/lit/ - Literature

1984 vs. The Handmaid's Tale

Which is the better dystopian novel? Bonus points for comparison on oppression and rebellion.

The measure of souls.

When one offers their soul to Satan they may only bargain for something of equal or lesser value. One falling from virtue to sin is of greater value in soul than one who is corrupt bartering for further indulgence in heresy.

I'm thinking of writing a gothic tale about a man who is pious and sweet who turns ultimately sinful. He turns this way as he marries a beautiful young woman who he loves with all his heart in a typical gothic fashion but finds out she has cheated on him with one of his rivals/friends/family (undecided). The cuckolded man is an apprentice tailor and tanner who sells his soul to the devil for mastermanship of his craft and the menas to kill this man and those he loves in vegeance. When he finally kills the man who cuckolded him he keeps it hidden and skins the man to make leather gloves for his wife. The Wife loves him even more so at the reception of the gift but at a party which the man holds for his wife on their anniversary he confesses to his sins before all the party goers and family to their obvious horror. Your thoughts?

>>1154790
Fucked that up didn't I? ha.
>>1154736
> THE GREAT FUCKING GATSBY.
>>1154742
Go away, far away and die.

I pose to you an idea, /lit/. Would you consider a sequence of diary entries that tells a story via MP3s and strictly audio a type of literature? I am planning to try something like this for a plot I feel would be better told via voice acting than actual text and to try it out. I already keep an audio diary so I think it may trnaslate well - Your thoughts?

It was getting pretty late and I’d been wandering the streets for twenty minutes now with no luck. I checked the address written on my palm for the third time even though I knew ‘Twenty-one Smiths Street’ by heart now. I had an idea what the place would look like but when I found number twenty-one I was met by an overgrown lawn with three garden gnomes facing the boarded-up door of the house and to say the least that wasn’t what I expected. The gate squealed giddily as I followed the cracked flag-stone path up to the door and rapped upon it four times as requested. There was bumping and fast footsteps as if someone was bounding towards the door like a dog after a postman’s hand. A slam from within the door knocked flakes or dull blue paint spiralling down to the ground, I also stepped back accordingly.
“Who is it…?” a man‘s, slow but high-pitched voice called to me. I collected myself with a clearing of the throat and replied:-
“John sent me, I’m here for John’s stuff,” there was a few seconds pause then I heard the tumblers of a rusty lock twisting as the door opened to reveal a musty hall with peeling wall-paper and a shirtless thin man not about my age, twenty. He was holding the door open with his hand gesturing for me to come in with an overly-polite manner with greasy curled hair falling over his brow.
“After yooouuu-…” The slimy construct said whilst falling further down in the hall in what was probably an intoxicated stupor of sorts.

>>1022935

No, I write Gothic Horror, sir.