/lit/ - Literature

>>18362390
Lmao, I can see it now. There you stand, anon, dressed in a dapper sports jacket, slacks, belt, aviators, a wrinkled navy blue button down, all tied together by your well-worn docksiders which matched the brown leather of your (father's) wristwatch. You look dashing, a picturesque yuppie if there ever was on. The patio is bathed in the orange glow of a lovely early summer evening, and your attire is perfectly suited to the weather. Speckled about the most-social-space of this New England condo are a litany of all colors of your collegiate peers. The slender Nigerian physics major, the adorably smirking literature TA, a bombastic Puerto rican from the business school, and even the timid campus ministry girl whose blonde as can be. What a crowd, women galore such that you hardly recall the sympathetic sideglance which preceded your cousin's invite. Following the first 40 minutes of meandering, you're ears snap to attention in response to your subconscious immediately honing in on the faintest "Goethe," uttered from across the lawn. A master of subtlety, your brisk jaunt masqueraded the sprinting of your mind. "I couldn't help but overhear you mention a remarkable author just now," you exclaim, with no small hint of condescension, to an unrecognizable (yet nontheless intoxicating) brunette who was surrounded by a small gaggle of, no doubt, faceless philistines. She turned to you, a pair of lovely breasts protruding from a polyesterne tank top that barely revealed the most delicious hint of a midriff. The angelic ignoramus sang "yes, I am taking Lit101, and my professor said that Goe......". You raise your immaculately slender finger to hush her, to which the north Iberian nymph complied with wife-like obedience. "Aha a wonderous man, that Goethe, he having an estimated IQ of 225, i do feel i can relate to the state he must have felt, far surpassing his contemporaries. I contemplated the utterly evocating Sorrows of Young Werther on my drive here. How a Kierkegaardean tale it was! So reminding me of ol' Soren's timeless wisdom of how one shall regret hanging oneself or even not doing so, a wicked analogy oft repeated by so many great minds, Doestesvky to...." your excitement had long appeared on your face, as you looked about your captive audience, yet what horror. Met not be grins, nor blank stares, your guesstimated your pupils to be presenting you with disgust! "Anon..." chimed the brown-headed Helen. "My professor said Goethe was a pedophile! Why would you ever read something by someone so vile?!" You had no response for her, this Penelope turned Clytemnestra. Jaw agape, you exited the stage, and puttered off into the orange fingers of dusk on your moped, the sweat of your brow and the red of your counteneance not abating for the entirety of your drive.

A book to cope with the meaninglessness of life, the suffering-dissatisfaction inherent to the existence and the ephemerality of the phenomenal world?

To rediscover meaning, beauty, eternity.