On simply technical terms, who is the most skilled writer in history.
doesn't need to be the best plot or write even good stories or something deep, only technique.
I'm sure it has to be some poet.
>>8111838
I'd argue Virginia Woolf or Joyce. Even though they weren't huge fans of one another.
>>8111838
you're acting like this isnt a completely arbitrary quality
>>8111838
In what language? And in what time range?
>>8111861
There's nothing "arbitrary" about a mastery of language. It's what distinguishes literature from genre trash.
>>8111870
This.
OP you sure you didn't just want to start another shitflinging sessions
Billy Shakes my man
>>8111885
>>figures of speech, rythmg of the prose, metrics, vocabulary, range of topics, use of tropes, cultural reference, inspirations, influences
what about them?
J O H N U P D I K E
Otherwise known as Jewn Upkike, degenerate leftist Jew who was raised in Shillington, Pennsylvania; Joan Cuckdike, stupid bitch who proves all feminism wrong merely by existing.
>His house is masked from him by heads, by searchlights and upwards waterfalls, by rainbows and shouts, by something magisterial and singular about the event that makes it as hard to see as the sun. People, neighbors, part to let him through. He sees. The garage is gone; the charred studs still stand, but the roof has collapsed and the shingles smolder with spurts of blue-green flame against the drenched wreckage on the cement floor. The handle of the power mower pokes up intact. The rooms nearest the garage, the kitchen and the bedroom above it, the bedroom that had been his and Janice's and then his and Jill's, flame against the torrents of water. Flame sinks back, then bursts out again, through roof or window, in tongues: dragon's taunts. The apple-green aluminum clapboards do not themselves burn; rather, they seem to shield the fire from the water. Abrupt gaps in the shifting weaves of struggling elements let shreds show through of the upstairs wallpaper, of the kitchen shelves; then shut at a breath of wind. He scans the upstairs window for Jill's face, but glimpses only the stained ceiling. The roof above, half the roof, is a field of smoke, smoke bubbling up and coming off the shadow-line shingles in serried billows that look combed. Smoke pours out of Nelson's windows, but that half of the house is not yet aflame, and may be saved. Indeed, the house burns spitefully, spitting, stinkingly: the ersatz and synthetic materials grudge combustion its triumph. Once in boyhood Rabbit saw a barn burn in the valley beyond Mt. Judge; it was a torch, an explosion of hay outstarring the sky with embers. Here there is no such display.
Flaubert
My diary tbqhwyf
Nabokov
