/lit/ - Literature

Harold Bloom was absolutely right about this faux-melancholic costermonger, peddling his rotten harvest, all fashioned with an inauthentic air of precociousness; chief among his fruits - of all things - "authenticity", topped off with that nervous, twitching, bemused looking up and searching for an answer then feigning embarrassment to mask your smug sense of self-satisfaction aesthetic. I shit on his grave.