/lit/ - Literature

>Waga Tomo Hitler (わが友ヒットラー) or My Friend Hitler is a 1968 play written and produced by Japanese writer Yukio Mishima. Published in book form on October 13, 1968, the play was first produced on stage the following year and ran January 18–31, 1969. In one of these productions, Mishima himself played Adolf Hitler.

wtf im jewish i cant read this stuff

>Hector realises that Athena tricked him and he's about to die and tries to get Achilles to agree to let the Trojans bury him but Achilles says fuck you

>1. Phaedo
>2. Meno
>3. Euthyphro
>4. Apology
>5. Crito
I've only read one book

>Nabokov said that the astute reader will have figured out the kidnapper
>I didn't

>>12265602
seeing apu sad makes me REALLY sad

Alvaro de Campos thread

If you want to kill yourself, why don’t you want to kill
yourself?
Now’s your chance! I, who greatly love both death and life,
Would kill myself too, if I dared kill myself...
If you dare, then be daring!
What good to you is the changing picture of outer images
We call the world?
What good is this cinema of hours played out
By actors with stock roles and gestures,
This colorful circus of our never-ending drive to keep going?
What good is your inner world which you don’t know?
Kill yourself, and maybe you’ll finally know it...
End it all, and maybe you’ll begin...
If you’re weary of existing, at least
Be noble in your weariness,
And don’t, like me, sing of life because you’re drunk,
Don’t, like me, salute death through literature!

You’re needed? O futile shadow called man!
No one is needed; you’re not needed by anyone...
Without you everything will keep going without you.
Perhaps it’s worse for others that you live than if you kill
yourself . . .
Perhaps your presence is more burdensome than your
absence . . .

Other people’s grief? You’re worried
About them crying over you?
Don’t worry: they won’t cry for long . . .
The impulse to live gradually stanches tears
When they’re not for our own sake,
When they’re because of what happened to someone else,
especially death,
Since after this happens to someone, nothing else will...

First there’s anxiety, the surprise of mystery’s arrival
And of your spoken life’s sudden absence...
Then there’s the horror of your visible and material coffin,
And the men in black whose profession is to be there.
Then the attending family, heartbroken and telling jokes,
Mourning between the latest news from the evening papers,
Mingling grief over your death with the latest crime...
And you merely the incidental cause of that lamentation,
You who will be truly dead, much deader than you

Next comes the black procession to the vault or grave,
And finally the beginning of the death of your memory.
At first everyone feels relieved
That the slightly irksome tragedy of your death is over...
Then, with each passing day, the conversation lightens up
And life falls back into its old routine...

Then you are slowly forgotten.
You’re remembered only twice a year:
On you birthday and your death day.
That’s it. That’s all. That’s absolutely all.
Two times a year they think about you.
Two times a year those who loved you heave a sigh,
And they may sigh on the rare occasions someone mentions
your name.

1/2

I started Siddhartha a month ago and still haven’t finished it