/lit/ - Literature

I wish I'd studied to become a librarian.

I could be working in a university library right now earning decent money in a quiet, comfy job. It would have suited my temperament perfectly. Instead I work long hours in an open-plan office full of normies.

Hindsight is a helluva drug. I've fucked up big-time.

>went to a house party in uni last night
>only knew one person, a guy from my course
>it was at some girl's house also from our course
>started the night as "that guy" who smiles but says nothing
>ended up getting somewhat drunk and confident
>riding a wave of confidence making people laugh
>all 5 housemates are girls
>they're all outgoing and extroverted
>except one
>she has dark brown hair and seemed embarrassed by any attention paid to her
>sat at the edge of sofa with her housemates being loud and pretty obnoxious sometimes
>people gathered on two sofas and some chairs to play a drinking game
>blonde girl beside obviously likes me
>kept patting my knee and pretending to be stupid
>tfw kept looking over at the quiet girl and we kept smiling at each other
>she seemed to realize I was uncomfortable with the blonde girl
>ended up playing spin the bottle
>two girls kissed and touched tongues even
>my turn came
>peak confident hits
>place the bottle down and turn it so it's pointing at the quiet girl
>people freak out
>the girl beside the quiet girl tells her to go sit by me
>blonde girl moved away and seemed annoyed (but she was very drunk)
>quiet girl seemed drunk too and I didn't want to be creepy
>kissed her knuckles area instead and she turned her face into my chest and hid her face
>people are saying we're a cute couple
>quiet girl says she heard I'm studying philosophy
>she's studying english lit
>we leave the group and go to her room
>people are cheering and when I try and seriously explain it's not like that they cheer even harder to mess with me
>quiet girl grabs my hand and leads me up to her room
>tfw she held my hand the whole way

Cont...

>writing a cynical, hard-hitting, controversial literary novel about the downfall of Western civilization
>pause to watch a youtube vlogger having fun with random strangers of various ethnicities in public
>delete the file and feel sad

Anyone else know this feel?

>take a bath earlier
>reading Nihil Unbound by Ray Brassier
>realize that death incarnated in the form of extinction, solar catastrophe and asymptosis are knowable and thus capable of producing a seizure and reorientation within consciousness
>begin urinating
>watch expressionlessly as I both urinate and defecate in the tub
>fall asleep
>wake up and the water is cold and dark and the bathroom smells like shit

>tfw a cold dark wintrous night here at the ancient and academically insurpassable University of Oxford
>tfw walking around alone wearing my long black overcoat which lends my character a sense of mystery and subtly eroticism
>tfw only a few fellow students walking around hurriedly towards their respective colleges
>tfw found myself humming the opening credits to Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone just now and laughed aloud when I realized what I was doing
>tfw passing Radcliffe Camera and being reminded why so many Great Minds gravitate towards (the University of) Oxford and always have / always will
>tfw instantly become reminded that I too am expected to maintain the proud, noble, ancient, world-famous legacy that these Great Minds represent
>tfw breathe slowly and try to calm myself down and fend off the intense neuroticism and paranoia I am prone to due to my immense intelligence
>tfw just passed a homeless man in a sleeping bag rocking back and forth and simply repeating "God bless have a good night"
>tfw felt no guilt about walking past him without helping his situation due to my having transcended my own humble (poor) origins and established myself in the Elite, genetically profound British Upper Class

To bed now, but come the morrow I will again be faced with the intellectual trials and tribulations which are such a necessary aspect of life here at the University of Oxford. I am currently reading a biography of Philip Larkin, who also attended this fine university (naturally) and I must say that his own experience (and profound intellectual struggles at the time) remind me of my experience a great deal. Very reassuring I must say.

>tfw I got extremely drunk last night and admitted I didn't read any books in 2017
>tfw people did't believe me since book-reading is the central feature of my existential and social brand identity
>tfw people stared at me with genuine disgust
>tfw it's over for me now

>>10526483
I'm afraid I won't be able to post much today as I truly have to revise as much as possible. However I will tell you that the love between my special lady and I appears to have perished, and she is now dating another student here at the University of Oxford, he being from a wealthy family, having attended a top private school, and now of course having the time of his life here at the institution in which he no doubt feels he belong. I meanwhile skulk around like a defeated peasant of the steppe, sleeping alone at night, wandering around alone in the day, and spending my time longing for my pure English Rose. I simply don't fit in here at the University of Oxford. I am neither a local nor a member of the socio-economic class whose children throng the streets of this ancient and aesthetic city and pack the lecture theatres and colleges and cafes and dining halls dressed in fine clothing, appearing like ideal physical representations of human beauty and genetic profundity, and studying subjects that most common (unintelligent) folk would barely comprehend the first thing about. I feel like a trespasser and a fraud. Every photo I take makes me feel like a tourist taking photographs of something to which he does not belong. I only take these photographs when nobody is in sight for fear they would otherwise pity me for feeling such affection for buildings they presume I would not be granted access to. I have a long lonely day ahead of revision and focused study, and though my intellect will flourish today (as it does every day) my heart unfortunately will struggle on like some mechanical thing, no longer nourished by the thought that I too am capable of being loved.

>tfw yet another busy day today at the illustrious and academically unsurpassable University of Oxford
>tfw had to stamp my feet several times on the ancient flagstones to get the old blood flowing before walking through a bright but chilly day dressed in a long black mystery-inducing overcoat
>tfw sat at the dinner table alone last night and overheard the current boyfriend of my previously-hopefully-soon-to-be privately educated (~£36,000 a year fees), top of the range, Elite upper class girlfriend talking about a skiing trip he's booked
>tfw a working class (poor) streetsweeper bowed and doffed his cap to me this morning which made me feel guilty for being so Elite
>tfw will spend the rest of the day revising in one of the University (of Oxford) libraries and refining and widerning my already immense knowledge database
>tfw can't stop thinking about my previously-hopefully-soon-to-be upper class English rose gf and can't help but feel civilized, romantic desire for her despite her discarding me for a Jew
>tfw a handsome, peak-genetics, freshly shaven, high cheek boned male student passed me earlier and looked at me in a way that made me paranoid he was /lit/ poster who had read my posts and spotted me
>tfw every time I've read a Great Work recently by an English author I can't help but read it in an upper class aka RP English accent which makes me feel insecure and inferior

Do any fellow literature students here struggle to read books written by members of the upper class? I feel like the accent of internal narrator corrupts the original beauty of the author's own interior voice.

>tfw furiously busy period here at the illustrious and globally renowned University of Oxford. Walking through
>tfw waking early and sleeping only briefly in order to "cram" and get back into the swing of things post-Christmas break
>tfw passed my previously-hopefully-soon-to-be upper class, privately educated (~£36k fees a year minus additional minor costs) gf in the hallway outside my ancient room this afternoon
>she was on her way to the guy she's dating who lives down the hall
>tfw he's from a wealthy Jewish family and was also educated at a top private school
>tfw I didn't even look at her even though she said "Hey" quietly in an effort to make peace
>tfw felt like even more of an out-of-place working class pleb with a chip on his shoulder when I did that
>currently phoneposting from Waterstones on Broad Street but it's closing soon
>tfw my time here at the ancient and academically profound University of Oxford has been thoroughly disappointing thus far

Has anyone here ever felt intimidated and insecure in a high-brow, upper-class Elite environment?

Are there any good novels about this subject slash theme?

Which books written in a serious, empathetic, frank manner will help me not want to kill myself?

I have never felt as exhausted with life and despondent about the future as I do at this moment. My life is a complete mess, and I'm too old for that to seem endearing or for there to be any significant potential of "turning things around." My ambitions are shot. My enthusiasm is flagging. The stoicism I have long relied on has been corrupted by feelings of immense guilt, self-loathing and a feeling that death at this point is the only way of escaping the life I've created - or failed to create - for myself. I'm reading The Book of Disquiet again and am reminded that even Fernando Pessoa, the great failure artist, had marketable skills, had no apparently huge stains on his conscience, and lived an overall contented life. The books I have most related to recently have been written by people who committed suicide shortly after or were close to death when they wrote them. None of these books attempt to sell the reader a life-affirming ideology which is probably why I appreciate them more than the books which explore depression etc but conclude that love, or self-sacrifice etc ultimately make life worthwhile. I am a broken manchild. And while two years ago I'd have considered this state of living to be rather romantic, poetic and so on I realize now that the kind of fetid emotions and thoughts such a position encourages have made me simply an unpleasant person whose only redeeming qualities are those more appropriate to a twelve-year-old child. I have felt similar to the way I do now since I was very young, and though I've succeeded academically and currently have a decent-paying job, the superficial appearance of relative success is misleading and no way corresponds to my internal state. Simply put I am too weak for life. Again, I have felt this way for a long time. There is something "off" about me and my perception. Even in the summer of 2015 I spent my nights on suicide chatrooms and googling variations of "too weak for life" in an attempt to find people similar to myself who overcame their weakness, but even so I failed to find anybody who did not simply resort to a casually hedonistic outlook as a form of escape. Wherever I look people are either happy, healthy, contented, or, struggling and depressed but loyal to a powerful life-affirming ideology or pursuing a lucid ambition. I am without anything. I simply exist from day to day. The only things which compensate for the misery are food and the internet at this point, and I often simply starve myself to prove to myself that the former doesn't have an addictive hold on my Will.

>ordered a biography of Hitler from abebooks earlier this week
>received an email from the bookseller saying my name wasn't included in the order
>email back and forth a couple of times
>she is obviously an older lady but is sweet and humorous
>I make a joke about how I have no friends which is why at "my age" I am reading this kind of book
>she responds with "Oh no!" and says what a shame that is
>fear she's hitting on me and feel bad
>she instead tells me her grand-daughter enjoyed the book and is a fan of "that kind of thing"
>look her grand-daughter up on facebook
>fucking cute as hell shy-seeming girl who appears to make a living selling homemade shit on Etsy

Should I add this girl and risk it? Or will it seem creepy? The lady who is selling me the book didn't tell me her grand-daughter's name, I just found it in her friend's list.

>beg mummy to buy me a typewriter since I can't write highbrow fiction longhand or on a laptop
>she says it's to expensive ($360 second-hand)
>threaten suicide
>she buys it soon after
>now complains every night that my typing it keeping her awake (thin walls)
>reminds me she has to be up early to go to work in the morning
>lose my creative rhythm and go black Cossacks: Back To War for several hours instead

Anybody else here extremely restricted creatively speaking? It's like I can't catch a break or something.

>just walked home alone from work on a dark winter evening
>spent the entire walk making up a cute and funny poem I wish I'd written for my crush on Valentine's Day in 2016
>think of the card I'd have written it in, the red wax I'd seal the envelope with, the way I'd make it half-seem like someone had posted it to her rather than left it out where she'd see it
>think of her reaction and her smiling and showing off the poem to other people
>think of her wondering how to approach me and communicate her attraction towards me
>imagine her making up some dumb excuse to get me alone without making the people around me suspicious
>feel my heart literally begin to pound as I imagine how glorious it would feel to know she liked me and that my poem was a success
>tfw suddenly return to grim reality
>tfw haven't seen her in over a year
>tfw she is in a long-term relationship with a wealthy, popular dude now
>tfw confront the grim prospect of another evening, then another weekend, then another month, over yet another year I have spent alone

Any books for this feeling? The regret is crushing me tonight.

>checked my bank summary for the year so far
>tfw I've spent £745 on kindle books since January 1st
>tfw I've only read two books this year

>tfw have spent just over a year writing a journal-like work from the perspective of a literary conception of myself in an imaginary city populated by imaginary people
>tfw now feel more at home and familiar with this imagined city than the "real", external world
>tfw have had several intensely lucid dreams over the past few months where I simply travel around the city I've imagined as if my subconcious has every detail available to it
>tfw now find my "character" (myself) experiencing things outside of what I intended and meeting characters who arrive completely fleshed out but again entirely unfamiliar to me IRL
>tfw feel like my subconcious has now taken refuge in this world and is living its own autonomous life there while my conscious self simply floats through the tedium of everyday life

This is an extremely strange psychological phenomenon /lit/ and I don't know if I should allow it to continue. Even as I type this my subconscious is encouraging me to invest in the idea that I am actually "in" my work typing this out and that outside my closed curtains is not what's there if I get up now and open them, but what is outside the window of "my" "character's" window. Is this healthy? Is this normal?

Who else /strugglingartist/ here?

>$120k in debt from studying BA EngLit
>$65k in debt from studying an MFA in creative lit
>spent $4k overall for various writing course and workshops
>currently trying to get a loan (~$35k) to study for a PhD in creative writing

So I wrote a novel and asked my mummy to read it.

She finished it yesterday evening but avoided for a while until I asked her what was wrong. She started crying and said the depiction of the protagonist's mother in the book is very harsh and she hopes it wasn't intended to hurt her. I told her it wasn't based on her, but I guess since the protagonist is literally me but more mysterious and so on she must have made that mistake. For example in the book the mother of the protagonist is described in one scene as a "used-up fifty-something slut" and in a piece of dialogue between the protagonist and one of his two girlfriend's he basically articulates at length why boys shouldn't be raised by a single mother (as I was). I'm not sure how to react to this and whether to change anything in the book for her sake? Any advice?

>fall hard for a girl
>find out she and her close friends are all privately educated with wealthy parents
>she shows some interest in me
>low self-esteem and self-sabotaging instincts kick in
>react by acting indifferent or with subtle hostility towards her
>she loses interest
>find out recently she has started dating a Jewish guy
>he makes at least twice as much as I do
>just found out his debut short story collection is being published next year

What legitimate reasons do I have not to end my life right hecking now?

>take a bath earlier
>reading Language, Truth and Logic by A.J. Ayer
>realize all moral judgements are a consequence of emotional bias
>begin urinating
>watch expressionlessly as I both urinate and defecate in the tub
>fall asleep
>wake up and the water is cold and dark and the bathroom smells like shit

Nobody has claimed Hermione yet. A company moved to my office building in the Summer of 2015, and since my office has a bunch of shared meeting rooms, a shared kitchen etc people from the new company would often come visit our office to print things out, make coffee, have meetings, etc. Among them was a girl who was my age and she reminded me of Hermione quite a lot. She was obviously intelligent and a little officious, but she was the cutest girl I've ever seen in person. I did some autistic research and found out both she and the majority of her co-workers were from affluent backgrounds and since I'm a poorfag with pretty shitty mental health I felt too intimidated to talk to her. For like 4 months she came to print shit out at the printer that was right by my desk but I pretended not to notice. I think she may have been interested in me but for whatever reason I fucked up and didn't show her how attracted I was to her. One night in December 2015 I had the idea to write her a letter and hand it to her quickly in passing. I posted it on here and most people said I should never contact a human female because I was so retarded. She quit her job towards the end of last year and I haven't seen her since. I feel bad whenever I think about her, so I try not to because I know it's unhealthy. She could have been my Hermionefu, and I might have been her Harry-san. Alas.