/lit/ - Literature

>>7886726
Or rather, the fear that not appearing in a certain way, which requires the acquisition of specific memories and memorised lines will not allow you to simply continue without humiliating yourself in front of other people, or have them harass you by calling you out on your lack of knowledge on a subject, or not being able to repeat what they want you to repeat... not knowing what it is they want you to repeat back to them, not knowing what to take from pieces of literature that will allow this to occur... something like that.

>>7886666
See the post I already posted:
>>7886634
I will be seeing a psychiatrist soon,
but I think it will make me worse, not better.

>>7886719
The constant fear that one is not doing enough to acquire knowledge or the fear of not having acquired enough knowledge in order to have a conversation about something with someone else.

>>7886635
Can you tell me, how does one "do" Christianity?

My parents were atheist, so I honestly don't know,
but I feel it may solve my problems.

>>7886626
The last time I saw him he gave me a test and said he was under the impression I had [clinical depression?] or whatever it is called. I will be attending a series of psychiatric sessions soon, although I am not particularly interested in doing so. I presume they are going to brainwash me and institutionalise me and assume I am schizophrenic based on the fact that I observe the world in a different [more thorough?] way than other people.

>>7886615
I would rather not.

>>7886606
I am a boy.

>>7886583
I am a virgin.

>>7886548
I went to a therapist and he started harassing me by quoting Yeats and asking me what poem it was from, as well as various other quotes. I am not sure if this is normal or if there is something about me that makes people want to harass me.

>>7886530
I honestly can't remember the last time I have had a normal conversation with anyone and I fear I may never have one.

>>7886488
I had brought poetry with me to read throughout the breaks, I hadn't said anything, I was quite quiet really, they started talking loudly, trying to aggravate me, with me replying curtly about things I knew about and remaining silent about things I did not.

>>7886445
>With or without literature, you don't need to be anxious about doing or not doing them all because it doesn't matter.
You would think that, but I was recently helping out some PhD student in a Computer Science department of a University, completely unrelated, but because something about me ticked the people in the lunch room off, I think I had a book with me, or because I was wearing a shirt, they started to sort of intentionally annoy me by talking very loudly about obscure points of History of our country, trying to catch me out about things I wouldn't know about, in order to humiliate me, then talking about what exactly the origins of the novel were, lying about what it was in order to try and catch me out and me remaining silent in order to avoid anything I may not know about, all the while feeling very fucking anxious, and feeling as if I should not ever read in public in case someone verbally assaults me for doing so. This has happened on several occasions and people are constantly trying to harass me with literature-related subjects. If literature did not exist, I could simply talk to someone and have a nice time. As it is, I live in a state of absolute terror and would rather not have been born at all. [Crawling.]

>>7886442
Good.

Y'all have to agree that the majority of people no longer wish to live, though, lets not beat around the bush.

>>7886404
I don't get it.

>>7886396
Because there is something existing in extension which is to be known and people expect you to know it, you are constantly expected to acquire the correct reading of various, if not an infinite amount of, pieces of literature. Some people are simply not capable of doing this, but the anxiety still exists, and some are capable but only after undergoing intense terror, constantly questioning whether they are up to it or not, what exactly it is they should say to show that they have understood, et cetera.

If Literature did not exist, these problems would not exist and these anxieties, and we could simply do what we want to do.

Literature has ruined what could have been a terror-free experience. Because it exists, one can not live outside of anxiety, constantly how one may acquire the correct reading of its contents, which is of infinite length.

Literature has ruined what could have been a terror-free experience. But as it is the majority of people would rather not be alive, precisely because literature exists.

Or am I wrong?

>>7564142
No, actually, that is wrong, but I forgive you for your ignorance.

>>7564131
I think I had always intended to say something of this nature but never did so in such a direct way.

Directly to the point: The [real or imagined] overcoming of paralysis through predominantly unorthodox methods.

>>7564110
And yet it occurred, bitchface.

II
Hadn't we been lodged between these two buildings before and had let their glass and alloy grow like lichen upon these ivory shapes? What is wrong then with letting metals and plastics [and thunder channelled through copper] infect the other end of this sinking platform? The mental faculties are in disrepair and there are no more aphrodisiacs with a strong enough poison to make extension erotic to these yellow crusted eyes. Aren't there those weeks where upon our paralysed motions and upon our turgid reflections sits the illusion of transcendence, naked and white with a little death around the eyes? [And that we know that our only chance at fucking the whore is in doing something reprensible]. Wasn't the aphrodisiac a boredom of listlessness? For bowmen who sleep on the roof in winter there is only that and nothing else. The rest is merely dressed up pieces of cardboard. Is it right to drink the nectar? Or wrong? It would seem one day both and the next day neither and if only the latter then it is the most necessary of aevyls. There is no charity but in giving absolute hegemony over extension toward yourself. It can not be shared with anything but the smallest of audiences who stand on tippy toes to hear for something that may very well never come. [And how could I possibly share the steps that lead to the illusion of transcendence with anyone but someone who is willing to understand it even if it is wrong?] Splendour is only available to those with the weapons necessary for its acquisition [one for the dagger and one for the sable] or an infinite amount of daggers and no sable? [For who can really say they are Achilles?] Consider[...] nowhere is paradise written but in the non-sequacious dribble that drips from gutters, old bridges and train stations in disrepair [only in drinking these poisons do we imagine we have seen Zarathustra in the rusted metal chassis swinging beside a half-broken stone gate near the metal tracks and pebble stones]. That is paradise. Because that is all we know, we will continue to commit crimes both literary and otherwise, through humiliation and embarassment. I've seen veneration of a leaf, but this is not to be praised. This is to be feared.

I/ II

Alphabetic reorganisation as a form of futurist liturgy by means of which uneducated unemployed pieces of plastic, alloy, metal, glass, people'd computers, wired cities, piss [ochsenfjord] and dried semen pretend they are carrying sables. Pieces of bound tree as ammunition through which criminals shoot in to the crowd, lazily and with eyes closed. Earthworms think of Earth and nothing else. They secrete their juices over unseen places and meld in to the walls, carpets [ochsenfjord] and cities made of vomit, climbing over each other and dripping from the bottom of bins, frightening the girls. They don't eat at the café, nor eat with knife and fork [ochsenfjord] and have no goals but to wriggle and decease [yet even when you try and cut them]. Consider abandoning participation. Why have ears when there is nothing to hear? What does the dribble that is spat in to the webbed wasp's aural cavity and is dressed up as conversation matter? Contemplation has ended where contemplation is nothing but repeated platitudes and uninspired banalities. "Why had we even walked here when we could have stayed at home?" Familiar? The life that has already ended requires no general practitioner nor consultation. Why leave the cave? Metal and Plastic reality has already seized our cities with a klang klang boom and we've made good use of her clowns and whores. Isn't Marinetti standing amidst the humming wires that sit like the nerves of the city above the tram tracks and glass? Hadn't we imaged ourselves storming throught this or that alloy manifestation of electrical paralysis?

>>7547586
Mon berceau s'adossait à la bibliothèque,
Babel sombre, où roman, science, fabliau,
Tout, la cendre latine et la poussière grecque,
Se mêlaient. J'était haut comme un in-folio.
Deux voix me parlaient. L'une, insidieuse et ferme,
Disait: «La Terre est un gâteau plein de douceur;
Je puis (et ton plaisir serait alors sans terme!)
Te faire un appétit d'une égale grosseur.»
Et l'autre: «Viens! oh! viens voyager dans les rêves,
Au delà du possible, au delà du connu!»
Et celle-là chantait comme le vent des grèves,
Fantôme vagissant, on ne sait d'où venu,
Qui caresse l'oreille et cependant l'effraie.
Je te répondis: «Oui! douce voix!» C'est d'alors
Que date ce qu'on peut, hélas! nommer ma plaie
Et ma fatalité. Derrière les décors
De l'existence immense, au plus noir de l'abîme,
Je vois distinctement des mondes singuliers,
Et, de ma clairvoyance extatique victime,
Je traîne des serpents qui mordent mes souliers.
Et c'est depuis ce temps que, pareil aux prophètes,
J'aime si tendrement le désert et la mer;
Que je ris dans les deuils et pleure dans les fêtes,
Et trouve un goût suave au vin le plus amer;
Que je prends très souvent les faits pour des mensonges,
Et que, les yeux au ciel, je tombe dans des trous.
Mais la voix me console et dit: «Garde tes songes:
Les sages n'en ont pas d'aussi beaux que les fous!»

A-G-L-O-W-I-N-G-W-A-F-E-R-O-F-T-I-M-E

>>7547472
*strata

>>7547467
VI

To me they are all islands of flesh.
Feyries who have forgotten origins.
They move or are moved by established stratums.

The island that is your idea is a feyry of glowing
skin and from your caverns trickles juice
and from your illumined flesh I abstract
abdomena: a glowing wafer of time.

Given the choice to taste the canals
of your cunt, drift through the annals of
your Venice with a gondola-
Offered this choice I would accept to add
to my register of infinite wafers.

The question was answered even before
it befell me. I was too engaged to hear.
These islands of skin become
me as they are imprinted on my disc.

VII

Yellow crust that grows across my eyes
diverts the faculties I control.
Supine geisha are my surroundings:
A human'd blouse reiterated.

VIII

When I sleep other lives are here beside,
boyish floating fleshy things beside.
I am focused on an Antlitz long,
a wafer of time that dwells and dwells.

IX

When I think of children, I anger.
They are islands of stochastic noise.

X

On my retina is fired verses
of an inexpressible labyrinth.

XI

Unclean phenomena leave me in
a funhouse of schizophrenia.

XII

There are no me's, only enemies
I have given names and kicked around.
When they bit me it was because I
wanted them to and when they bled it
was also in my being ignorant
that their ideas became vessels
of rigormortis.

XIII

Whenever I make oolong, the centre of all
culture is the perfumed wafts of oriental tea.

XIV

I wish I was a photograph of
an upper class german woman
in her mid twenties.

XV

I am not in control
of my own nervous system.
I am a novice among novices
who move but are in a state
of mental paralysis. I will try
to tame you, organic wires
which circle my spectre like
the motherboard of a personal computer.

I will tire in my project.
I will know days and perfumes
and Klangs. I will not have seen
another spectre even
when it would seem so at a café
check-out, where asmodeic nymphs
are eating toast. I will hire to projects
and I will know their banal limb movements.
I will know prayers of which there
are many sorts. I will know doubt
and its antithesis. I will know glances
and spit-strewn Antlitzes and I will
know needless spite, unnecessary
feelings and the labyrinth of misinformed insight.