/lit/ - Literature

>>8828162
There are times, and this is one of them, when even being critiquing feels wrong. What do you say about a post that has everything that might rain out of a poisonous genius's mind—sex & death & nerve & heat & ligatures of insight? If reading might be fatal and if a wet summer night can turn into a threesome—crystal blue eyes in a puddle next to her hot tub, black bathing suit a poison memory right in my frontal lobe, in front of your eyes, there is not much left to say except eat shit and die, you talented pen hack—thank you for providing for the ugly ink fish!!!

>>7325807
Well,

in V. Pynchon describes Esther as assuming taking the ballet fourth position in order to kiss someone,

a change of mind as a shift in the configuration of sights and sounds he was now filtering out, choosing not to notice,

the feeling after sex as: After she left, there was only the ticking of the clock, until Schoenmaker yawned, sudden and explosive; rolled over to confront the ceiling and began swearing at it softly,

a hallucinating dog as: The dog began to scream at humid nightmare-shapes,

the phenomenon of commuting as the Dance of Death brought up to date,

uh, this: I felt as do many young men a sure wind of Greatness flowing over my shoulders like an invisible cape,

a bunch of Nabokovian shit that I'll leave out,

this: Pal leaves abraded together, shredding one another to green fibres of light; tree limbs scraped, leaves of the carob, dry as leather, throbbed ad shook. As if there were a gathering behind the trees, a gathering in the sky. The quiverings about us, mounting, panicked, grew louder than the children or ghosts of children. Afraid to look, we could stare only at the pavilion though God knew what might appear there,

...there'd been radiation counters—and radiation—enough to make the place sound like a locust-season gone mad,

the 'I am the twentieth century' speech,

the blackout at the end of Benny Profane's section...

...phew... that's just V. we can do Gravity's Rainbow & Lot 49. Any infidelity is because I'm d-runk, man, memory serves come, w/e, right?

>>6942661
Ye, in truth, are not only intelligent—ye have almost a monopoly of certain of the subtler and more virile forms of intelligence.

The poem itself might be reasonably described as a special virtuous character—there is in it, abloom in more than one of its manifestations, a femaleness as palpable as the femaleness of vagina boogers, puss-puss rot and overnight-slept-in-makeup.

Men are strong.

Men are brave in physical combat.

Men have sentiment.

Men are romantic, and love what they conceive to be attainable and callipygian.

Men incline to lies, deceit and self-delusion.

Men know how to sweat and whack.

Men are poets and peepeepullers.

But in so far as they show the true fundamentals of intelligence—in so far as they reveal a capacity for discovering the kernel of eternal verity in the husk of delusion and hallucination and a passion for bringing it forth—to that extent, at least, you are feminine, and still nourished by the milk drained from ye Siamese gun.