clown,
except that the dyes are bleached by sun and salt.

Something is tied to its feet;
two cinderblocks.
How it found the shore is something only God knows.
God knows.

Broken in time, the clown walks on the bottom of the sea.
Behind him are long, parallel lines travelling forever back,
created by his restraints.

Bubbles rise from between his lips, seemingly unending.
He has lungs that reach from his head to his toes.
The flesh under the rope,
floats freely off the bone.

It is resemblant of well cooked chicken.

Although the salt-water stings his eyes, he opens them.
There is seaweed.
The sand he trudges is at a slope.
He sees the sun.
He sees the beautiful water reflections.

The clown opens his mouth in awe.

Water fills the capillary.
The ocean is sucked into his body.
Fish, squids, sharks, crabs,
all of them fear the black hole that sucks their home away.
They run.

He runs.

Sea shells pierce his feet, the ropes scrape against the bone,
the cinderblocks drag their effortless line,
all of he, they move upwards, to the place that is not here.

Finally, his lungs are full.
He continues. He is almost there.
Only a few strides more and he will be

The clown cries.

A body washes upon a shore.
It is limp. It's careless.
How could we let this happen?