/lit/ - Literature

I had not posted for a week now. The mods banned me for being a little too edgy on sp. I was un-banned today.

My legs betray me. Sometimes, after being deep into myself, my legs loose control. They refuse to walk a straight line, they often stop working for half a second, my body star falling, but then they regain consciousness and I avoid falling.
Sometimes, I am still, and sometimes pushes me forward, and I have to take some steps forward not to fall. Sometimes, something grabs me from behind and I have to take some steps back not to fall.
Sometimes, my upper body stop working.
My spine cease to work, and my chest go straight down. It happened today while going back home. Someone saw me, and I think she thought I was on drugs or something.
But I am not. I am actually very sober now, more than ever.
I felt exactly like 56 years ago, when I wasn't doing therapy. I stopped taking my pills, and I feel exactly like before, but I like it. I learned to see the bright side of it.
I had to lay down on the ground today. I wasn't able to reach my home. I had to lay down to recover from this state of mind.
I looked at the sky, and it was so.... different. Like it was trying to talk to me.
Everything is always trying to tell you something, you just need to pay attention.
I finally stand up and got home.

I have nothing else to say right now.

this nigga spent 50 pages talking about stolen apples in Demian
The kid didn't even fucking stole it

>I stood for a moment on the scent, smelling this shrill and blood-raw music, sniffing the atmosphere of the hall angrily, and hankering after it a little too. One half of this music, the melody, was all pomade and sugar and sentimentality. The other half was savage, temperamental and vigorous. Yet the two went artlessly well together and made a whole. It was the music of decline. There must have been such music in Rome under the later emperors. Compared with Bach and Mozart and real music it was, naturally, a miserable affair; but so was all our art, all our thought, all our makeshift culture in comparison with real culture. This music was at least sincere, unashamedly primitive and childishly happy. There was something of the Negro in it, and something of the American, who with all his strength seems so boyishly fresh and childlike to us Europeans. Was Europe to become the same? Was it on the way already? Were we, the old connoisseurs, the reverers of Europe as it used to be, of genuine music and poetry as once they were, nothing but a pig-headed minority suffering from a complex neurosis, whom tomorrow would forget or deride? Was all that we called culture, spirit, soul, all that we called beautiful and sacred, nothing but a ghost long dead, which only a few fools like us took for true and living? Had it perhaps indeed never been true and living? Had all that we poor fools bothered our heads about never been anything but a phantom?

>>9315522
start with the freaks

>Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
Got me right in the feelerinos.

Hermann Hesse. Anyone read Damien or Steppenwolf? I recently finished Siddhartha and Narziss & Goldmund (both incredible).

“I believe . . . that the petal of a flower or a tiny worm on the path says far more, contains far more than all the books in the library. One cannot say very much with mere letters and words. Sometimes I'll be writing a Greek letter, a theta or an omega, and tilt my pen just the slightest bit; suddenly the letter has a tail and becomes a fish; in a second it evokes all the streams and rivers of the world, all that is cool and humid, Homer's sea and the waters on which Saint Peter wandered; or becomes a bird, flaps its tail, shakes out its feathers, puffs itself up, laughs, flies away. You probably don't appreciate letters like that, very much, do you, Narcissus? But I say: with them God wrote the world.”