/lit/ - Literature

2 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin.
My darling

I ought to begin by begging your pardon, perhaps, for the extraordinary letter I wrote you last night. While I was writing it your letter was lying in front of me and my eyes were fixed, as they are even now, on a certain word of it. There is something obscene and lecherous in the very look of the letters. The sound of it too is like the act itself, brief, brutal, irresistible and devilish.

Darling, do not be offended at what I wrote. You thank me for the beautiful name I gave you. Yes, dear, it is a nice name ‘My beautiful wild flower of the hedges! My dark-blue, rain-drenched flower!’. You see I am a little of the poet still. I am giving you a lovely book for a present too: and it is a poet’s present for the woman he loves. But, side by side and inside this spiritual love I have for you there is also a wild beast-like craving for every inch of your body, for every secret and shameful part of it, for every odour and act of it. My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or to fling you down under me on that soft belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the open shame of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you as you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.

>Have I shocked you by the dirty things I wrote to you? You think perhaps that my love is a filthy thing. It is, darling, at some moments. I dream of you in filthy poses sometimes. I imagine things so very dirty that I will not write them until I see how you write yourself. The smallest things give me a great cockstand - a whorish movement of your mouth, a little brown stain on the seat of your white drawers, a sudden dirty word spluttered out by your wet lips, a sudden immodest noise made by you behind and then a bad smell slowly curling up out of your backside. At such moments I feel mad to do it in some filthy way, to feel your hot lecherous lips sucking away at me, to fuck between your two rosy-tipped bubbies, to come on your face and squirt it over your hot cheeks and eyes, to stick it between the cheeks of your rump and bugger you.

BBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP snnnnniiiiiiffffffffffff...oh yes my dear....sssnnnnnnnnnnnniiiiiiiiffffffff....quite pungent indeed...is that....dare I say....sssssssnniff...eggs I smell?......sniff sniff....hmmm...yes...quite so my darling....sniff....quite pungent eggs yes very much so .....ssssssssssssssnnnnnnnnnnnnnnniiiiiiiffffff....ah yes...and also....a hint of....sniff....cheese.....quite wet my dear....sniff...but of yes...this will do nicely....sniff.....please my dear....another if you please....nice a big now.... BBBBBBRRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPFFFFFF Oh yes...very good!....very sloppy and wet my dear....hmmmmm...is that a drop of nugget I see on the rim?...hmmmm.....let me.....let me just have a little taste before the sniff my darling.......hmmmmm....hmm..yes....that is a delicate bit of chocolate my dear....ah yes....let me guess...curry for dinner?....oh quite right I am....aren't I?....ok....time for sniff.....sssssnnnnnnniiiiiiiiffffffff.....hmmm...hhhmmmmm I see...yes....yes indeed as well curry......hmmm....that fragrance is quite noticeable....yes.....onion and garlic chutney I take it my dear?.....hmmmmm....yes quite..... BBBBBBRRRRRRRRPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTT Oh I was not expecting that…that little gust my dear….you caught me off guard…yes…so gentle it was though…hmmmm…let me taste this little one…just one small sniff…..sniff…ah….ssssssnnnnnniiiiiffffffffffff…and yet…so strong…yes…the odor….sniff sniff…hmmm….is that….sniff….hmmm….I can almost taste it my dear…..yes….just…sniff….a little whiff more if you please…..ssssssnnnnnniiiiiffffffffff…ah yes I have it now….yes quite….hhhhmmmm…delectable my dear…..quite exquisite yes…..I dare say…sniff….the most pungent one yet my dear….ssssnnnnniiiifffffffffffffffffffffff….yes….

>When he had eaten all the peas he sipped his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley’s adventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking along some dark road; he heard Corley’s voice in deep energetic gallantries and saw again the leer of the young woman’s mouth. This vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good job? Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to. He had walked the streets long enough with friends and with girls. He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience had embittered his heart against the world. But all hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten than he had felt before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able to settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only come across some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready.

You're not still fucking around wasting your prime years, right /lit/?

>Has anyone really been far as decided to use even go want to do look more like?
>t.

>>18682149
Writing is about language. Your command over languages develops in use, not from reading technical manuals. As such novels are better than guidebooks, but talking to people and listening to people and exchanging stories is even better.
Writing is the best practice of all, though.

I-is that? A-an ineluctable modality? AAAAAAAAAAAA WHAT IS IT MEAN I NEED LIKE 10 GUIDES FOR THIS I DON'T UNDERSTAND AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I'M GOING INSANE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Is there a resource that provides a reading list for must-read books to become a well read person? Yes, start with the Greeks, I have that infographic.

>write childish gibberish
>be heralded as one of the best writers of the twentieth century

The same people who like this hack are the same people who like modern art.

HERE COMES EVERYBODY!

Post the most aesthetic editions of this man's works that are in print.

Are there any novels similar to Ulysses in that it spends a lot of time in a characters thoughts but that isn't complete nonsense?