/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.11460665]

What are some books about depression?

[Anonymous No.11460709]

>>11460665
Anything by Cioran (I recommend pic related)

The Book of Disquiet

[Anonymous No.11460714]

MY

[Anonymous No.11460718]

>>11460714
diary desu

[Anonymous No.11460831]

>>11460665
read the book of discomfy
>The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
>My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. […]. I'm two, and both keep their distance — Siamese twins that aren't attached
>I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist
>I've always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect
>Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.
>When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.
>May I at least carry, to the boundless possibility contained in the abyss of everything, the glory of my disillusion like that of a great dream, and the splendor of not believing like a banner of defeat; a banner in feeble hands, but still and all a banner, dragged through mud and the blood of the weak but raised high for who knows what reason - whether in defiance, or as a challenge, or in mere desperation - as we vanish into quicksand. No one knows for what reason, because no one knows anything, and the sand swallows those with banners as it swallows those without. And the sand covers everything: my life, my prose, my eternity. I carry my awareness of defeat like a banner of victory.

[Anonymous No.11460914]

>>11460665
Journey Through The End of the Night
Death On Credit
Anything written by Celine is by far the most depressing, tragic and misanthropic literature ever to the extent that his autobiographical works are less tragic than his fiction.

[Anonymous No.11461051]

>>11460831
What the fuck man

[Anonymous No.11461070]

>>11460665
Why have we had this thread daily recently

[Anonymous No.11461092]

>>11460831
>The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
very nicely written

[Anonymous No.11461099]

>>11460914
What? Journey is hilarious. Celine loved people, he just hated war.

[Anonymous No.11461429]

>>11461099
>seeing people and children being torn to pieces in war scenes
>being sold by a priest in Africa
>getting into slave wage jobs in America
>feeling impotent about not being able to save a child from his imminent death despite being a doctor
>watching your spiritual counterpart being shot down by a crazy bitch

as for Death on Credit, which is set before the war:
>Getting verbally and physically abused day and night by parents
>Trying to do your best, still tragedies occur, losing every single job you find, getting hated by everyone due to insane misfortune
>Get sent by parents in the UK in the hopes of getting your shit straight
>Never learning how to form a sentence in English, never talking to anyone, seeing an innocent family getting destroyed by debts and poverty, the situation ultimately gets as far as including suicide
>Your only supportive family member, your uncle sends you to work with a half assed clown who writes for a magazine, you never get a single dime and the whole thing gets fucked up once again, another suicide
If that's your definition of humor you're definitely not the sanest person alive.