/lit/ - Literature

"I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whiskey. The barman looked at the blood and asked:

‘God?’

‘Yeah.’

‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’

He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly:

‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’

‘So you snuffed him?’

‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’

I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety:

There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’

‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’

‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’

‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’

‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered.

I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first:

‘So God’s dead?’

‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’

The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily:

‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’

I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled:

‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own.

In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood."

"I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whiskey. The barman looked at the blood and asked:

‘God?’

‘Yeah.’

‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’

He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly:

‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’

‘So you snuffed him?’

‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’

I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety:

There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’

‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’

‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’

‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’

‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered.

I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first:

‘So God’s dead?’

‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’

The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily:

‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’

I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled:

‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own.

In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood."

Nick Land

>>18036331
"I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whiskey. The barman looked at the blood and asked:

‘God?’

‘Yeah.’

‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’

He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly:

‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’

‘So you snuffed him?’

‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’

I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety:

There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’

‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’

‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’

‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’

‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered.

I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first:

‘So God’s dead?’

‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’

The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily:

‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’

I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled:

‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own.

In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood."

>>17987011
>or is his fiction just really good?
His fiction is really a delight.
"I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whiskey. The barman looked at the blood and asked:

‘God?’

‘Yeah.’

‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’

He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly:

‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’

‘So you snuffed him?’

‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’

I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety:

There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’

‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’

‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’

‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’

‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered.

I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first:

‘So God’s dead?’

‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’

The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily:

‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’

I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled:

‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own.

In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood."

Why do people always photoshop his head? Use the unedited one.

>when your philosophy is spamming twittercaps on a postnigerian hitchhiking board to convince neoteenagers that you're not a pseud

Keep in mind, i'm not familiar with Land's work, just curious about the Deleuze influence.

>gabigull gawd
Woah totally misunderstood genius.

>gabbidull gawd
https://twitter.com/tadgermania/status/1291717913980747776

S33m5 lik3 4n 1nt3r3s1ng wr1t3r to m3. Wh3r3 d0 1 st4rt w1th him?

>>16024668
This.

Marx was teleoplexically refuted by Capital aka Nick Land.

>My penis feels the call of austerity measures.
Why are his books so based and genderfutured?

>Confucius say: man who run behind car get exhausted.

>What if - instead of 'How Do You Make Yourself A Body Without Organs?' - one were to ask: How do you make yourself a Nazi? For this is far more strenuous than the 1980 diagnosis suggests.

>1) Wherever there is impersonality and chance, introduce conspiracy, lucidity, and malice. Look for enemies everywhere, ensuring that they are such that one than simultaneously envy and condemn them. Proliferate new subjectivities; racial subjects, national subjects, elites, secret societies, destinies.

>2) Burn Freud, and take desire back to the Kantian conception of will. Wherever there is impulse represent it aschoice, decision, the whole theatrical drama of volition. Introduce a gloomy atmosphere of oppressive responsibility by couching all discourses in the imperative form .

>3) Revere the principle of the great individual. Personalize and mythicize historical processes. Love obedience above all things, and enthuse only for signs; the name of the leader, the symbol of the movement, and the icons of molar identity.

>4) Foster nostalgia for what is maximally bovine, inflexible, and stagnant: a line of racially pure peasants digging the same patch of earth for eternity.

>5) Above all, resent everything impetuous and irresponsible, insist upon unrelenting vigilance, crush sexuality under its reproductive function, rigidly enforce the domestication of women, distrust art, classicize cities to eliminate the disorder of uncontrolled flows, and persecute all minorities exhibiting a nomadic tendency.

>To want to be in the right is the common substratum of morality and genocidal reaction;the same desire for repression - organized in terms of the disapproving gaze of the father - that Anti-Oedipus analyzes with such power. Who could imagine Nazism without daddy? And who could imagine daddy being pre-figured in the energetic unconscious?

>After all, lose control and you might end up fucking with a Jew, becoming effeminate, or creating something degenerate like a work of art. Does anyone really think that Nazism is like letting go? Theweleit's studies of Nazi body posture should be sufficient to disabuse one of such an absurdity. Nazism can turn you into a stiff before the messy passage into death.

An organ donor.

>things change
>things happen
>sometimes the rate at which things change or happen changes
Holy fucking shit bros, you gotta read Fanged Noumena

>Philosophy has an affinity with despotism, due to its predilection for Platonic-fascist top-down solutions that always screw up viciously. Schizoanalysis works differently. It avoids Ideas, and sticks to diagrams: networking software for accessing bodies without organs.

"Philosophy has an affinity with despotism, due to its predilection for Platonic-fascist top-down solutions that always screw up viciously."
This is literature for discussion. No need to delete and ban.

"Philosophy has an affinity with despotism, due to its predilection for Platonic-fascist top-down solutions that always screw up viciously. Schizoanalysis works differently. It avoids Ideas, and sticks to diagrams: networking software for accessing bodies without organs."

What do you think about this wonderful literature quote? Has schizoanalysis defeated Platonofascism?

But Nietzsche doesn't ask the question: what was Plato's tax policy?

What is the worst philosophy? Post the most useless, idiotic, and out of touch philosophies and schools you can think of.

>things change
>things happen
>sometimes the rate at which things change or happen changes

Post what you're reading and thoughts/quotes.

I'm really hyperdigging Sadie's Ones and Zeroes right now.