/lit/ - Literature

>>6603010
From swerve of feels to bend of heart...

Perhaps it is seeing a woman who has long accustomed herself to see her husband as a resigned and unambitious man realize (with him nested beside her in bed, frail like a child) that she once loved him, that she felt desire for him and wanted him to take her for himself, to possess her completely, and to see her perhaps perceive by the cloudy influence of ancient echoes of days long dissolved that she still loves him and that seeing him can still invade her with old images of the sun, the sea and the mountains and that these dreams are just hers and maybe his and will disappear completely with themselves when they left the world. Maybe it is the bittersweet witnessing of one longing for ancient joys that will never live again. Maybe it is the tasting of the complicity and sadness of old lovers who know that they wonderful feelings cannot be shared with anyone else and shall burn only in themselves, and that those moments of infinite joy and pleasure have ended and shall end like all the universe.

Joyce is complete garbage. Complete. Garbage.

Yeats and Mangan are the better Irish writers.

I haven't read Ulysses but if the text reads as similarly to Gertrude Stein as this quote, it should be gr8

>>6603022
ha, right in the riverruns

I didn't like it that much
Poetry sucks

>>6603797
what about Mangan's sister?

>>6603010
Where's that from?

>>6603797
You're wrong on three levels: Joyce is the opposite of garbage; Toland is the best Irishman who ever wrote; and it's not even a question of best Irishman in this thread, and you missed Wilde, which makes little sense considering your obvi man-boner (man-inspired erection, that is) for keats, who was much less sensible than Wilde albeit, I'll give you this much, more poetic, but who gives a damn about poetic quality and degrees? Oscar Wilde could actually talk to people, unlike Johnny boy.

>>6603814
ending of ulysses

>>6603830
and so a spoiler alert was out of the question?

>>6603839
It's a 100-ear-old classic, anon. C'mon.

>>6603844
what? too soon? :P

You won't need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his
glut of cold meat and hot soldiering
Nor wake in winter, window machree, but snore sung in my old
Balbriggan surtout.
Wisha, won't you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of
next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (what?)
as your own nursetender?
A power of highsteppers died game right enough — but who, acushla,
'll beg coppers for you?

I tossed that one long before anyone.
It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I'm given
now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.
Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed
picnic to follow.
By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight
from under me, Mick, Nick the Maggot or whatever your name
is, you're the mose likable lad that's come my ways yet from the
barony of Bohermore.

"Mais, quand d’un passé ancien rien ne subsiste, après la mort des êtres, après la destruction des choses, seules, plus frêles mais plus vivaces, plus immatérielles, plus persistantes, plus fidèles, l’odeur et la saveur restent encore longtemps, comme des âmes, à se rappeler, à attendre, à espérer, sur la ruine de tout le reste, à porter sans fléchir, sur leur gouttelette presque impalpable, l’édifice immense du souvenir.
Et dès que j’eus reconnu le goût du morceau de madeleine trempé dans le tilleul que me donnait ma tante (quoique je ne susse pas encore et dusse remettre à bien plus tard de découvrir pourquoi ce souvenir me rendait si heureux), aussitôt la vieille maison grise sur la rue, où était sa chambre, vint comme un décor de théâtre."

Real prose master coming through

>>6603839
its not really the type of book that have the plot spoiled

>>6603839
yes

ps bloom dies at the end

>>6603889
>Real prose master coming through

A wild contender appears:

"I was sincere: I do not know exactly what is love, but although I do not know him, I must say that it seems a primordial error of our philosophers to recognize only the soul as its mother; only the spirit as his father, denying to the body and any slice and piece of his paternity, as if he was at best a distant uncle, shy and sterile. It’s our body just a mountain range of muscles, with occasional showers of sweat, with a loud echo cave called stomach, swamps of tubular fungi called intestines and burning boilers in the private parts below? Is the brain a simple spongy cloud of tempests, the skin a blanket of grass, the heart a nucleus of bubbling lava? Is our body a mere mountain of meat in which lies hidden the immaculate and bright jewel of the soul? After all, what is the soul? Does she have smell? No. Does she have taste? No. Maybe she has texture? Why, in the same way that the fog has texture. What about the voice: is thought the voice of the soul? Is she a kind of small crystal gnat trapped in the colossus of mud and dust of our gross human body, within which it lies, whispering its will? Unlikely... So, gentlemen , why this ghost, this specter, gets all the credit for all that is beautiful in us humans, whereas our bodies, that are always with us (yes , our bodies abandon us only once) are called servants of addiction, unclean dolls, meat cooked in dirt, pigs sinners? Must the glory of nature be called a muddy rag marionette, a sewage incarnated? That would be an injustice: if we celebrate the cold mosque of the soul, why not also celebrate the carnival of body heat? When something is good for us, and we wish this something to be seen with the paints of superiority, we say we love it, but never use the name of pleasure, being this name something, something bodily, something dirty. And yet, it’s not love the child of pleasure? When, still newborns, we suck the motherly breast, do we not so because it’s good, because it’s pleasurable? And, on the deathbed, when we cover our dying bodies that feel cold with blankets, do we not so because heat is good and pleasurable? Why we live with the people we love? Why, because it’s good. Pleasure, gentlemen, is the one who pulls us through our nose with his sugary finger through the road of life. But how do we feel that something is pleasurable? Well, thorough this walking radar: our body. How then can we know that we really love something? Why, by reading the language of our bodies. So, gentlemen, long life to our bodies, because we can only love while still having them."

>>6603010
>yes
>yes
>yes
>yes I said
>yes I will yes
this the type of shit a nigga got to go thru not to catch rape charges these days

>>6603889
before the other contenders appeared, i was gonna correct you by renaming him but 1 prose master (overlooking homer, borges, faulkner, antoine galland, arthur waley, etc.)

>>6603972
hahaha

>>6604174
>homer
>prose master

>>6603839
>>>/reddit/

>>6603972
Yeah, apparently asking a girl to blow you three times, and then she does it, is rape these days.

>>6604216
Only after the wave ebbs twice.

>>6603972

>top kek

>>6604216

Are you that anon sharing depressing stories about the literary lifestyle on the other thread who begged a girl to suck you?

Man, I think you are...

>>6604216
No it's not rape but it's very uncomfortable and that girl is going to be feeling awful for a long long time. :-)

reading Portrait of the Artist right now, how long do the religious themes go on for. Im at page 134