/lit/ - Literature

How many countries have simps and incels as their national emblems?
I can think of:
>Ireland
Yeats
>Portugal
Pessoa
>Germany
Nietzsche and Beethoven
>Italy
Dante, Petrarch and Leopardi
>the Balkans
Tesla
>the UK
Newton
>Netherlands
Van Gogh

Who else always thought it's pronounced "Yeets" and still mentally pronounces it that way?

>>13038411
Round, thin frames.

I froze your tears and made a dagger,
and stabbed it in my cock forever.
It stays there like Excalibur,
Are you my Arthur?
Say you are.

Take this cool dark steel'd blade,
Steal it, sheath it, in your lake.
I’d drown with you to be together.
Must you breathe? 'cause I need Heaven.

Is he the BEST poet in english language?

How was this nigga so fucking good?

>the greatest poet of the 20th century (Yeats) was a conservative
>the second greatest poet of the 20th century (Pound) was a conservative
>the third greatest poet of the 20th century (T.S. Eliot) was a conservative
>the greatest philosopher of the 20th century (Heidegger) was a conservative
>the greatest novelist of the 20th century (Nabokov) was a conservative
>the second greatest novelist of the 20th century (Henry James) was a conservative
Hmmm... I think I'm seeing a trend here

Are conservatives just smarter and more talented than the left?

It's remarkable that nearly every field of 20th century literature is intellectually dominated by men of the right

>>12264693
Unerringly playful and whimsical tone for a poem about childhood trauma and animal abuse. How does Irish poetry manage to be so lyrical?

Here’s a one that stuff in the back of my mind for the past few months

The Fisherman Launch Audio in a New Window
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Although I can see him still—
The freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies—
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped it would be
To write for my own race
And the reality:
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved—
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer—
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelve-month since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face
And gray Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark with froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream—
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, “Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.”

How do I write for cold passion?

Why is Yeats so popular among schizhead pseuds like Mckenna and Philip K Dick?

no but this dude is