/lit/ - Literature

I will never not love Egon Schiele's artwork.

It was said by George Gordon Byron that truth is stranger than fiction, and as such that reality is always crueler than fantasy. I did not ask for this reality to have been imposed onto me. In that regard, I am innocent. I was born into this.
On a bone-chilling December Wednesday, on one of those bleary and awful evenings when the sound of the dry wind blowing through the bare New England trees was enough to cause frostbite, I found myself in the dim of my room, on yet another day off from term. Guillaume de Machaut played from the radio and I was working on history homework. If I had to write any more I'm sure I would have torn the sheet to shreds, but my father called from the bottom floor and told me that dinner was ready.
I tramped downstairs and the old house shook, and the smell of soft broccoli and pasta came from the ancient stove. Taking my habituated seat between my mother and father, I speared and ate.
“Aren't you hot?” My mother asked, sweat dripping down from her freckled and middle-aged brow.
“No,” I said in my gray tuque, “You look pretty hot.” She was having a hot flash.
“Thanks! What a nice thing to say to your mother!” She jolted after a second of thought. It was a knee-jerk reaction to make a disgusting joke. In her sweat and her falling frizzy Semitic hair, that's what she was. A knee-jerk reaction.
I shook my head and ate. My father talked about work.
That night I lay naked in my bed. I imagined some girls that I had known wincing as I fucked them hard. I imagined that my Facebook said I was in relationships with them. I masturbated to Facebook. I creamed and Phil Phillips talked about the sea of love on the radio. My eyes closed and, laying in my jizm, I fell into a deep sleep.

>>869040
Thirded, Weimar Germany was such an amazing period for art.

>>724384
+1