/lit/ - Literature

There's still a lot of it to root out in the west. But it will happen in time. As it always inevitably does, by itself or by all the rest of the world.

German philosophy is still going strong in china by the CCP, although its in the process of collapse, and is stronger than ever in north America and the united kingdom.

i'll start with the obvious
>The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.
>Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.
>A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Do you ever argue over pieces of literature you've never read, or ideas you know you know little about?

It's ok, you can tell December.

She won't judge.

>>10968999
i want to pick her hair out of my bed for the rest of my life

>>9885336
fuck this gay earth man

From a while ago but fuck it

It just started snowing, the first of the year. I’m in my apartment, alone, and it’s all I can think about. I’m staring out my window, looking at the little white storm. It’s not the peaceful kind, the kind that would be better to write about, that would pair nicely with my point, but it’s there, coming down hard.

All I can think about is how much I want someone to be here with me. Not to be in love, not to joke around or be dramatic, just someone who can look out this window and see the showers with me. We don’t need to talk, just acknowledge that it exists. It is strange the moments and places that make you feel alone, stuck in the city, surrounded by people, but I’m just in my little cubicle. I know there are people around me. I hear whispers of them, through the walls a laugh hints at a good time, a chair screeches above me somewhere, a group of boys yell down the hall.

I am in my apartment; it protects me from them. It protects me from the snow, too. I think back to the time I spent once in the wilderness, when it began to snow. I was afraid I might freeze, but I still had to spend a couple hours to watch the snow blanket the valley from my perch on high. I was alone then too, but I never felt alone. I only feel alone in the city. Man is meant to be alone in the mountains, but here, loneliness stalks me. I’ve been afraid out there, of wild beasts, of acts of God, of dark shadows, but I’ve never been so afraid out there as I’ve been here. People say all fear stems from death but my fear stems from having not lived.

It’s hard these days to get a moment to yourself, with all the entertainment we have. I don’t hate how connected the world is; I quite enjoy it, but still I have a deep fondness for those moments when you can get away. Those moments on top the mountain when the little snowflakes fall so slowly on the great little fields below. When you, still alone, share a memory with the whole human race, a memory of God. Then you have moments like these, that just hit you in the brief moments after you turned off your television, where you just look out your window and watch the snow fall swiftly down on the road and the surrounding buildings, the occasional passerby hurrying to get out of the storm your only reminder that other people exist, and you could not feel more alone.