/lit/ - Literature

whatre some good books?

some of my friends are artists and one of my parents too so lots of my parents friends were growing up. after having gone to many many art shows, i honestly think that most artists are just raw brainlets. even some of the really famous 20th c. artists are just translating freud in the way thatll get them the most attention. but it seems like it wasnt always that way, and im not ready to give up on visual art. give me the low down on some shit with high aesthetic value/originality. gtfo if you think basquiat isn't a hack

>>9620115
legit

>>9577800
there are better rousseau's, but he's dope

Max watches a young boy navigate the dance floor with a silver spoon clenched in his fist. Destination raw bar. The shoulders of the boy's tuxedo turn into tumorous epaulettes as he reaches over the crushed ice on tip-toes for a bowl of black caviar. Retreating to a quiet corner of the room, he slinks to the ground and, with his pudgy knuckles turning white on the spoon's stem, eats the sturgeon roe like morning cereal. The boy's mother, twisting her neck away from a conversation, sees him and steps away. He knows he's been spotted. Leaving the bowl of evidence, but not the spoon, he staggers through the dancers to the center of the band stand clearing. He pivots from one happy couple to the next, his eyes dilated in fear, trying to see his mother through their swinging arms and legs. There she is, stooping, then crouching so not to spill a glass of champagne. "What's on your mouth?" she asks, dabbing the corner of his lips with a cocktail napkin. Something has welled up inside of him. She can see it in his un-blinking eyes as she steps back. "Honey, is everything okay?" Starting at his stomach, his body shutters, taking his hand to his mouth. His eyes close and the hand drops to his knee; a black squirt of squid-ink caviar clears the floor. The music crashes to a stop. "Unghhhhhhhhhhhhh." Splat. Max laughs and looks away, "holy shit."

100 pages in, and this is going to be a slog. Writing is fantastic, it's just long. I don't know about you guys, but the type is so small in my edition I have to hold the book right next to my face. I don't have bad eyesight.

Also, I get that this is partially about fraudulence, but he constantly uses this negative/false/descriptive technique (maybe there's a word for this I don't know) where he'll say something like, "it wasn't true what they said twenty years later at the Tabard Inn about his liking the homemade donuts or feeling up the girls at Smith Point, and it wasn't true..."etc. etc.

Maybe it's too early to feel strongly either way, but something about the over-use of this technique feels a little name-game-y. Thoughts?