/lit/ - Literature

How does one become authentic?

What is the spectacle?

>>8938548
Reading popular books makes you a sociopath just as much as not reading them. How strange that you would call someone crazy for not reading classic literature on a loop forever.

>>8901832
Society of the Spectacle

>>8554399
muh spectacle

The answer has been in front of you the entire time.
JVD

guys I did something bad by normie standards, and I'm in a deep depression partially as a result. I can justify it with perspectival moralism or my normal retreat to romanticism, but I can't get myself to mention the possibility of a contemporary acknowledgement of what happened:


Can’t sleep because of concussion’s murky touch on my feet and the dehumidifier’s bitterness that someone might be resting. The kid is done. He’s in a low spot again. He’s been in a low spot every fall since coming to college. There’s pressure behind my eyes. Haven’t slept. Getting scolded for doing a joke of an assignment wrong, which was assigned when I was in bed rest from aforementioned head trauma.
Knowing with relative certainty that I’ll never be like I was before I got hit in the head. My friend tells a story about her friend being ‘totally concussed’ over the weekend, and how he continued drinking and only realized the next day. And here I sit, in a full-blown depression that’s on its third week, not considering but not not considering suicide. I’m ready to see the end of it, and I never will. It’ll be around. I wrote something beautiful the day after it happened. I can’t believe I did that. Two days after it happened I was a vegetable. The day it happened I was a vegetable. The week after it happened I was a sleep-deprived vegetable. Doing blow and knowing that blow would permanently affect me thereafter, that it would be a part of the scar tissue, and doing that to that girl and feeling horrible afterwards, and the party around me knowing what I did to that girl, and having done it with so much confidence because of the blow. Down in the dumps, banished to my own hell down in my den without sleep, knowing the next day will be miserable because of fatigue, knowing that everything’s going to hurt. Feeling the headache long before it hits.
Feeling like sin, like I have sinned, and like there should be some way to repent, but knowing that there is none. Deep down, I’m going to hell and I’ve been in hell. Hating everything that I do as a person. Absolutely hating everything about myself. Proud only that I had the self-worth enough to send blood to my dick in hopes of passing something from myself onto the next generation. I need something more in life. I need a group of people that love me, a group other than my family, who’s indebted to love me and support me. I need a group of people that are informed about and will hold me to standards according to my actions. Piercing headache, going to buy drugs to fall asleep.

>>6899041
Society of the Spectacle, by the Guy named Debord.

>Harry Potter and the Theory of Bloom.

>Harry Potter and the Society of the Spectacle.


>Harry Potter and the Technological Society.

– Wait, what, do you mean tonight? Do I go now?
– Yes, son, tonight, yes, go, I'm sorry, it's done.

A momentary silence was split by the shriek of his sliding chair as he shuffled away from the kitchen table and away from his family unit, all of whom had gathered for the delivery of the news. Briefly rearranging the chairs and stools scattered about the kitchen into a walkable path for the last time, riding the plush smoothness of the back edge of the crushed velvet living room couch with his palm for the last time, catching a glimpse of the lion-shaped pattern cast on the hallway wall by the ceiling fan light fixture from around the corner for the last time, he suddenly became acutely sensitive to the extra weight his actions carried in their finality.

He opened the door to his room slowly, quietly, entered, then shut the door softly with the knob rotated and the latch retracted, as if he were avoiding creating a disturbance. There was no one in his room, but his room was also dressed in the cloak of finality his actions wore, so it felt alive. Alive is to wear clothes. What are clothes, he thought, why do people even wear clothes – wait nevermind that's a stupid thought, he thought, literally everyone has thought that probably, it's just like when people say 'I wonder who decided to yank on the dangly thing on the bottom of a cow and drink whatever comes out,' it's such a pointless, stupid thought, people need to stop thinking and saying that, he thought. His thoughts dematerialized and his body sat simply on the edge of his bed as his eyes scanned his room for a container for his belongings.

Told to please, just leave, just go, you know why, you know we can't really do much about it, you know it pains us for it to have arrived at this point but we can't not follow through with this, so yes, son, tonight, yes, go, I'm sorry, it's done, he sat on his bed and looked around because he needed to find a container for his belongings. His luggage carrier. It was in his closet. Shoving the sliding door of his closet along its track to get access to his various belongings – for the last time – his luggage carrier tumbled out and onto the floor, open, empty, ready to be packed, and a slight puff of laughter jetted from his nose as he looked at it and thought, that was just like a movie, the way it efficiently opened and made itself ready for me to pack.

A light knocking pattern at the door – three taps, then one more, for the last time:

[dialogue that I've omitted bc this is getting long]

LAST 3
White Noise
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
The Name of the Rose

CURRENT
J R

NEXT 3
The Waves
Light in August
Ficciones

(btw this is a veiled suggestion thread)