/lit/ - Literature

I have to say (echoing what an earlier post said) the responses provided by Christians to the discussion supra are disappointing. I'm not sure whether they are trying to convince their interlocutors (which they are failing spectacularly at) or just convince themselves

>>14842516
There's a French painter I admire by the name of Watteau. This man grew up in poverty and was well accustomed to going to sleep with an empty stomach. However, in his 20s, his paintings began to be appreciated by the aristocrats, which made him the official painter for them. He went from rags to riches yet he still hated life: he was surrounded by a bunch of shallow buffons living in an artificial paradise. His remedy to this was work. Start reading and your petty problems will slowly dissipate before the glory of past minds. Despite his hate for life, he found redemption in creating fleecy dreamworlds of beauty.

>Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
>Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
>While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
>And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
>Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
>Among the river sallows, borne aloft
>Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
>And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
>Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
>The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
>And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

Does it get any better than this?

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.


Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 1
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.


Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Titian, Rembrandt, Watteau, Turner, Klee, Matisse, Twombly

>>6114258
>Looks like we didn't have a german thread in a long time.

haha this is such a german way of writing english.

in any case the last german book I read was some kafka I think. sbeen a while, I'm learning French now instead. Walk in the park