Post the best stream of consciousness in the world.
>Implying streams of consciousness can be good.
read this guy
>>8175893
but knausgaard is a shit writer, everyone knows that, himself included
op read joyce
>>8175866
Joyce, Woolf, Proust.
Now that the big three are taken care of, the thread can begin.
Ulysses
>>8175940
Gonna have to throw in Faulkner.
>Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
>>8175940
Faulkner = Joyce > Woolf = Proust
Objectively.
![pig2[1].jpg](https://i.imgur.com/Rp4fv9H.jpg "pig2[1].jpg")
Blood and fire feed the sunshine of an everlasting pig. The pig dances upon the corpses of the gluttons that used to feast upon the summers sunsets, their bellies distending with cooled sunlight. No cries for help, only rumbling of guts. Sphincters sputtering decayed wishes of bloodied teenage virgins. No man or woman should witness this, for it is only meant for childrens eyes. Their pure gaze piercing whatever darkness might shield the truth from judgement.
Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs In the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman s breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.
>>8176951
It just goes to show what type of book Ulysses is that I've read it twice, this passage doesn't feel familiar upon reading it again, yet I still knew it's Bloom reminiscing about Molly.
