/lit/ - Literature

Which authors deserved the Nobel but never won it?

>The word itself has another color. It’s not a word with any resonance, although the e was once pronounced. There is only the bump now between b and l, the relief at the end, the whew. It hasn’t the sly turn which crimson takes halfway through, yellow’s deceptive jelly, or the rolled-down sound in brown. It hasn’t violet’s rapid sexual shudder or like a rough road the irregularity of ultramarine, the low puddle in mauve like a pancake covered in cream, the disapproving purse to pink, the assertive brevity of red, the whine of green.

The guy can write about literally anything and I'd read it

Why this fat fuck relevant?

He can't write a plot that doesn't divulge into petty cynicism made out of half baked purple prose paragraphs whose excuse is modernity. Neither he is funny, rather more snarky through characters who resemble his own lazy and gluttonous mode of living, unsurprisingly always peering at people from above. Just imagine being alive for all these years, reading and writing as your profession, only to give out a handful of good pages. He's a hack and not even worth of the juvenile affection from impressionable and overreacting hipsters on here.

>reading The Tunnel
>expecting some dark, philosophical story
>it's just small dicks and farting

>I began, I remember, because I felt I had to. I'd reached that modest height in my career, that gentle rise, from which I could coast out of gear to a soft stop. Now I wonder why not. Why not? But then duty drove me forward like a soldier. I said it was time for "the Big Book," the long monument to my mind I repeatedly dreamed I had to have: a pyramid, a column tall enough to satisfy the sky. Duty drove me the way it drives men into marriage. Begetting is expected of us, and in those days of heavy men in helmets the seed was certain, and wanted only the wind for a womb, or any slit; yet what sprang up out of those foxholes we fucked with our fists but our own frightened selves? with a shout of pure terror, too. That too—that too was expected; it was expected even of flabby maleless men like me. And now, here, where I am writing still, still in this chair, hammering type like tacks into the page, speaking without a listening ear, whose eye do I hope to catch and charm and fill with tears and understanding, if not my own, my own ordinary, unforgiving and unfeeling eye?...my eye. So sentences circle me like a toy train. What could I have said about the Boche, about bigotry, barbarism, butchery, Bach, that hasn't been said as repeatedly as I dreamed by dream of glory, unless it was what I've said? What could I have explained where no reason exists and no cause is adequate; what body burned to a crisp could I have rebelieved was bacon, if I had not taken the tack I took?

Why doesn't he get the respect he deserves as America's foremost prose stylist?

other authors with the same kind of repulsive and confessional style?

>GAS, I demand gas! I need your hole to pass gas through your sweet ass. I long to become inured in your stink, in to your pale sweaty cheeks my face must sink. Endow my nostrils and willing mouth with your anal effluent, let loose your scatological cascade of GAS and drown me in the succour of your colonic miasma.

What did he mean by this?

>I scorn the day I become inured with her stink! May her gassy miasma flow like effluent upon me, may the thunderous rip release a stink cloud upon my face. To whichever gods there may be in the ether, I pray that the contents of her Tunnel fulminate before me and bring me to a gaseous and pungent death.

What did he mean by this?

Who is the William Gass of literature?

Is his prose flatulent and overwrought?

This man loves a good fart.

>William 'out form her ass flows a miasma of' Gass.

Who is the final boss of literature?

Now that the dust has settled, can we agree he is America's foremost prose stylist?

>I wanted her ursine rump on my face. I wanted her alabaster cheeks to be in place of my cheeks so that I may sniff her anal effluence again and again! I wish to pass into the dream of her ass so that I may bask in her gas.

- William 'Out from my ass comes a miasma of' Gass

>With a thunderous crack, her drawers were soiled. A soft sweet aroma filled the air warmly as her stink percolated through her cotton panties. His nose savoured every sniff, his mouth, every gulp.

What a fucking freak.

>>8151094
Assuming ass gass assimilates sassy assonance, ass gass assembles sassy ass gass nutgrass. Brassy ass gass amasses vassal ass bypasses. Classy ass gass overpasses hassocks. Assuming sassy ass gass amasses biomass, sassy ass gass bypasses declassified ass classes.

Ass gass assonance disassembles classical assemblies.

>>8147677
Fast Ass blasts fast ass blasts as gas passes past gas blasts.

>Billy Butter has a lover; without no hands he lies above her, fucking lightly as a plover, first his sister, then her mother. Here's Ben. There ain't no law in the Redeemer's church against a good fuck, is there Furber? Why of course not, Luther, only it's got to be your wife, and beyond five inches it's a sin to enjoy it. By christ you're a good sport, Furb. By christ you are. Pat. Hey boys, ain't Furb a good sport? Squeeze. By christ. You can play at our picnic. Rum a dum. Rum a dum. Rum a dum dum.

what the fuck is wrong with him?

>I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

Isn't it wonderful?

>Wild eyes were another sign. It is something I have seldom seen — the expression of an ecstatic state — though much is foolishly written of them, as if they grew like Jerusalem artichokes along the road. The eyes are black, right enough, whatever their normal color is; they are black because their perception is condensed to a coal, because the touch and taste and perfume of the lover, the outcry of a dirty word, a welcome river, have been reduced in the heat of passion to a black ash, and this unburnt residue of oxidation, this calyx, replaces the pupil so it no longer receives but sends, and every hair is on end, though perhaps only outspread on a pillow, and the nostrils are flared, mouth agape, cheeks sucked so the whole face seems as squeezed as a juiced fruit; I know, for once Lou went into that wildness while we were absorbing one another, trying to kiss, not merely forcefully, not the skull of our skeleton, but the skull and all the bones on which the essential self is hung, kiss so the shape of the soul is stirred too, that's what is called the ultimate French, the furtherest fuck, when a cock makes a concept cry out and climax; I know, for more than once, though not often, I shuddered into that other region, when a mouth drew me through its generosity into the realm of unravel, and every sensation lay extended as a lake, every tie was loosed, and the glue of things dissolved. I knew I wore the wild look then. The greatest gift you can give another human being is to let them warm you till, in passing beyond pleasure, your defenses fall, your ego surrenders, its structure melts, its towers topple, lies, fancies, vanities, blow away in no wind, and you return, not to the clay you came from — the unfired vessel — but to the original moment of inspiration, when you were the unabbreviated breath of God.

>Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

What are some other amazing openers?

When will you fucks finally accept Ass as the savior of American fiction? When will you fucks finally realize that Ass's prose is on the level of Joyce, surpassing it in certain respects? When will you fucks learn to bow down to the greatest living American writer, perhaps the greatest living writer period? When will you fucks learn that The Tunnel is the greatest novel of at least the last 50 years?

>“Wild eyes were another sign. It is something I have seldom seen — the expression of an ecstatic state — though much is foolishly written of them, as if they grew like Jerusalem artichokes along the road. The eyes are black, right enough, whatever their normal color is; they are black because their perception is condensed to a coal, because the touch and taste and perfume of the lover, the outcry of a dirty word, a welcome river, have been reduced in the heat of passion to a black ash, and this unburnt residue of oxidation, this calyx, replaces the pupil so it no longer receives but sends, and every hair is on end, though perhaps only outspread on a pillow, and the nostrils are flared, mouth agape, cheeks sucked so the whole face seems as squeezed as a juiced fruit; I know, for once Lou went into that wildness while we were absorbing one another, trying to kiss, not merely forcefully, not the skull of our skeleton, but the skull and all the bones on which the essential self is hung, kiss so the shape of the soul is stirred too, that's what is called the ultimate French, the furtherest fuck, when a cock makes a concept cry out and climax; I know, for more than once, though not often, I shuddered into that other region, when a mouth drew me through its generosity into the realm of unravel, and every sensation lay extended as a lake, every tie was loosed, and the glue of things dissolved. I knew I wore the wild look then. The greatest gift you can give another human being is to let them warm you till, in passing beyond pleasure, your defenses fall, your ego surrenders, its structure melts, its towers topple, lies, fancies, vanities, blow away in no wind, and you return, not to the clay you came from — the unfired vessel — but to the original moment of inspiration, when you were the unabbreviated breath of God.”

Welcome to Ass land, my friends. Settle down, have a nice cup of perfect prose, and let's get to Assin.

>>7840809
For one, no matter how much you think otherwise, calling something a meme is not a valid argument or claim of value, and, no matter how many times you do it, it never will be. For two--and this is a bit of a projection--I highly doubt you have actually read The Tunnel from cover to cover, and, on the off chance that you have, I'm even more doubtful that you understood it.