ITT:Magnum Opus of a writer.

>>8877056
THANK YOU.
forgot about that book.

also
>The Waves
>Virginia Woolf

>>8877056
>Dostoyevsky
>The Brothers Karamazov.

>>8877106
"No!"

>>8877132
Yeah,it is.

>>8877056
Dom Casmurro. Bras Cubas is barely anything more than it's gimmick. Proto-pomo shit.

>>8877083
Obv TTL, nothing else she wrote has its structural integrity. The Waves is for pleb muh prose retards.

>>8877106
C&P. BK is simply a hodgepodge of strung out minor philosophies with no narrative technique.

>>8877181
Dalloway > Lighthouse

>>8877181
>Bras Cubas is barely anything more than it's gimmick. Proto-pomo shit.

Just read this.You don't even need to agree with me,just read this:

>Imagine yourself, reader, a reduction of the centuries, and a parade of them all, all races, all passions, the tumult of the empires, the war of appetites and hatred, the reciprocal destruction of beings and things. Such was the spectacle, bitter and curious spectacle. The history of man and earth was so intense that neither imagination nor science could give it, because science is slower and imagination more vague, whereas what I saw there was the living condensation of all time . To describe it one would have to fix the lightning. The centuries went by in a whirlwind, and yet, because the eyes of delirium are others, I saw everything that passed before me, - scourges and delights, - from this thing called glory to this other Is called misery, and saw love multiplying misery, and saw misery aggravating weakness. Here came the greed that devours, the anger that ignites, the envy that drools, and the hoe and the feather, wet with sweat, and ambition, hunger, vanity, melancholy, wealth, love, and all stirred The man, like a rattle, even destroying it, like a rag. They were various forms of an evil, which now bit the viscera, sometimes bite the thought, and walked eternally in his harlequin robes, around the human species. The pain gave in some time, but gave way to indifference.
Which was a sleep without dreams, or pleasure, which was a bastard pain. Then the man, scourged and rebellious, ran before the fatality of things, behind a nebulous and elusive figure, made of patchwork, a patch of impalpable, another of improbable, another of invisible, all sewn to the precarious point with the needle of imagination; And this figure - no less than the chimera of happiness - or he would flee perpetually, or let himself be seen by the nappy, and the man would cling to her breast, and then she would laugh, like a mockery, and disappear As an illusion.