/lit/ - Literature

>>19150425
Oh ye of little faith.
What good is your hollow heart to the one true

>>18966615
>Epictetus
>Bobby McFerrin

This is the literature board.

>WPOP on /lit/

>>18058543
>that guy
Don’t pretend it wasn’t you. I am indeed fine, never better in fact. Someone’s done quite a headjob on your noggin.

>>18058554
You too. Too much of the wrong philosophy, or just no teacher to warn you against falling into dangerous faith traps?

>>18058556
We know quite a lot about nature. Learning more all the time.
>You’re still faithful even though you’re not
In no way is the sight of a green leaf a faith driven proposition. Get your head out of your ass.

>>18058564
I like the Sugarcubes and Björk knows not to touch certain parts of those old teles

>>18058611
You don’t know anything about it. Read Stirner

>>18058566
It isn’t faith. A fucking octopus god can visit us tomorrow and raise Lovecraft from the dead and bitch him out for his writings and send him back to the grave and fly off, the atheist is perfectly vindicated in her life

>Everyone here HAAAATES you. You attention seeker!
>daily tubers
>daily daddy threads
Now this nobody
>He makes everyone seeeethe
Single issue kid.
>The Holy Trinity of /lit/ is ...
DFW, Joyce and Pynchon, you fag.

>>15577729
No one asked any of you attention whores

>People from geographical region write göd
>MUST be the land or the Race

Yeah, they do the same here. Best to ignore the psueds

Children don’t fall of penises

"This, however, all poets believe: that whoever
pricks up his ears as he lies in the grass or on lonely
slopes will find out something about those things that
are between heaven and earth. And when they feel
tender sentiments stirring, the poets always fancy that
nature herself is in love with them; and that she is
creeping to their ears to tell them secrets and amorous
flatteries; and of this they brag and boast before all
mortals.

"Alas, there are so many things between heaven and
earth of which only the poets have dreamed.

"And especially above the heavens: for all gods are
poets' parables, poets' prevarications. Verily, it always
lifts us higher — specifically, to the realm of the clouds:
upon these we place our motley bastards and call them
gods and overmen. For they are just light enough for
these chairs — all these gods and overmen. Ah, how
weary I am of all the imperfection which must at all
costs become eventl Ah, how weary I am of poets!"

When Zarathustra spoke thus, his disciple was angry
with him, but he remained silent. And Zarathustra too
remained silent; and his eye had turned inward as if he
were gazing into vast distances. At last he sighed and
drew a deep breath.

"I am of today and before," he said then, "but there
is something in me that is of tomorrow and the day after
tomorrow and time to come. I have grown weary of the
poets, the old and the new: superficial they all seem to
me, and shallow seas. Their thoughts have not pene-
trated deeply enough; therefore their feelings did not
touch bottom.

"Some lust and some boredom: that has so far been
their best reflection. All their harp jingling is to me the
breathing and flitting of ghosts; what have they ever
known of the fervor of tones?

"Nor are they clean enough for me: they all muddy
their waters to make them appear deep. And they like
to pose as reconcilers: but mediators and mixers they
remain for me, and half-and-half and unclean.

"Alas, I cast my net into their seas and wanted to
catch good fish; but I always pulled up the head of
some old god. Thus the sea gave him who was hungry a
stone. And they themselves may well have come from
the sea. Certainly, pearls are found in them: they are
that much more similar to hard shellfish. And instead
of a soul I often found salted slime in them.

"From the sea they learned even its vanity: is not the
sea the peacock of peacocks? Even before the ugliest
buffalo it still spreads out its tail, and never wearies of
its lace fan of silver and silk. Sulky, the buffalo stares
back, close to the sand in his soul, closer still to the
thicket, closest of all to the swamp. What are beauty
and sea and peacock's finery to him? This parable I
offer the poets. Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of
peacocks and a sea of vanity! The spirit of the poet
craves spectators — even if only buffaloes.