/lit/ - Literature

On the one hand

A) The content of most books is not in and of itself interesting. People on the literature board are generally too intelligent to think "story" or "lore" is anything but a waste of time groundless discussion, as opposed to what braindead morons in the sci-fi/fantasy thread or from e.g. /v/ or /co/ discuss.

B) Most people cannot discuss literature in any concrete terms, they don't know theories of literature or the structural terms through which meaningful discussion of literature or literary theory can proceed. No-one is a formalist here, no-one is a deconstructivist, no-one is a freudian, no-one has a "take", because most of the people here are uneducated in that regard.

>>13660743
holy fuck use punctuation; my god..

Any book recs on unrequited love anons? Specifically romanticising it, or sharing a positive outlook on it

Louis even pissed differently now, he noted with a depressed resignation. Now it just limped out of his dick, like a lame athlete at the end of a marathon.
Just one foot after the other mate, you can do it.
He zipped himself up and lumbered back up to the bar, pushing through the middle of a couple that had seen fit to hold their conversation on either side of the toilet door. The bartender smiled as he approached.
“Another one on the rocks Louis?”
“Yeah Grace, make it a big fucker though. The band's doing my head in.”
She grinned, in a way that suggested she knew exactly what he meant. Grace had been serving drinks at St Lizzy's as long as Louis had been buying them, and he had always had a soft spot for her. She seemed real; like a real, genuine human being. He scanned the bar again as she poured his whiskey. Not one person in the room was over twenty five. Where had all his friends gone?
They had all vanished so quickly, off to big jobs in Sydney, or to find themselves in Europe. He wondered if they had all lost contact with each other, or if it was just him left out in the cold.
“There you go hun.”
Grace planted his glass on the bar and hurried off to the other end, to mix a cocktail for some moustache in a hat. As he lifted the glass to his lips, Louis' big, washed out eyes looked over the room once more. In a sudden fit of miserable disgust he downed his drink, slapped some notes on the bar and rushed out onto the street, pulling his coat around him as he left.
It was freezing cold outside, the kind of biting, hostile cold that can only happen in Melbourne. Louis ran to the corner and began to hop from one foot to the other, waving desperately at speeding taxis packed full of pre-drunk club rats and tired men in dark suits. The cold wind rushed up his sleeves and he started to shiver in earnest.
They flew past, indistinct blurs of yellow and black heading to and from the city, their passengers warm and happy and angry and sad. But all warm.

//// I'll leave it at that, unless anybody wants to read more. Again, some feedback would be great.