/lit/ - Literature

What author, in your opinion, has the best prose and why? What is it about their prose that you love so much? What works of theirs would you recommend for me to read?

Also, on a completely different tangent: why do you think we all have different opinions? Why do we want to enforce our personal orthodoxy upon others even if our views don't match, causing conflict?

>>4640407
I've seen similar things back in my school days. Really good friend of mine was working on a film franchise idea and was developing a language for it too. One day he was telling me about the latest development which were pretty fuckin' cool, and I encouraged him of course, but as soon as another acquaintance of ours overheard, he immediately turned and scoffed. Criticized my friend for being a stupid "kid".
Seems to me that a huge percentage of people don't like to ruminate or step over boundaries because that raises questions (sometimes scary ones if your not used to that kind of thing), and so they just sit there perfectly content within the societal norm that they have been raised up in, and thus is the only thing they know.
When people like my friend challenge that, people get fucked off and label him as "childish" because of his absurd creativity.

>>4640329
>Swedish
>Jag älska dig, mina nigger

>>4640100
Why isn't it?

>>4639592
This.

>you are also incredibly special because no one has ever experienced the world in the way that you have, and that you have a unique and important perspective to offer. that you have ~75 years in which to accomplish this

>>4638568
I have never read Way of Kings, but have you considered that making the reader go "who, where, when and why?" might be intentional?
It sounds to me like Sanderson was trying to prolong a sense of 'mystery' and 'the unknown', so that the reader bogs down into the narrative so that they can finally discover the "who what when and why".

But if it pissed you off, he probably did it with too much of a heavy hand. And plus, to his credit, he seems to learn from his mistakes, and he'll without a doubt clean that up.

Forgive me if I'm wrong.

>>4637295
Here's something of mine I did a while back, maybe a year or so?

My first memory was not normal, not in the least. Neither was the next.

The first did not consist of a walk in the open. It was not the sweet singing of my mother, slowly coaxing me into the warm waters of sleep. It was not my first word and the reaction of excitement from my proud parents. It was not of my first birthday and the celebration that should have taken place. It was not my first taste of a foreign food and the cacophony of new flavors that came with it. It was not a happy memory, a nice memory, a queer memory, nor an unpleasant memory. It wasn’t even in the safety of my own home. Rather, it was a nightmare.

It was not a typical ‘bad dream’ though, because it was a real event. It seemed like a broken nightmare, though, the pieces of the memory scattered and separated, the dots never connecting. Never explaining themselves. Never explaining the words ‘right in two’ which would ring in my ears for the rest of my life, nor the silence that soaked my core, or why I felt those two eyes, embers in the darkness, scrutinising me. They leered, making sure I felt utterly small and insignificant, then vanished.

I never fully understood my second memory either. It was not broken like the last, but never the less, half blind and barely conscious, I remember stumbling into the enveloping dark of the woods, an intense inferno behind me. I could feel the warmth singing the back of my skull, and I remember turning around to watch the last of the building walls crumble down to burn along with the rest.

Did I know what the fire was for? Did I have any idea where I was? No. As I said, these were my first childhood memories that I could successfully recall, and they were not the type of memory one would look back on fondly.

As the heat had begun boring into my face, my eyes had begun stinging in the intensity of the blaze, and I came out of my dumb daze. Panic must have seized my strings as I felt my legs spasm into a sprint beneath me. I ran over the foliage as hard as I could.

I heard cries of burning people, long and shrill, piercing my thoughts as I tripped, fell, tripped, fell and tripped yet again. The scrapes I soon gathered were furious, demanding my attention as I staggered through the night, frail of mind and body.

Gradually I became cold numb. I ran until the trees bent and the ground swayed. My limbs felt like rubber tubes flapping about. My concentration struggled as if I were wading through mud, and my vision fuzzed like someone had wrapped cotton over my eyes. A sandpaper-like dryness constricted my throat, my lungs strained and soon, after blackness finally overcame me, my second childhood memory ended.