>Despite my profound memory
wew

You should have just quit when you hadn't written it and it was still just a meme.

>These sequences are remembered in no consistent order, as though my remembering them in this disjointed state reflects of my inability at the time to form the series of novel experiences with which I was greeted in the months immediately after my birth, into any coherent narrative.

Don't add a comma just because a sentence is too long. The second comma doesn't work there. The passage that is separated by commas isn't an aside, either, so the sentence doesn't work without the passage. Redo this sentence.

Stop trying to use long sentences to appear smarter than you are. Long sentences are a tool that should have some kind of cumulative effect.

That entire sentence could be replaced with "I can't remember being a baby very well."

After I had become comfortable in my new home and familiar with the four individuals who would hold, feed, bathe and entertain me, and who would also proudly present me to the aunts and cousins who were photographed with me lying asleep or with an expression of calm confusion in their arms, a new individual was introduced to my home environment, one who for the next eight or so years of my life would become my first friend and the first person to rouse in me those thoughts and emotions associated with romantic affection. Elaine's parents lived a street away in a house smaller than my own. Her mother was a teacher at the infants school I would later attend, about five-feet-eight in height with black, dry, shoulder-length hair and a somewhat beak-like nose which did not prevent her from achieving an overall appearance of conventional attractiveness. Elaine's father worked a steady office job, and the fact that I can no longer remember either his appearance or his social function is due no doubt to the staid mundanity and obscurity with which he had allowed himself to be associated. Elaine's grandfather had been an actor of relative renown in the region, and despite never meeting him the image I formed of him in my imagination provided my earliest appreciation and admiration for the concept of fame. Her grandfather, that elusive figure who resembled Abraham Lincoln in the few photographs I saw of him (smiling upwards at the young Elaine held above him in his hands) with his carefully groomed, greying beard and his thick dark grey hair combed back from his high forehead, introduced my young self to that mysterious demographic of human beings who occupy the highest position in society, whose lives and identities exist in a semi-mythic state, detached from but serving as the finest representatives of their fellow citizens. This was a demographic I knew I was destined to be counted among, and the ambition to do so appeared so natural to me that to aspire to be anything less than famous seemed to me even in my infancy as an aberration of the human will.

>>7997859

Deliberately difficult to parse with no payoff or merit to the style.

>Despite my profound memory and the vast internal archive of experiences I have available to me

There should be a comma here, but you can't put one in because you've fucked up the rest of the sentence.

>should I wish at any time to lucidly recall any specific moments of my life, the section of my inner library dedicated to the initial months of my existence is stocked only with a few thin volumes, their content illegible in most part, the few faded stamps on their blank opening page suggesting they have not been loaned out to my conscious mind in some time

The cause "I was a baby", and the effect "I can't remember" are reversed here for some reason. They're also basically the same.

>These sequences are remembered in no consistent order, as though my remembering them in this disjointed state reflects of my inability at the time to form the series of novel experiences with which I was greeted in the months immediately after my birth, into any coherent narrative.

You already said that.

The incredibly short chapters that you're able to post at any one time belie the fact that you're writing them as you go on and haven't actually written them all previously, as claimed. The more you post, the more you destroy the illusion you'd built up. Stop.

>>7997888

>and who would also proudly present
replace: give

>infants school
grammar

>due no doubt to the staid mundanity and obscurity with which he had allowed himself to be associated
Man, just say he was quiet. These words aren't pulling their weight.

>despite never meeting him the image I formed of him in my imagination provided my earliest appreciation and admiration for the concept of fame

You keep doing this. You go into a sentence thinking "I want this to be a long sentence", and then you bend the grammar around the sentence. The sentence structure is vague and sloppy and adds nothing to the writing.

>and the ambition to do so appeared so natural to me that to aspire to be anything less than famous seemed to me even in my infancy as an aberration of the human will.

Jesus take the wheel.

>three posters

Is OP spamming and criticizing himself?

>>7997859
Classic case of purple prose.

HE'S DOING IT

AND IT'S JUST AS SHIT AS EVERYONE THOUGHT

>>7997859
You are like a shittier version of that shittier version of Proust who seems to be popular these days as a cigarette and leather jacket model.

Elaine had been born a few months previous to my own exalted birth, and already by the time we first met she had grown the mass of black curly hair which would later define my image of her during this early period. As my father's wage alone was sufficient to sustain our financial expenses, my mother remained at home to perform those duties necessary for a clean and comfortable house and to care for her youngest son. And so when Elaine's parents were in work or out of state, she would be left at my house until her parents' return. Lacking a sibling my own age, I was delighted to be able to share the excitement I had towards the strange world to which I had been recently introduced. As an only child Elaine was also glad to have someone whose energy and curiosity matched her own, and so we quickly became close friends, our initial discomfort towards being encouraged to share our toys and the attention of our parents and in turn often shunned this attention to enjoy each others' company alone, usually in the large garden at the back of my house. She was most certainly glad, too, to have a playmate whose precocious grasp of humor and instinctive ability to entertain those in his company allowed her to escape the rather serious atmosphere of her own home and spend her days giggling and exploring her surroundings with such a fine representative of the opposite sex.

>>7997967
I posted >>7997904 and >>7997869 so the posts "critiquing" him must have been him too.

The clothing I wore at this time would become characteristic of the type of clothing. I would wear and the aesthetic I would embody throughout my life. Comfortable, oversized sweaters often worn over a loose-fitting shirt. Bluejeans with upturned hems. A baggy buttoned jacket with "LA 91" embroidered on one breast. Buckled well-polished shoes. Untucked shirts with a waistcoat worn over it. Bucket hats. Thick white sneakers with white elasticated cotton socks extending up my shins. Denim overalls. A block-patterned jacket in purple, crimson, black and yellow. Striped pastel t-shirts. Knee and elbow length white t-shirts. My hair was left long on top with the sides cut short, forming something akin to a bowlcut albeit more redolent of a traditionally aristocratic look than a bowlcut usually allows. I was shorter than most of my peers, but even this allowed me my appearance a "cuteness" which would later define my physical appearance in a way that I came to accept and appreciate.

Elaine and I would spend our first afternoons together in the long living room which extended from the front of the house to the rear patio doors, and where the masses of toys I had either inherited from my siblings or which had been bought by my parents lay scattered across the thin grey carpet, each one picked up and discarded soon after when my attention would be drawn to another toy or another nearby distraction. When we grew tired we would sit comfortably on the padded seat of our diapers and sip from plastic cups full of juice, and then occasionally fall asleep on our backs with our limbs spread out among the rubble-like carnage of the toys around us. In August of 1992, only a few months after Elaine and I had first become friends, our family left REDACTED Avenue in my father's Mercedes and traveled to a holiday resort where my parents had rented a small bungalow for us to stay. This would be my first holiday, and one of the two holidays our family would enjoy with all members present. I was not yet a year old.

>>7998170
How long is this whole thing going to be?

The bungalow we occupied during this holiday was located along a street of dark clean asphalt bordered on each side by the untrimmed lawns of neighboring holiday-making families, within a forest of tall pine trees. Behind the bungalow a short path led down through long grass towards a man-made lake surrounded by other bungalows. When we arrived I was deposited in the cot near the sliding glass patio doors from where, supporting my weight on the cot's edge, I could see across the heads of the reeds that littered the shore to where a gaggle of geese floated in loose formation across the reflective surface of the water. Soon after we arrived my parents rented four bicycles which we would use to explore our new surroundings and the various activities advertised on the brochure and on green wooden signboards along the streets. My father, dressed in a tight hooped tshirt and shorts that covered only a third or so of his muscular thighs, carried the video camera my parents had purchased shortly after my birth, which my mother had so far used primarily to document the infancy of her third child, perhaps aware if only in a vague and ineffable sense that this child would go on to distinguish himself as one of the most sensitive and intellectually astute minds of (at the very least) his own generation. My mother also wore a hooped t-shirt of red and light faded yellow and a pair of white tennis-style shorts which accentuated her own sturdy and well-proportioned frame. Following behind them, my brother and sister sat on the edge of their bicycle seats, their toes barely reaching the dry grass as they slowly walked their bicycles down the narrow front path to the street. The front of my mother's bicycle was affixed with a seat on which I sat in a white sun hat, staring with wide-eyed curiosity at the passing sights as my family members cycled around me, sometimes speeding ahead before turning and charging the oncoming group with a feigned desire to crash. As was often the case my sister soon grew restless watching my mother serving as my sole source of maternal affection, and insisted that she and my mother swap bicycles on the journey back to our bungalow. Having ridden for a few dozen minutes along the pinecone-littered roads and passed some of the areas where we would later return to take part in some activity, my mother and sister traded bicycles and soon I was racing along the shaded avenues with my sister, unable to sit on the bicycle's high seat, pumping her thin pale legs with great effort behind me. Wearing a green and black baseball hat with an extended peak, her central incisors still square and striated and gapped, she leaned forward so that her face was beside my own, laughing and asking questions I could neither comprehend nor answer. After napping a while on our return to the bungalow, I was carried outside on my sister's hip to the edge of the lake with dusk arriving to prepare for the coming night.

My brother emerged from the open patio door in black tracksuit bottoms and a black sportscoat with elasticated waist and cuffs.My brother's poor eyesight required that he wear thick-lensed glasses at almost all times, a squint and a somewhat pained facial expression otherwise betraying his blurred vision. The spectacles he wore were wide-rimmed, the base of each frame resting on his freckled cheeks. His hair was cut like my own into a ragged bowlcut of sorts, though his hair, curlier, drier and with less sheen than my own, contributed to his bookish and "nerdy" image, distinct from the traditionally masculine appearance of my tall, athletic father. While my sister stood with her torso leaning to one side to provide a counterbalance to the weight of my body resting her narrow hip, he appeared nearby, squatting at the water's edge and prodding the broken head of a reed into the shallow water. Some ducks gathered nearby and while their attention appeared to rest on my brother, his own was focused only on his own stabbing movements. My sister, readjusting my position so that I may be carried with greater ease, approached my brother from behind and for a brief moment the three of us were framed as an idyllic image of three young siblings enjoying their time together, their futures promising more of the same health, happiness and success which had defined their lives until that point. Perhaps attracted by this tableau of familial love, my parents too joined us at the lake's edge. My father now wore a bright red t-shirt and my mother a white t-shirt tucked into her denim jeans. I was still dressed in the loose yellow tshirt and light blue overalls I had worn throughout the day, and though it was no longer as warm as it had been when we had left for our bicycle ride the sun's warmth lingered in the air. Crickets chirped wildly in the surrounding grass. The lazy movements of the distant swans formed small ripples which barely reached the part of the shore where my family had gathered.

Soon I was handed over to my mother, whose wider hips and stronger frame resembled something of a maternal ideal in its capacity to bear the weight of heavy clinging children. My father, often a quiet and distant individual who usually seemed more content with providing the means for his family to enjoy themselves rather than participating in the enjoyment himself, approached my mother reached out towards me. Soon I was being held against his chest, my face almost parallel to his own, each of us staring out across the water on which the setting sun was faintly reflected. He pointed out over the lake and I squinted my eyes in mock-comprehension, unaware of which aspect of my vision I should be most surprised and curious about. My father had shaved though I could still feel the prickly stubble against the skin of my face, a sensation I loathed more than any other in the first year or so of my life. Already my heightened sensitivity, keenly reactive to every aspect of the external world, had caused me distress whenever I escaped the threatening darkness of my own bedroom to find refuge in my parents' bed. There, having braved the dark landing and the chasm of the stairwell which led down to the ground floor which I was sure had been overrun with savage predators, I nestled between my father and mother at the center of their queen-sized bed. Whenever my father attempted to hold me or comfort me however I would feel the sharp pricks of his jawline stubble and begin to cry while reaching out for the soft, warm and scented skin of my mother. But there at the lakeside, pinned against my father's side by one of his powerful arms, I felt the security and power with which many children later associate with their father. My mother retreated indoors meanwhile to find the video camera. My sister, seeing it pointed towards her, fled the lakeside and ran laughing through the long grass, eventually hiding behind a tree where only a portion of her thin frame was visible. My brother continued to squat at the water's side, standing occasionally to trudge a little further along the edge of the lake.

The swimming pool was designed to reflect the surroundings and atmosphere of a sub-tropical climate, a glass dome enclosing the pool and its surroundings where foliage (real and artificial) draped from imitation cliff-sides and where the air was warm and damp with humidity. The enclosed space was filled with the noise of countless children yelling and splashing in the water above the gulping sounds of the pool's drainage system. My brother and sister took their inflatable rings into the water and soon discovered an area where the water was funneled to imitate river rapids. My mother carried me to where the water reached up to her lower stomach and began to dip my backside into the water, lifting me up immediately after and making noises which I responded to with laughter and a toothless grin. My father walked along the side of the giant pool, directing the camera between my mother and I and my siblings who were now floating where the water was deeper. A loud horn sounded and soon the water in the deeper part of the pool began to rise and fall and waves began to form. My brother and sister were swimming in the centre of the water, my sister the only one now with a float to assist her. Soon the waves began to thrash wildly and force all those in the water a few feet into the air before smashing them back down. People, mostly adults, cheers and anticipated each wave with rising shouts which became loudest when the water slammed into their chests. My brother, without a rubber ring, panicked wildly and reached out desperately for my sister, who could not prevent herself from laughing long enough to help her younger brother. The waves forced them towards one of the imitation cliff-sides at the far side of the pool, along which a thick rope had been attached to help anybody stranded on that side. My sister was forced against the cliff-side by the rising waves while my brother, flailing helplessly without his spectacles to help him, finally reached out and held onto my sister's thin inflatable ring, forcing it beneath the water and turning my sister's laughter to a panic as intense as his own. Soon they were both shrieking and desperately reaching for the rope at the side, but before their fingers could find it the waves began to calm and soon the small crowd who had gathered in the deeper water returned to their families in the shallows or plodded slowly back to their loungers around the pool's edge.

Hrm.

It's not exactly Greene's "A Sort of Life," but it does hold a certain charm, I suppose.

Nor is it unreadable, but you are in need of an experienced and professional editor, OP.

I did not enjoy the feeling of the plastic drainage grilles against the soft underside of my feet, but my legs were too short to step over them. But soon my mother picked me up again and returned me to the bunch of loungers where my family had set up something of a camp, our towels and belongings hanging from the lounger's back support and gathered untidily underneath. My father continued to stand at a distance with the camera my mother and sister usually chose to operate. At one point he stands behind a thick vertical length of artificial foliage hanging down to the damp tiles and points the camera towards his family as though he were a stranger to them, covertly watching their movements and my mother's attempts to dress me in a t-shirt. He then turns the camera slowly away from the family and across the wide expanse of the pool, where a new batch of children were now screaming and splashing and being carried to and fro the water in the arms of their parents or older siblings. Exhausted from my labor, I lay supine in a poolside cot, my diaper unfastened so that my genitals, already bulging with promise, could be exposed to whatever cool air was available. Later, at night, we rode our bicycles again and through the shadows leaking down the trunks of the pine trees I saw a small store with a large red and white candy cane visible in the window. In the following days the swans which had been so placid floating like buoyant plastic toys on the manmade lake beyond the bungalow or stomping carelessly through the grass which separated each residence from each other gathered outside the patio doors of our holiday home and pecked viciously against the glass. My siblings retreated indoors after sacrificing the bread they had taken out to throw in pieces onto the lake, and my family stood without speaking as the geese hissed and clattered their beaks against the window pane.

>>7998025

Shut your slobbering whorehole of a mouth about Knausgård or I will fight you IRL

is this the pizza delivery guy who posted before?