/lit/ - Literature

>>18384978
you're probably right. before all this i was even convinced you can't possibly love something that doesn't love you back. aristotle made a good case for this in the ethics. then i started reading de beauvoir while all this was going on, identifying with the "passionate man", reading goethe, listening to unrequited love songs. i feel like my brain has rotted from all this, or more likely that ive been retarded for a long time now.

Whose journals are worth reading?

I've only read Plath's journals.

Does anyone have any good recommendations on dream interpretation?

I've been trying hard to kick a porn addiction and managed to stay away from it for few weeks, which is really rare for me. Last night I snapped and binged watched for like 4 hours. Feeling pretty depressed and disappointed in myself today. But I know that these feelings are a good thing because they will help me double down on my resolve and keep me fighting toward a life without it, because that's what I really want. I need to keep reminding myself of this.

https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/38843724-tortilija

really falling behind this year. reading portrait of an artist today

>>10956907
A few days later, up a hill, outside the gas station, Ernesto came to of a sight down on rail runner tracks: two red hawks taloned together and drifting in dirt with fervent opposed ideas of where the stars were, and they did not peck or yell or cease in the cooked up dirt winds they dug out. Benched to the left of his sun beaten gaze were two old mexican women pressing noses and speaking about boys; they were waiting for one of their husbands to pick them up after their afternoon walk. They looked at Ernesto when he asked how long this had been happening, those birds there, how long had it been like this with those birds doing that, how long, and the women did not know, probably forever as another one tilted her nose up a bit, the sun giving it a lurid beating with spoons. Ernesto opened up his jaw and jowls and tongue and let out the laugh he had been preparing to make in his throat for that past half minute of jowl wrinkles smirking. The women learned quickly that Ernesto was just smiling and staring and so they went back to aligning their noses in conversation which then had Ernesto look back to the hawks who’d now been tired and were tired and tied to each other in stabbing grips even when tired. The gas station looked across the street, across the bench, Ernesto, dirt slopes to tracks, and tracks of birds trying; it looked across to Jennifer’s car pulling across the bridge at that time of day when the sun destroys hope that it’ll be there when Jennifer’s tired body wants to feel sunlight’s warm red love for skin. Across all this were Jennifer’s eyes, tired and unphased by the familiar orange busyness of it all familiarly blackened and unfamiliar, and he parked his car there where there were desert men doing desert things like walking around and sitting.

>>10969523
I won't but I like your poem. Try some pepto bismol

>>10969557
>they cleave through the opulent silence And mourn the night through the bare glorious trees
I hate the way I say And in my head
Also why are the trees glorious. I'd kill them
I like it

>>10895321
>How do you feel about death, /lit/?
You cannot kill that which has no life.

Has reading made you feel isolated or brought you closer to other people?