/lit/ - Literature

he's literally me btw

>>9009194
just read maymay comics

Where does one begin with Kierkegaard? I never allotted him much thought before, understanding him to be a religious writer, but I recently stumbled upon a page of his quotes and suspect his is a true artistry. There's a real poetry to his paradoxes and I look forward to better knowing them. Also, is there a de facto translation I should pursue?

>>8700456
I only pretend to be someone who reads.

He was just a sad dude living in some weird times, yo

Hello, /lit/erates.

Could I have some constructive criticism? I accidentally wrote an overly involved thing while responding in a thread. It might have potential?

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WellI grew up in an extremely Southern Baptist household, which meant that I also grew up thinking that ritual cannibalism and live burial wasn't weird. You may take every stereotype you're now thinking of and then apply it to the first ten years of my existence. Young earthers high on Jesus, the Spirit, dodgy epistemology, and an ensuing even dodgier understanding of the hard sciences. We were the chosen few and demons crept in every shadow. Little hawks that knew it was the most noble to join the service of our country (for She was Blessed) or the Lord. Perhaps they were the same thing.

It was a gradual descent from this all-consuming light, but eventually when my eyes adjusted to the dark I was quite dissatisfied with the gaps in my knowledge re: reality. I hid textbooks I stole from the public high school in the ceiling of my church's youthroom. They supplemented and frankly surpassed my homeschooling on the four days of the week I was there. It was a simple matter to stand on stacked chairs and poke a ceiling tile aside with a yardstick. There was no insulation in that layer, which was fortunate.

I still love mythology. When people talk about their gods, they talk about themselves, except for when they talk about their government or dreams or truth. It's ugly and fascinating.

...

So, the homemade bomb club is a result of zero parental supervision, mutually enabling pyromania, and unscrupulous fireworks stands.

In the summers from the age of seven to thirteen, my friends and I would buy as many cheap fireworks as we could with allowance money, fake ids, and sad faces. It went double for after-holiday sales. Once we had enough raw ingredients stolen from construction sites, we would experiment with pipe and canister bombs. Good times. There was a nice green belt in one of our backyards where we set them off when the parents were gone to choir practice on Tuesday nights. It was a great feeling, drizzling different consistencies of decomposed styrofoam in oils and gasoline over painstakingly made and satisfyingly solid pieces of workmanship. Blood from careless seams and saltpeter in equal amounts, nearly. You would drizzle the styofoam in loops across the ground until you stood far back in the tall cool grass and fireflies droning unaware of the arrival their shorter-lived, wondrous cousins. You crouch against the shrapnel and toss a match underhand and then kiss your eardrums goodbye. Only pussies flinch.

It wasn't a bad life.

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