Archived threads in /lit/ - Literature - 1404. page
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Why is this board so pretentious? It's unbearable.
it's because it's become reddit-tier, and the worst part is that most people here think reading infinite jest and pynchon gives them the authority to be pretentious.
TOP KEK.
>looks around
>anime thread
>two harry potter threads
>several shitty obvious baits
>two "i want girls" threads
It's not pretentious, it's shit
You wouldn't understand
nothing of literary interest happened between 200 C.E and the 1600s except for dante
Thanks for that flash of insight.
>>7489908
no probs fαm
>>7489868
Saint Agustine comes to mind.
So i found A Nietzsche Reader published by penguin at a relatives house. I have not ever really tried to get in to philosophy, but from the banter on this board I gather that Penguin is shit at it. So is it worth reading, or will it give me a false overview of Nietzsche?
Neitzsche isn't a good place to start.
Read a history of Philosophy first.
Magee's Story of Philosophy is good.
>>7487348
Too general and light of an overview of Nietzsche, bad translation, and an awful place to begin with philosophy as a whole.
To start I recommend 'a History of Western philosophy' by based Sir Bertrand Russell
Post your favorite poems.
This is not a critique thread. Just post stuff you like.
Death Fugue by Paul Celan
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave
he commands us strike up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak...
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I serve the base
I was an ace
I carry her
In my face
Pls r8, no bully
The idea of Order at Key West
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
This is one of my favorite books of all time! But enough of what I think. What did YOU all think of this book? :)
>>7486561
Legitimately beautiful. As a holder of a Bachelors in a STEM field, I found it to be really very accurate. Cline is a master storyteller.
>>7486561
stop
As an engineer I found this to be a lovely bit of Nostalgia. as a 90's kid I remember playing these videogames in my youth and this book brought back all those memories and hit me right in the feels. 5/7 cannot recommend enough.
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...
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>>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,...
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>>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...
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>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
