/lit/ - Literature

>>20226162
>surreal transcendence/whirlwind of deep seated emotions culminating into the ultimate peaceful euphoria
I could see that being used to describe The Pale King. Have a couple excerpts. Neither picrel or below could be called representative of The Pale King but you can not really provide a representative sample of it. The ending brings me a sort of contentment that I can not really explain.

§1
Past the flannel plains and blacktop graphs and skylines of canted rust, and
past the tobacco-brown river overhung with weeping trees and coins of sunlight
through them on the water downriver, to the place beyond the windbreak, where
untilled fields simmer shrilly in the A.M. heat: shattercane, lamb’s-quarter,
cutgrass, sawbrier, nutgrass, jimsonweed, wild mint, dandelion, foxtail,
muscadine, spinecabbage, goldenrod, creeping charlie, butter-print,
nightshade, ragweed, wild oat, vetch, butcher grass, invaginate volunteer
beans, all heads gently nodding in a morning breeze like a mother’s soft hand
on your cheek. An arrow of starlings fired from the windbreak’s thatch. The
glitter of dew that stays where it is and steams all day. A sunflower, four
more, one bowed, and horses in the distance standing rigid and still as toys.
All nodding. Electric sounds of insects at their business. Ale-colored
sunshine and pale sky and whorls of cirrus so high they cast no shadow.
Insects all business all the time. Quartz and chert and schist and chondrite
iron scabs in granite. Very old land. Look around you. The horizon trembling,
shapeless. We are all of us brothers.

Some crows come overhead then, three or four, not a murder, on the wing,
silent with intent, corn-bound for the pasture’s wire beyond which one horse
smells at the other’s behind, the lead horse’s tail obligingly lifted. Your
shoes’ brand incised in the dew. An alfalfa breeze. Socks’ burrs. Dry
scratching inside a culvert. Rusted wire and tilted posts more a symbol of
restraint than a fence per se. NO HUNTING. The shush of the interstate off
past the windbreak. The pasture’s crows standing at angles, turning up patties
to get at the worms underneath, the shapes of the worms incised in the
overturned dung and baked by the sun all day until hardened, there to stay,
tiny vacant lines in rows and inset curls that do not close because head never
quite touches tail. Read these.

>>20206815
Meh, 99% of people who read just get fixated on the plot. DFW was right.
>>20207255
DFW wrote some fairly high action shit. picrel.