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/lit/ board - Literature - October 2014

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Most viewed threads in this category

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Most modern authors from around 2010
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Say what you will about his writing, but: He's read more books than you He's smarter than you And Ur grandma, momma, sista and galfrend would all fuck him how does it feel, /litl?
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>yfw you're one of the many heteronyms of God
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Anybody here got a Sea of Hooks PDF or epub?
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Butterfly, do you want to elope with me? It's zeeburg.
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>tfw I'm going to meet m00t before the semester ends
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I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
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The Irony of Wallace~ The flotsam of post modernism remains on the banks of the beach. Tides of style and lingo and gesticulations and performance infect new participants, the young, who have no need to dig into the roots or dive into the ocean of ontology for they too are but the remnants of sunken vessels, vehicles that drowned by trying to drive on water. The young are everywhere. Melted skin dangles off the bones of sixty or more years because she wants to wear this bikini for the rest of her life, because she is 'young at heart'. The irony of Wallace is that knowing 'this is water' didn't stop him from driving into that deep sea. The noose was an anchor that made sure he wasn't to wash on shore ever again. Wallace took his life because he tried driving instead of swimming, and the irony is that this genius knew all along that 'this is water'. Tan orange wrinkled skin wrapped by fabric floss, does she not know how disgusting she looks? She is the God of decades past, an emblem of driving on water, drowning in a sea of vehicles. I look up from the ocean. This submarine is cozy. The water is beautiful.
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>tfw Zeeburg will never be my sex slave
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>tfw I will probably wrote my first novella on college life of the solitude with living out a female companion Also, /zeeburggeneral/ thread:
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Alright /lit/ I need help. I'm supposed to do a marxism literary analysis of a short story and I chose the Shoemaker and the Devil. I don't want the essay written for me only what should go into it. Inb4 underage b& i'm an 18 year old Senior. Inb4 not your personal army this is an anon asking for help
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What poetry have you been reading? >And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And she forgot the blue above the trees, And she forgot the dells where waters run, And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; 420 She had no knowledge when the day was done, And the new morn she saw not: but in peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, And moisten’d it with tears unto the core.
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what is /lit/ opinion of Clive Barker? I really like this but dunno about his other stuff.
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Does anyone here know any books on vajrayana practice? Or christian Tantra/buddhism? I'd imagine the nestorians would have made something before being culled by the buddhists along with the other christian groups.
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>he takes posting on an Indonesian cartoon image board seriously
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So I wrote this on a whim after reading a copypasta about cheetos. Anyone willing to take it apart? “I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.” “Stop talking to me.” “We’re gonna have to do it quickly, before it wak…” “nyeeeEEEEEESSSSSSssssss…” The faint, yet unmistakeably feral growling interrupts Jackson, a morbidly obese, schizophrenic African American man, midsentence. A sweat-soaked wad of fabric, a hankerchief once, falls onto the cardboard box at his feet, the scintillating droplets staining the surface dark brown as they landed. Dark, hostile eyes stare up through holes punched into the cardboard box as the growling develops into an inhuman crescendo of roars, screams and moans, the reverberations becoming a tangible vibration against Jackson’s unusally flawless ebony skin. A yellow and brown spotted claw rips through the cardboard from beneath the sopping wet handkerchief, revealing a crouching cheetah shrouded in a pungent orange mist. Thousands of years of biological instinct kicking in, a dark red fire courses through Jackson’s veins as he dead sprints away from his natural predator, his overhanging paunch, atrophied muscles and gelatinous tush no obstacle as his legs pump at the speed of a Formula 1 racer travelling at 30 kilometers per hour. “Are we far enough away?” “STOP TALKING TO ME” “Coz I can still smell the ch…” As he loses consciousness for the last time, he hears a nasal, upbeat voice say “they’re dangerously cheesy.”
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Hey /lit/ Any suggestions for fictocriticism? Trying not to jump to conclusions. Trying to see why it is even being read. Failing hard. All I can see... "fictocriticism": >phd candidate at nowhere uni (aus/can) >compiled/printed all blogs >submitted as doctoral dissertation
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I'm American, and I'm sick of people saying America is "the stupidest country in the world." Personally, I think Europe is the stupidest country in the world...
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I'm trying to write some characters right now, and while I have the ides of what I want to happen in the story, I've realized that some of my characters don't have any motivation to be doing what they're doing. Are there any books I should read that could help me with writing characters? or even tips would be great.
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