Hey, faggots. Learning The English language for 3 years now gave me the feeling of being way too simplistic and contextual. Not only the English classic literature written in it seems to me dry altogether, but also extremely fuzzy in terms of precision. No genders, diminutives for adjectives, free word order, etc. Also it happened to have a bad spelling with no rules whatsoever( or putting another way there are too much of them depending on what is the origin of a certain word). Why don't you all start learning the only divine language on the planet Earth, which is of course The Russian one? Just in case you wanna appreciate real literature in a real language, not in this banal lousy English.
Romance languages>everything
>>7748571
Spanish is one to compete with Russian imho
>>7748562
i find it hard to listen to anyone criticize another language that can't hide from being outed as ESL in their writing.
>>7748588
>i find it hard to listen to anyone criticize another language
Well, you don't need to, just read it.
>can't hide from being outed as ESL in their writing
Help me out then, where did I go wrong?
>>7748562
>talks shit about free word order
>uses a free word order language as an example of a better language
The spelling is a patrician feature, not a problem. It lets you identify poorly educated people without even trying to understand their stupid arguments.
>gave me the feeling of being way too simplistic and contextual.
I agree that you're simplistic, but why call yourself contextual?
>>7748606
well, notably, "also it happened to have a bad spelling" that was what cinched it for me, not just in the sense that the wording is awkward, but it really doesn't make sense. how can a language have bad spelling exactly? if the language is created that way, wouldn't the only bad spelling be anything that errs from that creation?
>>7748644
Still an imbecilic feature. The Chinese writing system might be more complex, but there's far less vestigial bloat in it. English speakers bitch that French wastes an unnecessary letter count, but if only they examined English!
>>7748666
>the wording is awkward
I despise belligerent ESLs, but wew boy, if you knew just how shit your own writing is, you would not call him on this.
Practice what you preach, faggot.
>>7748666
>how can a language have bad spelling exactly? if the language is created that way,
you're wrong, it'd had a phonetic spelling many ears ago
>>7748679
Then why, other than fishing, are you trying to discuss a topic you're not ready for yet? So far you've made yourself look completely stupid.
>>7748679
more awkward phrasing. "wipe my semen out of your eyes already" would be better, the smeared is a good addition, but it doesn't fit very well.
>>7748694
let's just forget about that semen, alright?
>>7748690
"it'd had" it'd is a contraction of "it had", so you're effectively saying it had had.
>>7748694
stop helping the troll
>>7748710
and that is exactly what i meant
>>7748713
you better watch your tongue, fucking cunt
>>7748673
>!
>r/books
>>7748724
are you sure you didn't just mean "it had a phonetic spelling many years ago"?
>>7748737
does that make really that huge difference?
>>7748750
why is it so hard to admit that English is the pleb-tier kind of languages?
>>7748764
you could just say "why is it so hard to admit that English is a pleb-tier language".
>>7748770
thanks, i knew it myself
>>7748774
you could be right, though. English very well could be a horrible language. I can't tell you which one is the best. You'll probably have to figure that out on your own. Do you have any other languages you're considering? What can russian describe that english can't? I'm not shit posting, just curious.
俄语什么屁啊?去学中文!
>>7748778
>I'm not shit-posting
now fuck off you burger eater and btw i fucked your mother yesterday so when are you gonna turn that damn clock back that i left beside your mama's bed, ha?
>>7748764
Because Wallace Stevens
The poem refreshes life so that we share,
For a moment, the first idea . . . It satisfies
Belief in an immaculate beginning
And sends us, winged by an unconscious will,
To an immaculate end. We move between these points:
From that ever-early candor to its late plural
And the candor of them is the strong exhilaration
Of what we feel from what we think, of thought
Beating in the heart, as if blood newly came,
An elixir, an excitation, a pure power.
The poem, through candor, brings back a power again
That gives a candid kind to everything.
We say: At night an Arabian in my room,
With his damned hoobla-hoobla-hoobla-how,
Inscribes a primitive astronomy
Across the unscrawled fores the future casts
And throws his stars around the floor. By day
The wood-dove used to chant his hoobla-hoo
And still the grossest iridescence of ocean
Howls hoo and rises and howls hoo and falls.
Life’s nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
>>7748789
>a rigid word order language
>poetry
what can be worse?
>>7748796
Didn't stop this motherfucker or ee cummings
The tarantula rattling at the lily’s foot
Across the feet of the dead, laid in white sand
Near the coral beach—nor zigzag fiddle crabs
Side-stilting from the path (that shift, subvert
And anagrammatize your name)—No, nothing here
Below the palsy that one eucalyptus lifts
In wrinkled shadows—mourns.
And yet suppose
I count these nacreous frames of tropic death,
Brutal necklaces of shells around each grave
Squared off so carefully. Then
To the white sand I may speak a name, fertile
Albeit in a stranger tongue. Tree names, flower names
Deliberate, gainsay death’s brittle crypt. Meanwhile
The wind that knots itself in one great death—
Coils and withdraws. So syllables want breath.
But where is the Captain of this doubloon isle
Without a turnstile? Who but catchword crabs
Patrols the dry groins of the underbrush?
What man, or What
Is Commissioner of mildew throughout the ambushed senses?
His Carib mathematics web the eyes’ baked lenses!
Under the poinciana, of a noon or afternoon
Let fiery blossoms clot the light, render my ghost
Sieved upward, white and black along the air
Until it meets the blue’s comedian host.
Let not the pilgrim see himself again
For slow evisceration bound like those huge terrapin
Each daybreak on the wharf, their brine-caked eyes;
—Spiked, overturned; such thunder in their strain!
And clenched beaks coughing for the surge again!
Slagged of the hurricane—I, cast within its flow,
Congeal by afternoons here, satin and vacant.
You have given me the shell, Satan,—carbonic amulet
Sere of the sun exploded in the sea.
>>7748805
couldn't make out more than 30 percent of this shit, what language is it written in?
>>7748816
>he can't read Hart Crane
>he still wants to comment on the English Language
pleb detected
>>7748818
>pretending Hart Crane wrote in English
>gendered nouns
>a good thing
As fuckin arbitrary as english spellings.
>>7748805
i've never read poetry really. this was amazing. thank you.
>>7748823
>pretending English wrote in Hart Crane
>English pretending Hart Crane wrote in
>In pretending English Hart Crane wrote
> Hart Crane English pretending in wrote
>>7748830
This is Poetry Thread now
Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.
Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.
The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
Perhaps it is the season that is not right.
And what if the sky here is no different,
And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
The few I am used to are plain and durable;
I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
They are too puritan and solitary for that—
When one of them falls it leaves a space,
A sense of absence in its old shining place.
And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
I see those constellations in my head,
Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
And drink the small night chill like news of home.
>>7748845
eh, not as good as the last one. ah well, it must have just been a meme moment.
>>7748826
you also use it in verbs and adjectives so you know for sure who writes to you, male or female, also it helps you in novels a lot since you may not know if a name belongs to a man or woman and you don't need to wait till it reveals by a context itself
Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,-
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,-
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop,-on a hawthorn leaf,-
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.
>>7748835
this is why the english grammar is shit
>>7748854
can't that be used against you? if you're in a russian chatroom, for instance, and they use these identifiers, doesn't it make traps harder to spot?
>>7748860
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
The bell-rope that gathers God at dawn
Dispatches me as though I dropped down the knell
Of a spent day - to wander the cathedral lawn
From pit to crucifix, feet chill on steps from hell.
Have you not heard, have you not seen that corps
Of shadows in the tower, whose shoulders sway
Antiphonal carillons launched before
The stars are caught and hived in the sun's ray?
The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower;
And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave
Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score
Of broken intervals… And I, their sexton slave!
Oval encyclicals in canyons heaping
The impasse high with choir. Banked voices slain!
Pagodas, campaniles with reveilles out leaping-
O terraced echoes prostrate on the plain!…
And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
My word I poured. But was it cognate, scored
Of that tribunal monarch of the air
Whose thigh embronzes earth, strikes crystal Word
In wounds pledged once to hope - cleft to despair?
The steep encroachments of my blood left me
No answer (could blood hold such a lofty tower
As flings the question true?) -or is it she
Whose sweet mortality stirs latent power?-
And through whose pulse I hear, counting the strokes
My veins recall and add, revived and sure
The angelus of wars my chest evokes:
What I hold healed, original now, and pure…
And builds, within, a tower that is not stone
(Not stone can jacket heaven) - but slip
Of pebbles, - visible wings of silence sown
In azure circles, widening as they dip
The matrix of the heart, lift down the eye
That shrines the quiet lake and swells a tower…
The commodious, tall decorum of that sky
Unseals her earth, and lifts love in its shower.
>>7748867
back to being good again, but a bit uneven near the end, that second to last part
When a live wire lights little metal rail
Right when a marvel of engineering steered me clear in to the plight
Right before the bodegas open, after the peak of night before the paper's delivered
I sat on the corner and sparked a light
The same corner I perched when I zone dropped on the block first
At almost 5 o'clock watching for sun spots or store clerks
Alone spot, almost kinda like the zone was forgot
As if the grid had been reset and couldn't catch to the clock
Or the stoop was stuck in the past a half minute and I sat in it
With a loosie Newpy drift out of my lips, taste; half minted
>>7748867
what ugly shit it is, too bad for you not to know russian really
Cold of the cedar heart. Storks in the road. Pausing.
Up the valleys of red air, sunset finches blur into being.
Sun barks through pine needle carpet. The green birds.
Red shoulders to the wind. The eldest wind up quiet, watchful.
Nothingness. Your back to the cliff. Grey grows land, become stone.
Remarkable ironies. Hands becoming memory.
Birdcries of children in serious play. Try on this life for fit.
Porcelain sky turning grey. Murmurings in the scrub pine.
Does any geometry encircle the fallen birch? Where the red bird is.
A path, a winding, a trick of falling. Thunder clearing the fallen.
What is the right hand saying to what’s left?
Anything moving is chaff, what’s left to scare.
Apples of the irrigated chest. Naming is not the source.
Sweat of the night christens this marriage bed: two spirits.
Wrens in the headboard. Your breast full of chattering birds.
Agony of acorns ripe with vivid green lies.
Following the bell into silence. Two strokes midway.
Taking night’s throat into stillness. The dry lands.
Falls of sulfur, the beating of wasp wings. Speech of dust.
In this memory of river, underground, the religion of lamps.
A convergence inside something infinite.
Conflagration. Ekstasis. Remorse and removal.
Olive trees pretend to dance. Only wind.
Hardpan underfoot: dolomite and shrubs.
I’m walking on the gods’ home mountain: sun falls bronzed.
Moon veiled in bright ice-cloud, pine-tree sentinel.
The howling. Red-eyed, mewling, clawed and torn.
Every eye a tree-spirit, a passing light. Into cedars.
Loon: black dot on grey seas. Dark island.
Into the every world a circling, a wheeling. These times.
Stars bleed in from grey: watchers without hope.
Outside after aurora, sky cloud-blinded, veils.
Aspen snow boughs white on white. Footprints.
Trail starlit, moonlit, firelit. Eyes opening to Orion.
Clouds knocking snow loose, sugar on the wheelbarrow.
>russian is divine
Russia is a nation devoid of quality literature or culture. The language is disgusting, too.
In fact, calling it divine is the mark of a heretic; a heretic knows nothing of Russia.
Latin is the better language, and Latin speakers are eons less pretentious than the average literary Russian fanatic.
>>7748854
Unless, you know, the author decides to give the character a name not suited to their gender.
As in, if there were a very tomboyish and brawny female that is given a masculine version of a female's name.
>>7748892
Keep flailing, Anon that has yet to even show they can write in Russian.
Or do you not know Italicized Russian because 'muh cultural purity'?
>>7748673
Please don't imply there's literally anything good about hanzi and how utterly retarded it is to memorize 2500 different characters and readings (which are only sometimes indicated by the composition of them) just to be literate. Kanji are even worse.
English is the perfect blend of romantic soft sounding words and clear strong germanic
>>7748899
>Latin is the better language
Latin indeed isn't a bad language, but russian on the contrary may be even a little bit harder as well as better
>>7748892
Elizabethan England? Please- I’ll grant you Shakespeare, Milton, & above both- John Donne. Who comes next? No 1 that can reasonably be granted greatness. The assorted Dynastic periods of China? Tu Fu & Li Po I’ll grant, & perhaps Po-Chu-I, but you’re stretching the definition of an age when it spans centuries, & after those 3 you are left with ‘poets’ who wore that appellation about as neatly as a Joyce Carol Oates- most were routine scribes who wrote routine verse. Haiku? Bashō, Buson, Issa- then who? Not to mention that 3 line haikus- even at their best- simply cannot match the depth, complexity, nor music of even a sonnet. Latin American poets in the early-mid 20th Century? There are a few greats- Paz, Neruda, Huidobro come to mind- but most were just political hacks- bumper sticker writers. The French Symbolists? Mallarme & who else? The Romantics? Hmm….England- Shelley, Keats, perhaps Coleridge & Wordsworth. Forget Byron or Clare- the rest fall off a cliff. Perhaps the German Romantics? Goethe, Schiller, Novalis, Holderlin, Heine? Puh-leeze! Perhaps the Soviet Era poets of Russia? Pasternak, Mandelstam, & Tsvetaeva are greats, while Akhmadulina, & Akhmatova were pretty good. Don’t even try to make a claim for the propagandist Mayakovsky.
Now, here’s a pretty good list of the major American poets who were writing & came to fame during the 1910-1970 period: Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost, Carl Sandburg, T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Robinson Jeffers, Archibald MacLeish, Marianne Moore, Hart Crane, Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, H.D., Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams, Edna St. Vincent Millay, e.e. cummings, Kenneth Rexroth, Kenneth Patchen, Edwin Rolfe, Charles Olson, Robert Hayden, John Berryman, Gwendolyn Brooks, Robert Lowell, James Emanuel, W.D Snodgrass, Allen Ginsberg, Frank O’Hara, Anne Sexton, Weldon Kees, & Sylvia Plath come to mind without much effort. & some could argue this list is only ½ or ⅓ its proper length.
>>7748562
I can tell you aren't actually Russian, because Russians like English because it's loose rules means you string together an impressive sequence of profanities
>>7748918
Ah, I didn't see the trip, all is made clear
I followed the narrow cliffside trail half way up the mountain
Above the deep river-canyon. There was a little cataract crossed the
path, flinging itself
Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jeweled fern-fronds, bright
bubbling water
Pure from the mountain, but a bad smell came up. Wondering at it I
clambered down the steep stream
Some forty feet, and found in the midst of bush-oak and laurel,
Hung like a bird's nest on the precipice brink a small hidden clearing,
Grass and a shallow pool. But all about there were bones lying in the
grass,clean bones and stinking bones,
Antlers and bones: I understood that the place was a refuge for
wounded deer; there are so many
Hurt ones escape the hunters and limp away to lie hidden; here they
have water for the awful thirst
And peace to die in; dense green laurel and grim cliff
Make sanctuary, and a sweet wind blows upward from the deep
gorge.-I wish my bones were with theirs.
But that's a foolish thing to confess, and a little cowardly. We know
that life
Is on the whole quite equally good and bad, mostly gray neutral, and
can be endured
To the dim end, no matter what magic of grass, water and precipice,
and pain of wounds,
Makes death look dear. We have been given life and have used it--not
a great gift perhaps--but in honesty
Should use it all. Mine's empty since my love died--Empty? The
flame-haired grandchild with great blue eyes
That look like hers?--What can I do for the child? I gaze at her
and wonder what sort of man
In the fall of the world . . . I am growing old, that is the trouble.
My children and little grandchildren
Will find their way, and why should I wait ten years yet, having lived
sixty-seven, ten years more or less,
Before I crawl out on a ledge of rock and die snapping, like a wolf
Who has lost his mate?--I am bound by my own thirty-year-old
decision: who drinks the wine
Should take the dregs; even in the bitter lees and sediment
New discovery may lie. The deer in that beautiful place lay down
their bones: I must wear mine.
>>7748918
>he hasn't once written a thing in Russian in this thread
here we go
cyka blyad pidaras
>>7748933
I don't think a Russian would ever write 'cyka blyad', as the letter y represents a different letter in each word.
>>7748933
oh wow you wrote what may or not be a valid sentence in Russian that you may or may not have used translation software to generate; congratulations!
>>7748941
Also, of course, the usage of both c and s is retarded.
>>7748962
Are you happy now?
Tbh, I'm totally agreed with OP. Eng literature doesn't give you immens abandance of feelings that Rus one does. Maybe it's because of my misunderstanding and stuff but I guess your lit really sucks as your boring inelaborate language, huh
>>7749008
Don't worry anon, I have the perfect English poem for your 'emotive' level of appreciation
Ah ah ah ahhh (Oh god damn)(Ooh)
I'm gonna fackin cum (Oh shit)(oh yeah)
Fack fack faack, (Fuck I am) (Ooh)
I am, I'm going to cum
I'm cumming (oh yeah)
I never seen no shit like this,
This bitch can twist like a damn contortionist
Condom on my dick of course it is,
This bitch don't know what abortion is
So I can't cum in her, fucks like a porn star, looks like Jenna,
Fack I'm gonna,
Cum I think my rubbers comin' off,
But oh its so fuckin' wet and soft,
Fuck, I'm gonna start lettin' off
I'm squirting and she's not gettin' off,
And she's on top, I'm gonna fackin', oh god,
Oh don't do that, don't, stop
Stop, don't, I don't mean don't stop!
Ow wait a minute, ow ow fuck I, I'm gonna fuckin' cam!
>>7749017
Your retarded langiage is good only for porn voice
>>7749043
ah yes, porn voice, my favorite writing style
>>7749043
>not understanding the intricacies of the medium
Yea get rekt pleb
For all my Southside niggas that know me best
I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex
Why? I made that bitch famous (God damn)
I made that bitch famous
For all the girls that got dick from Kanye West
If you see 'em in the streets give 'em Kanye's best
Why? They mad they ain't famous (God damn)
They mad they're still nameless (Talk that talk, man)
Her man in the store tryna try his best
But he just can't seem to get Kanye fresh
But we still hood famous (God damn)
Yeah we still hood famous
>>7749046
>ah yes, porn voice, my favorite writing style
kek'd
>>7748562
its the single greatest maleable adaptive construction of linguistics in monkey history, fuck off faggot
its the langauge of the species, if you dont like it, change it
>>7749052
sorry, didn't get to your point
Let's see
>Borges
>Read almost everything in the world
>Knew multiple languages
>Favorite Language & First Language: English
"Furthermore, Bacon had no faith in the English language. He believed
the vernacular languages had no power, and therefore had all his works
translated into Latin. Bacon, archenemy of the Middle Ages, believed, like
the Middle Ages, that there is a single international language: Latin.
Shakespeare, on the contrary, had, as we know, a profound feeling for
the English language, which is perhaps unique among Western languages in
its possession of what might be called a double register. For common
words, for the ideas, say, of a child, a rustic, a sailor, or a peasant, it has
words of Saxon origin, and for intellectual matters it has words derived
from Latin. These words are never precisely synonymous, there is a always a
nuance of differentiation: it is one thing to say, Saxonly, "dark" and another
to say "obscure"; one thing to say "brotherhood" and another to say "fraternity";
one thing-especially for poetry, which depends not only on atmosphere
and on meaning but on the connotations of the atmosphere of
words-to say, Latinly, "unique" and another to say "single."
Shakespeare felt all this; one might say that a good part of Shakespeare's
charm depends on this reciprocal play of Latin and Germanic terms. For example,
when Macbeth, gazing at his own bloody hand, thinks it could stain
the vast seas with scarlet, making of their green a single red thing, he says:
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
In the third line we have long, sonorous, erudite Latin words: "multitudinous,"
"incarnadine"; then, in the next, short Saxon words: "green one red."
There is, it seems to me, a psychological incompatibility between the
minds of Bacon and Shakespeare, and this suffices to invalidate all of the
Baconians' arguments and cryptographies, all the real or imaginary secret
signatures they have discovered or think they have discovered in Shakespeare's
work."
Go back to sucking Putin's cock.
nice cold war thread /lit/
>>7749079
>Go back to sucking Putin's cock.
way better than sucking obama's one
>>7749105
Obama will be gone in a year.
You'll be sucking Putin's cock until he dies, and after that your country will collapse.
>>7749114
i'll be honest, you owed me right away
i'll be honest, you owned me right away
Nice meme.
As a European who speaks three languages like most of his countrymen, I can tell you that English is perfect.
>>7748796
>>a rigid word order language
Read Milton sometime. SVO is not always the necessary order.
>>7748737
there is literally nothing wrong with saying "it had had." it is not "bad english," those are two different words that just so happen to have the same pronunciation, and if you'd pay attention to your own usage you'd probably find that you say consecutive words that happen to be pronounced the same all the time.
>>7748562
>thinking grammatical gender is useful for anything
>not recognizing the complexities of English syntax
>not realizing that ambiguity is part of the beauty of language
Top pleb m8
