/lit/ - Literature

>>20413699
If I ever wanted anyone to mark my words for the future, they'll be this:

Politically and culturally things will become unsustainable. A future generation will look at the political actions, works of media, works of art and general zeitgeist of our times, perhaps the following two generations, and recoil in a mix of anger and disgust. By 2100, you'll see a proper renaissance of politics and culture in the west, of the kind that can be safely compared to THE renaissance proper. But it will take the utter withering starvation of all the culture to the point where even the cowardly simpering sycophants of the establishment who passionately defend how great of a time we have right now will have to admit the ruination of all things human. When things become properly uncomfortable for everyone at the point where no amount of machild or adultolescent entertainment, pornographic addiction, immersion in state-approved play-pretend revolutions, mediocrity of intellect or creativity, the basal stimulation of the most generic, derivative, formulaic and attention desperate forms of attention, the over-socialization among simpering artificial people, the pseudo-psychology of self-healing that is a thinly veiled form of gospel of envy for the unfulfilled first worlder, can no longer run the bloodstream like anesthesia for a dying world. When the first world becomes third world, then things will really pick up.

Future generations will look into a world of things like "equality, anti-racism, anti-sexism, socialism" being used as tools of control to grip the civil and economic liberties and capacity of a people to stand up for themselves and reject them.

They'll look at a world of scribbled post-expressionist "art", poetry without rhymes or structure, extremely basal and simplistic music, the canned corporate political messages shoved into everything, the droves of baby-brained entertainment for manchildren in film and literature, the vulgar insertion of pornography into non-pornographic environments, the whining and weakness of the incapable insisting in participating in the higher forms as nothing but grifters, and spit on it, revolt against, and build a proper world using times like this as a cautionary tale.

Nothing of our time will be remembered as anything but a joke.

But first, the world must slowly, very slowly, die.

A pressure pushed his heart back. It constricted it in the sudden heat and pain that this sort of sudden shock causes. A reverberating electric wave through muscles and veins causing the body to quake in an acerbic burn. His mind lost its bearings slightly and gradually, becoming dizzier, and he felt, through his back and his chest and his stomach that rush of horror, which wouldn't subside, wouldn't be quenched all at once in a delightful relief once he looked twice, checked and realized that it was all just a mistake. It was a crushing wave of horror, the kind that spreads physical aches through your bloodstream and is paralyzing, the kind of moment where your hazed mind is so overflown with adrenaline that you would never be capable to properly recall it should you search your memory for it. His temples pulsated, his heart beat so hard and so fast he could feel the beat in his head. His breathing had become shaky automatically and the world felt flimsy, like walking on water, distancing itself from his senses in a slow slide. This was AIDS and cancer laced into a worse package. This was a life sentence for agony ever-lasting. This was more than just suffering and just death, but the destruction of one's own self into something else, something mangled, dingy and warped. That deep sorrow came in slowly, but arrived to stay. Burrowing itself somewhere in his heart, infecting his body with a grieving aspect of affliction, his mind with a mist of confusion and overlapping thoughts, negative mantras and labyrinths of the same conclusions. His life had been completely restructured. Such is the idea of life destruction, a reconstruction of life into something worse, something pathetic, downtrodden and inescapable. A tainted mark that will always be over your face, as if even in the most comfortable and happy moments, that may hide away beyond the fogs of the immediate future, where comfort may someday reappear, even then, all these moments must be observed through blurred, almost blinded eyes, those fields walked by twisted, crippled legs, and these flavors appreciated by a tongue covered in scars of mutilation. Despite in a literal sense still being in one piece, this is how he felt. As if he had lost a limb or suffered disfigurement. All that has been lost can never be restored, your world and your life are a different experience now, forever.

>>20151117
>her goodreads rating is pretty good.

>>19789097
>>19789102
>how can we make them boomers stop discrediting our apocalipse cult pandemics
>let's use this extremely niche, young people focused, far-left, adolescent aimed internet tranny to convince them

>>18489871
Thinking about writing a romantic novel about a hardcore capitalist young man who's a professional gambler, obsessed with money and who believes in a might makes right, survival of the fittest philosophy regarding the capitalist world, disregarding anyone complaining about it as weaklings and incompetents. He would also be a huge Objectivist who believes only in the empirically verifiable truth (telling everyone around him to "embrace reality" at the slightest superstition), and rejects the idea that its is impossible to truly know the truth and that our senses interprete the real world erroneously. One day he falls in love and beings dating this physically plain but above average looking young woman who's a huge cunt to everyone including him, but with episodes of sweetness and tenderness, who also psychologically manipulates him into a mutual unhealthy obsession. As the novel progresses, our hero goes through the highest ups and lowest downs of gambling and investing, realizing that his lover may be a human embodying of Reality, Money or even Luck itself, all of which concepts he is "in love" with, and which treat himself and other people both very well and very poorly, arbitrarily, randomly, without rhyme or reason. The novel would end as the protagonist goes through an extended mental breakdown during its third act, imagining that his lover was never real, but a demon or imaginary projection from his own mind to punish him for his moral sins, only to have the entire world around him suddenly feel extremely concrete and real, sober up at all once, and realize that indeed his lover is real, as she reveals to him she's pregnant. The novel concludes as our hero compares his lover to the sea, in tides that come and go and random bouts of tranquility and destruction, imagining that the child who'll be born from her womb is like the Biblical Beast from Revelations 13: 1, as it would be the spawn of two morally bankrupt people, and accepts his fate as the harbinger of the Beast with a smile, once again, cocky and proud of his philosophy.

>>18433695
It is quite simply more than 400 books long. And I keep adding more to it. In fact, just today I was pondering if I'm ever going to be able to eat through this fucking thing in its entirety, specially since TODAY I added 55 more books to the pile. It's almost entirely non-fiction, something like 25 books are novels.

I'm reading for three hours a day and I think I'm going to be done precisely never.

>>18378591
Because people are retarded flesh automata who WILL DO whatever they are told to do. Anything that gets mass marketed and branded well enough WILL INVARIABLY sell like hot cakes and make tons of money. You see music, or videogames, or films for example, and novels are not that different as they become more like pieces of entertainment media and less like works of pure art. The "good stuff" gets buried while mediocre shit shilled by mega corps gets massive advertising and marketing and becomes invariably extremely successful. Truth is, produce something that isn't utter and complete shit, just painfully mediocre, and with enough money behind it, people will consume it en masse.

Because people are fucking retards. I myself was watching Peaky Blinders and feeling thirsty for some Irish Whiskey despite never even having drunk whiskey in my life and knowing for a fact that it is considered the most shit type of whiskey, but because Cillian Murphy drinks it (or tea made to look like it) copiously in the series, your brain just wants some out of pure imitation.

Truth is, you don't need quality goods or services for success in an economy. What you really need is to mass produce mediocrity and mass market it to the average fucking imbecile out there. That is why the films, the music, the videogames, the fashion styles, the fast food chains and the internet celebrities that you know of are all utter infuriating shit. Because we are hardwired to consume whatever we are told to.

It wasn't "being risqué", or "porn", or "sex appeal", or being edgy that sold Fifty Shades. It was the manufactured ideal of it being popular, which lead to it being popular, which lead to people thinking that it was popular for these reasons. But in all actuality, it was just a bullshit romance like all others that received the push it needed to rise above the other lemmings. Could have been anything else. Could have been something about a blind guy rather than a rich BDSM guy, and people would invent rationalizations about it being about overcoming disabilities through love. Or it could have been about an interracial couple, or it could have been about time travelling.

The reasons for its success do NOT lie within itself, with the 50 Shades novel itself, or its author, or its themes. It lies within the industry works and the way people think, and it is lazily and lazily.

>>15292457
Sociopathic lack of responsibility towards action and consequence. They want to act freely without thinking about the consequences of their actions and believe that there are enough artificial barriers that you can place between engaging in the act of reproduction and the event of reproduction itself when you are a young fertile person. It is the ruthless relativism of the value of a fetus, in which a mother may kill one out of convenience but nurture and raise another in a time where it's the most convenient for her, which shows that her convenience and logistic comfort are more important than the existence of the fetus that she would otherwise choose to bear, lacking the naturally self-sacrificial nature of a parent, which exposes the inability to gauge said logistic inconvenience in the bearing of a child BEFORE engaging in the mechanisms of reproduction.

It's Sophism of such a level that they think that shallow attempts at logical-positivism (from those that refuse to admit that science is not on anybody's side ever) such as claiming that a fetus is a clump of cells as if every living creature was not effectively just an overgrown clump of cells that form tissues that form organs that form systems that forms the organism, will justify their disregard towards the budding human life they interrupt.

Another thing is that the "my body my choice" narrative is entirely incorrect since the body of the fetus is external to this of its mother, and its genetic code may share her DNA but is an entirely original genetic code born from the junction between the mother's and father's, and even if somehow the fetus were entirely 100% his mother's DNA, they would still have an originally generated genetic code.

tl;dr: Irresponsible, inconsequent, sociopathic, relativist and ignorant

>age 23
>fluent in Portuguese, English and Spanish
>have written three political theory mega-essays, each of around 800 to 1000 pages of length that I have no idea how to publish
>live with mom, make money as professional gambler, give money to mom so she can buy more and better groceries

It's a pretty retarded life.

A Novel

A young man in his late twenties suffers with several problems that show up in his life at the same time, ranging from loosing his job, getting in massive debt with banks, going almost bankrupt, having a relapse on his alcoholism and witnessing his girlfriend leave him for her high school sweetheart. He ponders killing himself, but realizes that now he has nothing to loose and death is the only thing ahead in his life, he has the perfect opportunity to do whatever he wants with no fear of consequence.
After getting a loan of 300K dollars with a loan-shark, the protagonist kills said loan shark and leaves the country with only the necessary, fleeing to Mexico where he assumes a false identity and starts a new life. In this stampede of new opportunities, he decides to use a professional poker player to bet with his money and acquire even more, and when he as a few millions of his own he decides to help the career of a jazz trio that used to play in one of the bars in Mexico when he first moved there, eventually making them all rich enough to come back to the USA kicking down the door, and living way more comfortably, in luxury and wealth.

The novel is kind of set in the 1950's in America, so the style and atmosphere is all based on the styles and political climate of the era.

>>9442166
I like it, sounds like a solid short story to me, but anything longer than a novella with this story could go awry because I sense this is a very dialogue-centric piece and monologue is obviously a huge part of it, so it could turn somewhat stale, maybe boring. But if you desire to do a "Passion According to GH" thing, go for it. The ending is somewhat "meh" in my opinion. It seems the story just displays the rat's opinions on the protagonist who doesn't show any resistance and just obliges to what he says. Kind of an anti-climatic way to end it.

Either way, 7/10 story.