/lit/ - Literature

>>6220885
"I guess you could call what I just wrote Mein Kampf"-

Adolf Pitler

The old man was dreaming about the lions.

The Road

ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down Jo me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes

>>6220885
>The struggle was over, he won the fight, he loved Big Brother, in 1984.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a full-stop
But a colon

>>6221418
fuck off McCarthy.

>>6221478

McCarthy desperately wishes that was him

>At last I had come to realize that sometimes no matter how hard you try life still gives you the old switcharoo. The fault was not mine to bare. It was truly the fault in our stars.

Bravo Green

>>6221478

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest I go to, than I have ever known.

>>6221478
No, it's Joyce. (Both are gimmicky talentless hacks.)

Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would
never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages)
would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise
moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and
that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and
forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not
have a second opportunity on earth. –Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years
of Solitude

It reads better in Spanish.

"Alas, twine and toil be shunt, Oh greatest rhizome, son of Zion, I'm ready when you are, champ"

- Gilles Deleuz/Felix Guattari, 1000 Plateaus

>“What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement?
>It is Clarissa, he said.
>For there she was.”

Nice driving, M'Myrna! *tips hunting cap* That'll be the last time I ever get involved with the Confederacy of Dunces.

>>6221644
>that image

Please take me back to 2010 /lit/

>>6221478
You made me laugh today, thank you.

>>6221985
chronicle of a death foretold also ends with a great line

"Together, mother and daughter drifted away, and the river of time ran slowly into an unmarked sea."

>>6221854
weak bait

>>6220885
>Now everybody-

>>6223611
chilling

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

>>6223638
knew this would come up

>It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
>It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
>And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
>Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
>We are not now that strength which in old days
>Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
>One equal temper of heroic hearts,
>Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
>To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

‘All that is very well,’ answered Candide, ‘but let us cultivate our garden’.

>>6221472
I think I actually prefer that

>>6223692
love this

'Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Yace aquí el Hidalgo fuerte
que a tanto estremo llegó
de valiente, que se advierte
que la muerte no triunfó
de su vida con su muerte.


Tuvo a todo el mundo en poco;
fue el espantajo y el coco
del mundo, en tal coyuntura,
que acreditó su ventura
morir cuerdo y vivir loco.

Not the literal closing lines, but almost.

>Finally, at long last, I can show the world my true worth.

I read this and immediately claimed it to be the best work of art for a long, long time. I still think this.

>>6223700
It was Perineum Millennium by Tim Minchin

There will come a day for each of us—and then for all of us—when the future will be done with. Until then, humanity will acclimate itself to every new horror that comes knocking, as it has done from the very beginning. It will go on and on until it stops. And the horror will go on, as day follows day and generations fall into the future like so many bodies into open graves. The horror handed down to us will be handed down to others while the clock is still ticking. Could it be possible that we all deserve to die, and to die out? But our heads are not obsessed by such questions. To ask them is not in our interest . . . or what we think is our interest, which amounts to the same thing. And to answer them hand on heart and not with our heads in the sand could put an end to the conspiracy against the human race. But that will never happen. Ask anybody.

Not last line I guess but the last two or three pages of The Melancholy of Resistance where it launches into the physiological minutiae of the lady's body shutting down and then decaying into nothingness. Something about the jarring shift from the surreal lyricism and extending metaphor of the whole novel to that last detached clinic passage made me have a panic attack and I almost wanted to break up with my girlfriend and flee the country then and there

>>6220885
the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty, the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

>>6220885
the end line of Ondaatje's Coming Through Slaughter takes the prize for my personal favourite