/lit/ - Literature

>>18772739
"MAGPIES could be here," he thought. "I've never been awake at this hour before. There could be MAGPIES anywhere." The cool wind felt good against his bare chest. "I HATE MAGPIES," he thought. The sound of the autumn morning reverberated his entire balcony, making it pulsate even as the $0.50 coffee circulated through his powerful thick veins and washed away his (merited) fear of magpies in the morning. "With an alarm, you can wake up any time you want," he said to himself, out loud.

>>18772739
Imagine that a baby girl, toddling around in the course of her initial tentative
investigations, reaches up onto a countertop to touch a fragile and expensive glass
sculpture. She observes its color, sees its shine, feels that it is smooth and cold and heavy
to the touch. Suddenly her mother interferes, grasps her hand, tells her not to ever touch
that object. The child has just learned a number of specifically consequential things about
the sculpture—has identified its sensory properties, certainly. More importantly,
however, she has determined that approached in the wrong manner, the sculpture is
dangerous (at least in the presence of mother); has discovered as well that the sculpture is
regarded more highly, in its present unaltered configuration, than the exploratory
tendency—at least (once again) by mother. The baby girl has simultaneously encountered
an object, from the empirical perspective, and its socioculturally determined status. The
empirical object might be regarded as those sensory properties “intrinsic” to the object.
The status of the object, by contrast, consists of its meaning—consists of its implication
for behavior. Everything a child encounters has this dual nature, experienced by the child
as part of a unified totality. Everything is something, and means something—and the
distinction between essence and significance is not necessarily drawn.

And that baby girl is Mikhaila Peterson.

>>18773193
Comfy post

When the harvest all was gathered
In the sunny autumn weather,
To the greenwood, blithe and merry,
We went nutting all together

And as the woods we wander'd
So dim and dark and green,
We heard a sweet voice calling
Though no one could be seen:

"Two sticks across,
And a little bit of moss;
It'll do, it'll do it'll do,
Coo, coo, coo"

The wild things of the woodlands
Scarce seemed of us afraid;
The blue Jay flash'd before us,
And the squirrel near us played

We ate our nuts and rested
On a fallen tree, moss-grown,
And still a voice kept calling
In the softest, tend'rest tone:

"Two sticks across,
And a little bit of moss;
It'll do, it'll do it'll do
Coo, coo, coo"

'Women are weak' , Toby observed
'Quite so', Thomasine remarked
'What was that?'
'Very weak'

Philosophy now over, Toby relaxed in reminiscence of the day's exploits. The frozen mud had been difficult to traverse. How difficult for a woman 16 weeks pregnant, he couldn't tell, he was a man after all, a real man, but like he was so fond of saying -
"hardship makes the best..."
- but Toby had run of out words that rhymed with ship.

"Nevermind", Toby sighed. He was sick of prose, anyhow. They would kick box tomorrow. Thomasine would have no chance.

>>18772739
am frog and like coffee
fall is here
life is beautiful
too much love in me

>>18772739
this goffe is making my hand comfortably warm against this autumn wind, must thank mommy

>>18773193
love it

A man said to the universe
Universe, I exist!
However, replied the universe
You are still an autistic frog poster lmaoooo

I woke up, by a quick transition, in the New Hampshire mountains, in the deep valleys and the wide woodlands, on the forest-fringed slopes, the far-seeing crests of the high places, and by the side of the liberal streams and the lonely lakes; things full, at first, of the sweetness of belated recognition, that of the sense of some bedimmed summer of the distant prime flushing back into life and asking to give again as much as possible of what it had given before--all in spite, too, of much unacquaintedness, of the newness, to my eyes, through the mild September glow, of the particular rich region. I call it rich without compunction, despite its several poverties, caring little that half the charm, or half the response to it, may have been shamelessly "subjective"; since that but slightly shifts the ground of the beauty of the impression. When you wander about in Arcadia you ask as few questions as possible. That is Arcadia in fact, and questions drop, or at least get themselves deferred and shiftlessly shirked; in conformity with which truth the New England hills and woods--since they were not all, for the weeks to come, of mere New Hampshire--the mild September glow and even the clear October blaze were things to play on the chords of memory and association, to say nothing of those of surprise, with an admirable art of their own.

The leaves streamed down, trembling in the sun. They were not green, only a few, scattered through the torrent, stood out in single drops of green so bright and pure that it hurt the eyes; the rest were not a color, but a light, the substance of fire on metal, living sparks without edges. And it looked as if the forest were a spread of light boiling slowly to produce this color, the green rising in small bubbles, the condensed essence of spring. The trees met, blending over the road and the spots of sun on the ground moved with the shifting of the branches, like a conscious caress. The young man hoped he would not have to die.

>>18773208
>>18773300
>>18774604
>>18776094
>>18776157
>>18776195
>>18776199
YIKES

>>18776327
I literally posted a Crane poem you moron don't pretend like you read enough to what is and isn't good.

>>18776374
>Crane
I stand by what I said lmao
get fucked amerimutt

>>18776392
>contrarian anime poster

>>18776400
anime website

>>18772739
Thank you. (Applause.) I see an awful lot of good friends out there. Please have a seat if you have one.

I -- let me begin by saying I used to be important. (Laughter.) I used to be the chairman of the board of this place. And Jeffrey Rosen allowed me to do that for a while.

But thank you all for being here. I truly appreciate it. Governor, it's above and beyond the call. Mr. Mayor, I'd compli- -- I thought you were a great mayor -- still think you are -- but your judgment in fiancées is even stronger. And -- but -- but all of you. And a good friend, Bobby Brady. I see so many friends out. Al Sharpton -- Al, how are you, pal? It's great to see you. (Applause.)

And I'm -- I'm going to get in trouble here because I'm going to recognize my congresswoman from the state of Delaware, Lisa Blunt Rochester -- (applause) -- and her sister who used to run my office. Stand up. (Applause.)

Well, folks, good afternoon. There's a serious subject I'd like to talk about today. I'm here in Philadelphia at the National Constitution Center -- the city and the place where the story of "We the People" -- "We the People" began.
MORE: Biden to make 'moral case' for voting rights, slam 'authoritarian' state-level GOP voting bills

It's a story that's neither simple nor straightforward. That's because the story is the sum of our parts, and all those parts are fundamentally human. And being human is to be imperfect, driven by appetite and ambition as much as by goodness and grace.

But some things in America should be simple and straightforward.

>>18776532
Winrar

>>18772739
>Albi flared his nostrils as the rainstorm broke over head. It smelled like heat being submerged back into the earth and air in the evening of the year. Albion knew the storm was the perfect reason to stay indoors, but he would dread going out in an hour for a smoke. He sighed and looked back at the glowing computer screen. He enjoyed the chuckles he got from reading anonymous posts very much. He imagined the posters, the dark squalid unwashed heathens and puritans, getting so involved in their little games of innocuous commentary. Albion posted as well, but he was not anonymous. This was because he was a tripfag, and had proceeded higher up Maslow's pyramid than these fellow writers and many degenerates. He sighed, "Yes, I have evolved," and chuckled again as an older meme flitted across his mind in a memory of a time of more effort and less intelligence.

>Suddenly a new thought occurred to this conniseur of his own chuckles and farts. That he was in fact a robot invented by God, to worship god as his own future AI wife would worship him. For he would have an AI wife one day, but that is besides the matter. He was just a meme recepticle, in clown world. And reading novels, plays, and nonfiction, only broadened his appreciation for the website where he got his chuckles from. It was a never ending cycle. Was God chuckling at him? Well, never mind, it suddenly had stopped raining. The sun was again in the sky. It was time to smoke. And to post, and to read, and to appreciate more chuckles and farts. Thus is /lit./

>>18772739
>>18772739
>>18772739
Even though I had barely slept after that sick adventure last night, this morning I found myself grateful. I had somehow survived last nights events, and now, with this fresh coffee in hand, watching the dawn of a new day, I could'nt help but to feel hopeful about the future. I had the open road in front of me and my red BMW with a tank full of gas to leave this town full of despicable brown people. And no matter where I went and how awful this next place might be, I always had the fast beauty of nature around me and the eyes to perceive it.
Standing there with the sun in my eyes my feet firmly on the ground I felt as free as the birds I saw flying towards the light on the horizon.

>>18772739
It's a French poem by Charles Baudelaire, but it captures the exact feeling in the pic.

>Paysage
>
>Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues,
>Coucher auprès du ciel, comme les astrologues,
>Et, voisin des clochers écouter en rêvant
>Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.
>Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,
>Je verrai l'atelier qui chante et qui bavarde;
>Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mâts de la cité,
>Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d'éternité.
>
>II est doux, à travers les brumes, de voir naître
>L'étoile dans l'azur, la lampe à la fenêtre
>Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament
>Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.
>Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes;
>Et quand viendra l'hiver aux neiges monotones,
>Je fermerai partout portières et volets
>Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.
>Alors je rêverai des horizons bleuâtres,
>Des jardins, des jets d'eau pleurant dans les albâtres,
>Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,
>Et tout ce que l'Idylle a de plus enfantin.
>L'Emeute, tempêtant vainement à ma vitre,
>Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre;
>Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté
>D'évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,
>De tirer un soleil de mon coeur, et de faire
>De mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère.

This English translation isn't as good, but it's better than nothing.

>Landscape
>
>I want to write a book of chaste and simple verse,
>Sleep in an attic, like the old astrologers,
>Up near the sky, and hear upon the morning air
>The tolling of the bells. I want to sit and stare,
>My chin in my two hands, out on the humming shops,
>The weathervanes, the chimneys, and the steepletops
>That rise like masts above the city, straight and tall,
>And the mysterious big heavens over all.
>
>I want to watch the blue mist of the night come on,
>The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
>The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
>And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
>The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
>And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
>I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
>And build me stately palaces by candlelight.
>
>And I shall dream of luxuries beyond surmise,
>Gardens that are a stairway into azure skies,
>Fountains that weep in alabaster, birds that sing
>All day — of every childish and idyllic thing.
>A revolution thundering in the street below
>Will never lure me from my task, I shall be so
>Lost in that quiet ecstasy, the keenest still,
>Of calling back the springtime at my own free will,
>Of feeling a sun rise within me, fierce and hot,
>And make a whole bright landscape of my burning thought.

>>18773193
kek nice

im hapy and cozy

My parents were freedom fighters, in the most honest sense of the word. Honest isn’t a word usually reserved for demons or the denizens of Hell, but to me, it’s what they were from the notes and diaries I read that my mother had kept at that point in her life.

From time to time, as I turned one page after another, I would come across a little drawing that was neatly tucked between chapters. My mother’s own handwriting was harsh and uneven, the results of what little education she held, but the penmanship in these sketches was exquisite and elegant, as though whoever had drawn them had spent much much time under the tutelage of the masters in the Heavens above.

First it was of Hell’s natural flora and wildlife, then it moved on to sceneries of rugged landscapes and crowded city streets.
Then there were the drawings of people, groups of people often cradled together in rooms that seemed uncomfortably small, as if they were all afraid of being seen together gathering in public.

Among them, I noticed at the forefront a young woman with red hair and curled horns who looked like someone I knew. She was incredibly happy, despite the sparse conditions, as though she had waited eagerly all her life to be in that room at that very moment.

As the pages I read increased, so did the demons in these sketches. There were hundreds now, each face different from the last, each one bearing a burning desire for change after a lifetime of being trampled upon by those in the classes above them.

They weren’t hiding in cramped spaces any longer, and as the lines of this artist became more confident so did the cast of characters he drew. Soon they were covered in armour instead of rags, with swords and shields in hand instead of the wooden clubs and farming scythes they once held in the earliest days of the rebellion.

>>18777294
By the end, even that had all dispersed away, and this red-haired woman was all that was left of these sketches. She was alone now, and shy during the first time her portrait was being taken. Unable, as I glanced over the half-finished drawing, to settle herself on what face she would make.

She was frowning in the second one, almost no longer desiring to be there, and that, judging from what little ink had been split on the page, was abandoned even more quickly than the first.

By the third though, his patience and her patience had finally paid off. She was content now, adorning herself with the smile of an experienced stateswoman, her back turned away from the conflict that she and this artist had survived.

I wondered if she was smiling because the war had to come to an end, or if she was only smiling back at the man that was behind the palette and the easel.

It was only when I looked into her emerald eyes, and how they followed me wherever I went, did I realize then it was the latter.

Of course by the time I’d finished, I understood who this artist was and I was very proud to be his daughter.

2/2

Comfy enough?

>>18772739
Anon woke up early on a Sunday. He put a pot of coffee on, and had breakfast. He went out to mow his lawn. Steve, his insufferable faggot neighbor called out "Hey anon, have you heard the good news?" Anon giving him a death stare and said "No, what is it?"

"There's no more niggers, jews, spics or chinks left. They all just vanished overnight, without rhyme or reason apparently." Anon just stared at him blankly, before a soothing warmth fell over him. It was as if he was touched by God himself at that very moment. "Anon?" It started of with a widening smile, that grew to a chuckle, and after he started running a maniacal laughter.

"THERE'S NO MORE NIGGERS!" Anon screamed as he ran through the streets like a mad man. "THERE"S NO MORE CHINKS!" as people turned their gaze toward him. "THERE"S NO MORE SPICS!" out of breath, and still exhilarated by the good news, Anon thought he "I need a better vantage point for the last bit."

He was already in the city by this point, he entered the nearest skyscraper and took the lift. Going out to the roof, he gazed upon creation itself, and found it was good indeed. "Finally, the world is perfect." He started inhaling, and to such an extent that his scream, he thought, could split the heavens and the earth.

"THERE'S NO MORE..."
And before he could finish, Anon was awoken by his alarm clock.

>>18772739

>>18778806
pure bliss

>>18772739
ummagall muboy stidges en lyetup abeezy gedembidges upundadizz ruff yahmine? ahhhh geddem shayggin mafug geddizz meet weddinem! mafugga geddem bidges tuhbringga kwordamalt fuhmaboys neggazz geddinday digswet tuhnite sheeeeit!

>>18778700
>It started of with a widening smile, that grew to a chuckle, and after he started running a maniacal laughter.

that was a weird experience. well done anon

Long since lost the trail but I don't mind. There's nothing particularly dangerous out here anyway. Hares, deer, say. Have to scramble up the odd incline that's so steep you end up almost on all fours even trying to take it standing up. So few people come out here I can look down, way down, at the stream giving life to these woodlands and see that it's pure. No beercans, shopping trollies or detritus anywhere in sight. Come up a fair way and there's an ellipse of sweat in the middle of my chest with the occasional blob of salty water falling from my head on to my shoes as I look down when the footing gets trickier. Every so often it occurs to me that I ought to think about finding my way back but I don't care to and I push on.

>>18773193
great post

>>18772739
After he kissed Saraline goodbye he turned to the ocean. Like by magik, the sea had calmed and the sun which had been absent since they arrived in Jaspen 5 days ago was finally shining. Jihn was covered in the megalodone's blood and Saraline's defaced body stood at his feet but he felt relief and beauty looking at the beautiful sky.