/lit/ - Literature

I've been insanely invested in the lore of Dark Souls and other From Software games for a while now and it sparked a thought on how the hell could it be written in a concise manner? How would this open-ended, incomplete and at times even cryptic way of telling a story and building a world work in prose or epic poetry, I have had ideas of my own to write similar things but I just cannot think up any means to do so in a way that would feel complete and form a whole. Anyone else thought of this /lit/?

What is the Dark Souls of literature?

can you recommend me some books with dark souls aesthetic?

Do you carry the fire? Do you hide it?

That burning within your chest that must be contained. Which must be held within a furnace locked away for fear of revealing its warmth unto those who wish to stay cold? For fear of those who will do anything to quell the embers that roil out thine mouth? To halt the lashing flames that roll from thine tongue?
Do you carry the fire? Do you share it?
Doth thou hark gently upon those you care for only to be rebuked with alien intent? With per-calculated cursing? Wishing to save those you do not know you could go without but only to push them away as if you seared their flesh? Doth thou persist and become the ostracized dragon of their lives or wilt with rejection and return hampered and careful?
Do you carry the fire? Do you grow it?
Inferno! Inferno of others are here! Spewing their thoughts and souls onto your screen! They are just like you! They are just like me! Knowledge and secrets! Hidden moments that you and those like you can only see! Yet it is empty, as thou sit atop the mount like oracles without a nation to heed thine calls of the future and the past. Some hear and they share but they are small and are squashed by giants and their huge angry eyes find you all. They send their ranks to climb and the snakes slither up the mountain and strike at thine ankles every time your tongue is loosed. The fire fades as the poison seeps. The forge that had once frothed out light from thine chests now cough up small embers and the shadows gain ground. You call out from thine gaping maw but all is smoke yet the serpents still strike. All is dark and the mind full of agony calls for something that has been extinguished. But it is gone but the repeating fangs entering your flesh do not relent and with each pang of pain you begin to attack those who once were your brothers. Ravens come and study and peck at thine skulls. Poking and prodding, biting and squelching until only the wind blows and thine call out to it as if it brings knowledge or secrets. But thou are wrapped in snakes and eyes of the raven watch your thoughts and whispers. Atop that mount, stifled and dumb mistaking the beat of a raven's wings as wind and the strike of the viper as repercussion to finding a hidden truth.
Do you carry the fire? Are you the source of the flame?
Have thou survived? Have thou escaped? Have thou learned through failure? Have thou become enveloped yet controlled? Acting as the licking flames to dance and flicker and to gorge? To grow. To spread.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast;
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now, at once adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

>Moby Dick is the Dark Souls 2 of the Literary World

Is La Tentation De Saint Antoine as illustrated by Odilon Redon the Dark Souls of literature?

whats the book equivalent of dark souls 3

I like Darkest Dungeon and Dark Souls. Books for these feels?

What are some books that are similar to muh gayme Dark Souls? I really like the gloomy, hopeless and depressing atmosphere

Whats the dark souls of literature?

Hey, /lit/, I wrote an epinician ode to Joe Biden in the manner of Pindar.

Oh Muses of the golden lyre,
Which God, which hero, which man ought we praise?
Come Clio, render unto my honey-laden tongue the golden verses that shall raise this man to the stars,
The Son of ancient Scranton, who as a mighty wall bans the dark march of malarkey from the high city, Joseph Biden, candidate for sena-, -ah, uh, pr-, president.
Verily, Scranton belongs to the gods and the hospitality of his Son must be proclaimed as it is.
Oh my highest delight and decoration!
Your seat of reason is guided by the Apple and Fig Newtons of fair-wristed Eris; your melting tongue bathes in the hot waters of Lethe.
As a mighty stream do gnashed words pour forth from your mouth and every phrase, propelled ever higher, hither and thither on the wind of wings waxen, is destined to brush the face of Helios and fall into the wine-dark sea.
You, ere Lord of thine own river, did guard it as you now guard the city, and your inmost nature reveals itself through your love of duty; the Thing That Everyone Knows endows you with its graciousness.
As you set right the iniquity of Cornpop,
who in wild haughtiness did spit forth Charon's silvery obol into Acheron, thence flung towards the eternal sojourn of heroes' souls, made carrion for dogs and birds of prey, so will you prove yourself worthy of this high occasion, Joe.
Be there any bliss among men, it is not attained except through toil.
As the Fates unravel life upon mortals' heads with their spindle, so did you summon with your mighty hand the amber-shaded ingot-belt from the depths of the Barrel, unsinkable, soaked in the waters of Justice, and cast out the foul insolence of Grain Exploding from the banks of thy River.
The truest witness to your hero's soul will be the days themselves.
O highest son!
Choiciest bloom of the stalk of Finnegan! Flown 'cross Poseidon's wide dominion upon the chariot of the Graces, sprung from the Ouse in the highest land of Sussex, the sublime Virtue of your ancestors is evinced by your great deeds and you show yourself worthy of this auspicious occasion.
To vast shores does your Wisdom extend, for from the children of your River did you discover the thralldom of their maenadic dancing upon the Holy Seat of your Lap, yea, through their beneficience did you first bathe in the scent of highest knowledge of Roaches; the mighty, golden locks of your most hirsute limbs soaked in the waters of Virtue, by the adoration of your children, bear witness to your strength.
For you shall prove thyself worthy in this great moment, you shall reach the outermost limits of the possible and fly to touch the column of Washington.
As for myself, I recognise my limits and shall not exceed them. To do so would be foolish.

Hello /lit/ i am somewhat new to reading, and i need your help. it all started about 3 weeks ago or so, i hopped onto this board as i started to get interested in reading and philosophy and have been lurking since around then, i have read some interesting threads and extremely schizo/autist ones too which both helped me get a faint grasp of what books to start reading with, i have been browsing websites looking for books to buy with the little money i have(well i'd consider it allot myself but i can imagine for someone with a stable job its just pocket change) for a few weeks, but lo and behold one day my father comes home from work and tells me that his co-worker friend(?) has 9000 books and wanted or needed im not too sure) to get rid of them all and would rather them go to someone who would look after them and care for them than one who does not.

so this is where /lit/ comes into play, i would like you lot to give me some recommendations of books you would consider essential to read and books you would tell someone to "Start with" this leads onto another thing it would be very helpful if yez would also provide me with those charts that guide you through the works of certain authors and genres.

here is a more coherent version if you cant be arsed: my dads co-worker friend is ridding himself of 9000 books and would supposedly prefer if they some go to me, but i am lost on what to ask for so i need people on /lit/ that i assume are well read to give me some books and certain authors to ask for as well as chart's that guide me through a genre or an authors works.
Suggestions in philosophy, sci-fi, drama/tragedy, surrealism, Gothic horror, cosmic horror and dark fantasy (think Berserk and dark souls) would be greatly appreciated.

also yes i will read your diary but, only once its finished.

Hello /lit/ i am somewhat new to reading, and i need your help. it all started about 3 weeks ago or so, i hopped onto this board as i started to get interested in reading and philosophy and have been lurking since around then, i have read some interesting threads and extremely schizo/autist ones too which both helped me get a faint grasp of what books to start reading with, i have been browsing websites looking for books to buy with the little money i have(well i'd consider it allot myself but i can imagine for someone with a stable job its just pocket change) for a few weeks, but lo and behold one day my father comes home from work and tells me that his co-worker friend(?) has 9000 books and wanted or needed im not too sure) to get rid of them all and would rather them go to someone who would look after them and care for them than one who does not.

so this is where /lit/ comes into play, i would like you lot to give me some recommendations of books you would consider essential to read and books you would tell someone to "Start with" this leads onto another thing it would be very helpful if yez would also provide me with those charts that guide you through the works of certain authors and genres.

here is a more coherent version if you cant be arsed: my dads co-worker friend is ridding himself of 9000 books and would supposedly prefer if they some go to me, but i am lost on what to ask for so i need people on /lit/ that i assume are well read to give me some books and certain authors to ask for as well as chart's that guide me through a genre or an authors works.
Suggestions in philosophy, sci-fi, drama/tragedy, surrealism, Gothic horror, cosmic horror and dark fantasy (think Berserk and dark souls) would be greatly appreciated.

also yes i will read your diary but only once its finished.

I need feedback on this poem
Untitled:

There’s hardly any reception on this mountain
A range so black and igneous.
Within this mountain sleeps a horrible red devil
So fuelled by anger, he pouts.
Then rests.

I scale this mountain more.
To discover other secrets it hides.
Beneath a rock you can hear,
A basilisk’s tongue, whispering lies
So fuelled to find truth, he preaches innacuracy.


A man can find himself into shallow despair.
With little meaning and lack of purpose
The fog was thick. A siren from a banshee rang.
It called me closer.
So fearful from this tune I heard. I hid.
So fuelled by fear, I ran from the song of an angel.

I arrived into a cavern,
So dark and so thirsty.
I found a nearby puddle and cleansed myself
And saw a man, who looked like me.
So fuelled anguish from the man I was. I plunged deeper into the depths.

There’s no reception in this cave.
There’s no light in this cave.
There’s one thing in this cave besides solid stone.
Eyes. Black eyes, not unlike my own.
One may say they are mine.

I began to feel the walls
As some sort of reality
The walls spoke to me; like when I was once a child.

Beware all ye souls, beware all ye mortal.
You solely have wandered into the red kings portal.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter
For there is no heaven for any who tread after.

I kept my pace.
A devils face
Grinned up against my own.
And without a trick and without deception
He finally gave me some god damned reception.

In their lofty chambers dwell
The sacred and divine
Resting in seraphic bliss
The timeless and sublime
Far above the mortal sphere
Dreaming without a care
Far above the weeping world
Sleeping amidst the light of stars
Too far away to hear our calls
Too far away to care at all
On the burnished thrones they sit
Might in their blazing eyes
Vault of heaven at their feet
Undying flames inside
Never shall decay or death
Touch on the blithe souls
Sorrowless the days of gods
Amidst the everblooming groves
But where do we lay our heads to rest?
Where do we shelter when the night falls?
For the part of man
Is to take the sombre path
Stumble in the dark
Stray amidst the dust and ash
Like forgotten ghosts
Drifting in the driving wind
Dashing towards the void
Whirling blindly through the night
Like water flung from the highest cliff
We fall,
Lunge,
Swirl,
Dissolve,
And fade away
Down into the unknown

Books are boring and have been made functionally irrelevant in the modern age. Why bother when I can use the internet for reading and gathering information? There's nothing I can get from Descartes, Kafka, Dostoevsky, Borges that won't be readily available elsewhere on the internet in 50 million places and far more digestible and to the point. And most written fiction is utter shit, let's not pretend otherwise. That aside, everything is getting adapted anyways.

There is literally no reason to read books other than to make yourself feel pretentious and smart. You get far more out of playing a game like Factorio or Terraria than you get out of the writings of Plutarch or going through the unnecessary cavalcade of Rome faggotry that /lit/ would shill to you when you could get all that same information in an evening by watching some video series on the same subject on YouTube.

Face it, books are history. Before the internet they had their use but they have been replaced. As a written work, they are inferior to comics, graphic novels, manga and pulp. As a creative artform, they are inferior to games, television and film because they drone on so much more but lack the ability to say anything more than what the page allows them. In the modern era, they are the most braindead and easy "art" to master because any simpleton can put a pen to paper and, with the right kind of nepotism, get it published.

Video games are objectively superior to all, however, as you get the full package in addition to being able to interact with it all. You have visual storytelling, narrative works, music, artistic designs and all intertwined at once with the ability to interact or change those very things within the world of that game. That is, if it's an actual game and not some VN. Even a VN is better than a book, though.
Games are objectively superior because only games allow you to play them in different ways every time as they do, like Dark Souls. Can't do that with a book.

>So, let every soul first consider that soul itself made all living beings by breathing life into them, those that are nourished by the earth and the sea, those in the air, and the divine stars in heaven. Soul itself made the sun and this great heaven, and it ordered it, and makes it circulate in a regular way, being a nature different from that which it orders, from that which it moves, and from that which it makes to be alive. And it is necessarily more honourable than these, since while these are generated and destroyed whenever soul departs from them or supplies them with life, soul itself exists forever by ‘not departing from itself’.
>As for the actual manner in which it supplies life to the whole universe and to each individual, this is how soul should reckon the matter: let it consider the great soul, as being itself another soul of no small value having already been released from deception, and from the things that have enchanted other souls, and that it is in a state of tranquillity. Let not only its encompassing body and its surging waves be tranquil, but all that surrounds it; let the earth be tranquil, the sea and the air be tranquil, and heaven itself, its better part. Let this soul, then, think of the great soul as, in a way, flowing or pouring everywhere into immobile heaven from ‘outside’, inhabiting and completely illuminating it. Just as rays from the sun light up a dark cloud, make it shine, and give it a golden appearance, so soul entered into the body of heaven and gave it life, gave it immortality, and wakened it from sleep.

What's the Dark Souls of JRPGs?

the dark souls of literature

Rate my poetry /lit/, my background so far is in Homer, Yeats, and Wilde

Twins and ruins
Cracked crosses, graves
Tired trunks, mosses
Puffing hills, streams
The sun,
Dark and quick
Is spinning
Each of it’s rays,
A new song
Against the candle twilight
Cloaking in it’s wake
It segregates
The tones of life
Not just of self
But of all shined
His smoke is cracking
What floats off?
Whimsical puffs of vapor
Noxious clouds of gas
Oh it smells like roses
Oh it smells like war
Same nonetheless
Oh look at them
Eternally blushed
Forever struggle
Bottomless youth
Archaic wisdom
Swallowing passion
Shooting venom
As God pushes the wheel
Your mind is split
Their blood is same
You are not split
Their souls compliment
Look as they wake
Look as they stare like mirrors
Two pieces of the world
Put your suits on
Those black costumes
Strap your boots
Those oppressive hooves
Nestle your eggs
Those sleeping swans
Spin your revolver
That silver needle
We are going to the glass castle, push it into the river

Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia's Dismal Swamp, nor Rome's accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true--not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon's, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe. "All is vanity." ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon's wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and jails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais as passing wise, and therefore jolly;--not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous Solomon.

But even Solomon, he says, "the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain" (I.E., even while living) "in the congregation of the dead." Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

What is the dark souls of literature?

What is the Dark Souls of literature? Serious replies only.