/lit/ - Literature

>WHEN music affects us to tears, seemingly causless, we weep not, as Gravina supposes, from'excess of pleasure' ; but through excess of an impatient, petulent sorrow that, as mere mortals, we are as yet in no condition to banquet upon those supernal ecstasies of which the music affords us merely a suggestive and indefinite glimpse.

You can't recreate the feeling you get from music because it is the paramount source of true joy we can feel.
You can't recreate this "feel" in any other form.

must you even ask?

>>9690817
Fall of House Usher

or Nabokov

>>9625042
>I don't have you
you what?

>>9547763
Agreed.
No one greater than Poe.

Last Friday I had a mental breakdown (or whatever it is called) where a psychiatrist I have never met before asked me the regular questions.
But because of the stormy weather outside and the odd nature of this guy it must have messed with my mind and cause my imagination to go too far.
I had a sense of being druged and as if he were trying to influence how I feel and think. While with this fractured mind I felt incredible scared and threatened by him and clearly not myself.
After being calmed down a bit by a different doctor but still feeling this incredibly odd sense of panic and the need to run away they both sat down and asked me some more questions (since this wasn't expected at all).
(Oddly enough after the doctor who caused this left I felt an odd sense of euphoria and thought it an incredibly fun event and possibly only turned out scary because it was the first time.)
I started describing the way I felt not just through words for different feelings and emotions but by making comparisons to Poe's tales, Outlast and the Hannibal Lecter show.
He said finally that I have to vivid of an imagination and am too easily influenced by books, film, music, video games and should avoid too much exposure.
As if I am a fucking kid or something.

>>9484401
Yep!

Got something better?
All these words are in the Raven as well so i feel like it is too pleb but these occur so frequently imo.

The Sleeper

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

>Why wasn't I here sooner?