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/lit/ - Literature

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11503148 No.11503148 [Reply] [Original]

Post the most beautiful passage in literature.

>> No.11503153

Wardine be cry

>> No.11503156

that line in my diary desu when I describe my lack of qt gf

>> No.11503170
File: 222 KB, 822x844, uuy.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>> No.11503197

she smiled

>> No.11503244

Waiting for first genuine response

>> No.11503254


>> No.11503265

Jesus wept.

>> No.11503300

something by shakespeare probably

>> No.11503369

>most beautiful passage
maybe not the most beautiful, but there's something special about it, and i love to use those phrases when talking to people: "keep passing the open windows!" and "you need a good, smart bear" :)

“So we dream on. Thus we invent our lives. We give ourselves a sainted mother, we make our father a hero; and someone’s older brother and someone’s older sister – they become our heroes too. We invent what we love and what we fear. There is always a brave lost brother – and a little lost sister, too. We dream on and on: the best hotel, the perfect family, the resort life. And our dreams escape us almost as vividly as we can imagine them… That’s what happens, like it or not. And because that’s what happens, this is what we need: we need a good, smart bear… Coach Bob knew it all along: you’ve got to get obsessed and stay obsessed. You have to keep passing the open windows.”
― John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire

>> No.11503418

ὣς ἔφατ᾽ εὐχόμενος, τοῦ δ᾽ ἔkλυε Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων,
βῆ δὲ kατ᾽ Οὐλύμποιο kαρήνων χωόμενος kῆρ,
τόξ᾽ ὤμοισιν ἔχων ἀμφηρεφέα τε φαρέτρην:
ἔkλαγξαν δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὀϊστοὶ ἐπ᾽ ὤμων χωομένοιο,
αὐτοῦ kινηθέντος: ὃ δ᾽ ἤϊε νυkτὶ ἐοιkώς.
ἕζετ᾽ ἔπειτ᾽ ἀπάνευθε νεῶν, μετὰ δ᾽ ἰὸν ἕηkε:
δεινὴ δὲ kλαγγὴ γένετ᾽ ἀργυρέοιο βιοῖο:
οὐρῆας μὲν πρῶτον ἐπῴχετο kαὶ kύνας ἀργούς,
αὐτὰρ ἔπειτ᾽ αὐτοῖσι βέλος ἐχεπευkὲς ἐφιεὶς
βάλλ᾽: αἰεὶ δὲ πυραὶ νεkύων kαίοντο θαμειαί.

It literally doesn't get better than this.

>> No.11503419


>> No.11503436

In human, please.

>> No.11503450

IN the meantime we had finished our tea. The horses, which had been put to long before,
were freezing in the snow. In the west the moon was growing pale, and was just on the point
of plunging into the black clouds which were hanging over the distant summits like the shreds
of a torn curtain. We went out of the hut. Contrary to my fellow-traveller's prediction, the
weather had cleared up, and there was a promise of a calm morning. The dancing choirs of
the stars were interwoven in wondrous patterns on the distant horizon, and, one after
another, they flickered out as the wan resplendence of the east suffused the dark, lilac vault of
heaven, gradually illumining the steep mountain slopes, covered with the virgin snows. To
right and left loomed grim and mysterious chasms, and masses of mist, eddying and coiling
like snakes, were creeping thither along the furrows of the neighbouring cliffs, as though
sentient and fearful of the approach of day.

Meждy тeм чaй был выпит; дaвнo зaпpяжeнныe кoни пpoдpoгли нa cнeгy; мecяц блeднeл нa зaпaдe и гoтoв yж был пoгpyзитьcя в чepныe cвoи тyчи, виcящиe нa дaльних вepшинaх, кaк клoчки paзoдpaннoгo зaнaвeca; мы вышли из caкли. Boпpeки пpeдcкaзaнию мoeгo cпyтникa, пoгoдa пpoяcнилacь и oбeщaлa нaм тихoe yтpo; хopoвoды звeзд чyдными yзopaми cплeтaлиcь нa дaлeкoм нeбocклoнe и oднa зa дpyгoю гacли пo мepe тoгo, кaк блeднoвaтый oтблecк вocтoкa paзливaлcя пo тeмнo-лилoвoмy cвoдy, oзapяя пocтeпeннo кpyтыe oтлoгocти гop, пoкpытыe дeвcтвeнными cнeгaми. Haпpaвo и нaлeвo чepнeли мpaчныe, тaинcтвeнныe пpoпacти, и тyмaны, клyбяcь и извивaяcь, кaк змeи, cпoлзaли тyдa пo мopщинaм coceдних cкaл, бyдтo чyвcтвyя и пyгaяcь пpиближeния дня.

>> No.11503458

My mother is a fish.

>> No.11503468

“Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.”

“The dream was marvellous but the terror was great; we must treasure the dream whatever the terror; for the dream has shown that misery comes at last to the healthy man, the end of his life is sorrow.”

>> No.11503618

it's chryses' prayer to apollo from book 1 of the iliad. no idea why he posted it in this thread though

>> No.11503656

Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing

>> No.11503753

Charlotte Brontë, "Jane Eyre"
> Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre: remorse is the poison of life.

John Updike, "The Witches of Eastwick"
> Not until midlife did she truly believe that she had a right to exist, that the forces of nature had created her not as an afterthought and companion - a bent rib, as the infamous Malleus Maleficarum had it - but as the mainstay of the continuing creation, as the daughter of a daughter and a woman whose daughters in turn would bear daughters.

Kurt Vonnegut, "Mother Night"
> Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, "The Gulag Archipelago"
> If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

Plutarch, "The Life of Alcibiades"
> His case went by default, his property was confiscated, and besides that, it was also decreed that his name should be publicly cursed by all priests and priestesses. Theano, the daughter of Menon, of the deme Agraule, they say, was the only one who refused to obey this decree. She declared that she was a praying, not a cursing priestess.

Albert Camus, "The Plague"
> Our happiness stands forever threatened, for the plague Bacillus neither dies nor disappears. It can lie dormant for years sand years, in furniture and in linen chests. Biding its time in bedrooms, in cellars, in trunks, in handkerchiefs, and in the odd scrap of paper. And the day will come when, to the bane and enlightenment of man, the plague will awaken its rats and send them forth to die in a happy city.

>> No.11503787

>She wanted to fall under the first carriage, the midpoint of which had drawn even with her. But the red bag, which she started taking off her arm, delayed her, and it was too late: the midpoint went by. She had to wait for the next carriage. A feeling seized her, similar to what she experienced when preparing to go into the water for a swim, and she crossed herself. The habitual gesture of making the sign of the cross called up in her soul a whole series of memories from childhood and girlhood, and suddenly the darkness that covered everything for her broke and life rose up before her momentarily with all its bright past joys. Yet she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the approaching second carriage. And just at the moment when the midpoint between the two wheels came even with her, she threw the red bag aside and, drawing her head down between her shoulders, fell on her hands under the carriage, and with a light movement, as if preparing to get up again at once, sank to her knees. And in that same instant she was horrified at what she was doing. ‘Where am I? What am I doing? Why?’ She wanted to rise, to throw herself back, but something huge and implacable pushed at her head and dragged over her. ‘Lord, forgive me for everything!’ she said, feeling the impossibility of any struggle. A little muzhik, muttering to himself, was working over some iron. And the candle by the light of which she had been reading that book filled with anxieties, deceptions, grief and evil, flared up brighter than ever, lit up for her all that had once been in darkness, sputtered, grew dim, and went out for ever.

>> No.11504073

Solzhenitsyn and Camus ones truly are goat.

>> No.11504099

i really liked the Plague but holy fuck is it a heavy handed metaphor, by the end of the book youre just like christ man i get it

>> No.11504117

all cringe

>> No.11504194

It's been some years since I read it but I distinctly remember really loving the scene where the doctor and the other guy sit on a roof at night and look out at the city. I recently got a copy in French to try and read it alongside my english version and translate it a page at a time, should be cool.

>> No.11504213
File: 3.10 MB, 450x338, emergencywaifu.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

canon btfo!

>> No.11504241

Camus is a really good writer, i think his philosophy made him sort of a meme and it overshadows his prose. The end of L'etranger is fucking incredibly written.

also your translation project sounds well worth it, his French is very nice, this passage is justifiably pretty famous:

] Lui parti, j'ai retrouvé le calme. J'étais épuisé et je me suis
jeté sur ma couchette. Je crois que j'ai dormi parce que je me suis
réveillé avec des étoiles sur le visage. Des bruits de campagne montaient
jusqu'à moi. Des odeurs de nuit, de terre et de sel rafraîchissaient
mes tempes. La merveilleuse paix de cet été endormi entrait en
moi comme une marée. À ce moment, et à la limite de la nuit, des sirènes
ont hurlé. Elles annonçaient des départs pour un monde qui maintenant
m'était à jamais indifférent. Pour la première fois depuis bien
longtemps, j'ai pensé à maman. Il m'a semblé que je comprenais pourquoi
à la fin d'une vie elle avait pris un « fiancé », pourquoi elle avait
joué à recommencer. Là-bas, là-bas aussi, autour de cet asile où des
vies s'éteignaient, le soir était comme une trêve mélancolique. Si près
de la mort, maman devait s'y sentir libérée et prête à tout revivre.
Personne, personne n'avait le droit de pleurer sur elle. Et moi aussi, je
me suis senti prêt à tout revivre. Comme si cette grande colère
m'avait purgé du mal, vidé d'espoir, devant cette nuit chargée de signes
et d'étoiles, je m'ouvrais pour la première fois à la tendre indifférence
du [172] monde.

>> No.11504266


also clear answer is Molly's soliloquy from Ulysses

>> No.11504281

>Molly's soliloquy
no one said it on purpose

>> No.11504294

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun’s heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion’s head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs In the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you’ll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman s breasts full in her blouse of nun’s veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

>> No.11504304

back to plebbit

>> No.11504317
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>> No.11504325

I'm rusty on my french and was never that great in the first place, but I understand about 75% of this without looking anything up, so that's good. I lived in Paris last summer and got french copies of La Peste, Les Fleurs du Mal, and a free Descartes book because the old man at the book stand by the river was excited when I told him I was learning the language.

>> No.11504337

Holden's last speech desu
>I tell you this. As war becomes dishonored and its nobility called into question those honorable men who recognize the sanctity of blood will become excluded from the dance, which is the warrior’s right, and thereby will the dance become a false dance and the dancers false dancers. And yet there will be one there always who is a true dancer and can you guess who that might be?
>Only that man who has offered up himself entire to the blood of war, who has been to the floor of the pit and seen horror in the round and learned at last that it speaks to his inmost heart, only that man can dance.
>Hear me, man, he said. There is room on the stage for one beast and one alone. All others are destined for a night that is eternal and without name. One by one they will step down into the darkness before the footlamps. Bears that dance, bears that don't.

>> No.11504353


Funeral of Antinous in Memoirs of Hadrian (the bookis filled with great passages):

On a mountain-side in the Arabic range, some
three leagues from the new city, they indicated to me one of those caverns formerly intended by Egypt’s kings to serve as their funeral vaults. A team of oxen drew the sarcophagus up the slope; it was lowered with ropes to those subterranean corridors, and was then slid into position to lean against a wall
of rock. The youth from Claudiopolis was descending into the tomb like a Pharaoh, or a Ptolemy. There we left him, alone. He was entering upon that endless tenure, without air, without light, without change of season, compared with which every life seems short; such was the stability to which he had attained,
such perhaps was the peace. Centuries as yet unborn within the dark womb of time would pass by thousands over that tomb without restoring life to him, but likewise without adding to his death, and without changing the fact that he had been.

>> No.11504445
File: 159 KB, 970x647, w-b-yeats.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]


yawn with a capital Y

W.B. Yeats, "Sailing to Byzantium"
> That is no country for old men.

>> No.11504487

shut the fuck up

>> No.11504499

yawning is a sign of arousal

>> No.11504529

thought it was a sign of being tired

>> No.11504538
File: 196 KB, 763x500, Dies Irae 2.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

nope, not this time
sorry not sorry
not aroused very much :(

and my personal favourite, by who-the-fuck-knows:

> Dies irae, dies illa,
> Solvet saeclum in favilla:
> Teste David cum Sibylla.

> Quantus tremor est futurus,
> Quando iudex est venturus,
> Cuncta stricte discussurus!

> Tuba, mirum spargens sonum
> Per sepulcra regionum,
> Coget omnes ante thronum.

> Mors stupebit et natura,
> Cum resurget creatura,
> Iudicandi responsura.

and THAT makes me aroused :)

>> No.11504539

No, it's a way for the body to prepare itself to suck cock

>> No.11504544


>> No.11504575

>No, it's a way for the body to prepare itself to suck cock
go back to /r9k/

or paste some good literary passages about sucking cocks
but: GOOD ones
i dare you

>> No.11504588
File: 1 KB, 404x564, 404px-Christian_cross.svg.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

John 3:16

For God so loved the world that he gave* his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.

* [3:16] Gave: as a gift in the incarnation, and also “over to death” in the crucifixion; cf. Rom 8:32.

>> No.11504617

The first chapter of Lolita is the most beautiful.

>> No.11504647

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta:
the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap,
at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one
sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on
the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact,
there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a
certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as
many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always
count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the
seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this
tangle of thorns.

whta did he intend by this passage

>> No.11504656

The part in Peer Gynt where he's varging out and dreaming of a distant castle.

>> No.11505295

that one in The Magic Mountain. you know which if you have read it

>> No.11505304

what if you haven't

>> No.11505311


>> No.11505351


>> No.11505398


"And Suttree wondered if she were ever a child at the fair, seeing in that shoddy world a vision that child's grace knows."

It goes on for a bit. Don't have the full text.

>> No.11505415

The King James bible is unironically full of some contenders:

"I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all."

>> No.11506423

And there I was unable to imagine Solzhenitsyn being even more melodramatic. Thanks English language.

>> No.11506448

the words "heart" and "destroy" have been heavily pillaged by anglo-saxon pop culture, that's for a fact.

>> No.11506475
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>> No.11506494

That was my first thought

>> No.11506523

Kanye truly is a lyrical genius, should've been given the Nobel instead of Dylan

>> No.11506536

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

>> No.11506541


>> No.11506627

Ύμνος στον Θεό Απόλλωνα;

>> No.11506633

Όχι άkυρο λογιkα kάποιον kατέβηkε να σkοτώσει

>> No.11506679
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>> No.11506684
File: 43 KB, 600x600, 6f5.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

“I lie in bed at night, after ending my prayers with the words "Ich danke dir für all das Gute und Liebe und Schöne" and I'm filled with joy. I think of going into hiding, my health and my whole being as das Gute; Peter's love (which is still so new and fragile and which neither of us dares to say aloud), the future, happiness and love as das Liebe; the world, nature and the tremendous beauty of everything, all that splendor, as das Schöne.

At such moments I don't think about all the misery, but about the beauty that still remains. This is where Mother and I differ greatly. Her advice in the face of melancholy is: "Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful you're not part of it." My advice is: "Go outside, to the country, enjoy the sun and all nature has to offer. Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy."

I don't think Mother's advice can be right, because what are you supposed to do if you become part of the suffering? You'd be completely lost. On the contrary, beauty remains, even in misfortune. If you just look for it, you discover more and more happiness and regain your balance. A person who's happy will make others happy; a person who has courage and faith will never die in misery!”

>> No.11506744

“As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.”

>> No.11506851


>> No.11506870

Jaroslav Hašek, "The Good Soldier Švejk"

> Great times call for great men.

When you read it, you just know that you are to experience TRUE greatness.

>> No.11507569
File: 244 KB, 915x960, durer_engraving_christ_suffering.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I came here to post this.

>> No.11507831

>James Joyce, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" (1916)
"He was destined to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world. The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard; and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to fall."

>Aeschylus, "Agamemnon" (5th century BC; In Translation)
"Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."

>> No.11507870

That's quote's not from literature.

>> No.11507891

Except for Plutarch, none of these writers are part of the canon

>> No.11507906

Unironically the monologue of Anna Livia Plurabelle in the end of Finnegans Wake

>> No.11507908

Pretty bad taste my dude

>> No.11507917


>> No.11507921

Made me pick up 2 books. Thanks anon.

>> No.11507977

“There was one field in which man was unsurpassed; he showed unlimited ingenuity in devising bigger and more efficient ways to kill off, enslave, harass, and in all ways make an unbearable nuisance of himself to himself. Man was his own grimmest joke on himself. The very bedrock of humor was— “Man is the animal who laughs,”

Apply this to the individual

>> No.11508022

Aesthetically speaking probably something towards the end of Swann's Way.

>> No.11508054

Thanks for posting an actual reply, disregard the illiterate shitters who cringe at everything. Plutarch on Alkibiades is particularly based.

>> No.11508063

There's one part in butchers crossing. G where the cynic old man tells the boy that none of "this" matters. I'll have to look it up when I'm home but that part stuck with me more than anything I've ever read

>> No.11508077

God damn fucking phone

>> No.11508086

John 11:1-44 is beautiful, there's more Christian theological meaning in it than can be said in a 2000 pages volume.

>> No.11508129
File: 444 KB, 957x1118, MOABfeel.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>"I communed with mine own heart, saying, Lo, I am come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all they that have been before me in Jerusalem: yea, my heart had great experience of wisdom and knowledge. And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit. For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."

>> No.11508139

>most beautiful passage in literature
>english anything

>> No.11508147

English is a great language. Mostly because it's basically a natural pidgin.

>> No.11508240

Thanks for convincing me not to read Witches of Eastwick.

>> No.11508263

>or paste some good literary passages about sucking cocks
>but: GOOD ones
>i dare you

unironically, that's tough!
michael cunningham have some mighty good ones, if i recall correctly

>> No.11508278

Is this 120 days of Sodom?

>> No.11508307

i thought there'd be a good one in le livre blanc but seems like there isn't any

>> No.11508308

>Thanks for convincing me not to read Witches of Eastwick.
you're welcome
always happy to discourage someone from reading a good book

i love this passage, it has such a nice undercurrent of darkness and menace, womanhood is shown in it as something alien and ancient and separate, those unending generations of daughters and daughters and daughters, in their own separate universe where there is no place for men and sons don't hold any value. so deliciously creepy and witchy.

>> No.11508328
File: 32 KB, 220x284, 6a017d41330de8970c01b8d1489721970c.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I am nothing
I shall never be anything
I cannot want to be anything.
Aside from that, I have within me all the dreams of the world.

>> No.11508374

Book of Job 38:1-41

>> No.11508420

I read it and I don’t know which passage you mean

>> No.11508430

What a fag

>> No.11508500

To the left he saw a sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostov could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on that white spot. "I expect it's snow... that spot... a spot- une tache," he thought. "There now... it's not a tache... Natasha... sister, black eyes... Na... tasha...”

>> No.11508541

This is the best part of portrait

>He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself:

—A day of dappled seaborne clouds.

The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?

He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again. At that instant, as it seemed to him, the air was chilled and, looking askance towards the water, he saw a flying squall darkening and crisping suddenly the tide. A faint click at his heart, a faint throb in his throat told him once more of how his flesh dreaded the cold infrahuman odour of the sea; yet he did not strike across the downs on his left but held straight on along the spine of rocks that pointed against the river’s mouth.

A veiled sunlight lit up faintly the grey sheet of water where the river was embayed. In the distance along the course of the slowflowing Liffey slender masts flecked the sky and, more distant still, the dim fabric of the city lay prone in haze. Like a scene on some vague arras, old as man’s weariness, the image of the seventh city of christendom was visible to him across the timeless air, no older nor more weary nor less patient of subjection than in the days of the thingmote.

Disheartened, he raised his eyes towards the slowdrifting clouds, dappled and seaborne. They were voyaging across the deserts of the sky, a host of nomads on the march, voyaging high over Ireland, westward bound. The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish Sea, Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and citadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races. He heard a confused music within him as of memories and names which he was almost conscious of but could not capture even for an instant; then the music seemed to recede, to recede, to recede, and from each receding trail of nebulous music there fell always one longdrawn calling note, piercing like a star the dusk of silence.

>> No.11508634

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 to 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

>> No.11508982

I didn’t get the metaphor at all. Felt pretty dumb when my friend told me it. I really just thought it was about a plague, and how people dealt with it.

>> No.11509733


'There were two more turds, smaller ones'


>> No.11509795

I’m sorry but most of these blew chunks

>> No.11510086


>> No.11510212

What is this from, it's not bad desu

>> No.11510296
File: 95 KB, 900x750, wallace-stevens-6.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]



In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And a pale silver patterned on the deck

And made one think of porcelain chocolate
And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green,
Piano-polished, held the tranced machine

Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds,
Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms
Unfolding in the water, feeling sure

Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then,
The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds?
Oh! C'etait mon extase et mon amour.

So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds,
The shrouding shadows, made the petals black
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,

A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth,
And smiting the crevasses of the leaves
Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue.

>> No.11510319

In 1884, meridian time personnel met
in Washington to change Earth time.
First words said was that only 1 day
could be used on Earth to not change
the 1 day bible. So they applied the 1
day and ignored the other 3 days.
The bible time was wrong then and it
proved wrong today. This a major lie
has so much evil feed from it's wrong.
No man on Earth has no belly-button,
it proves every believer on Earth a liar.

Children will be blessed for
Killing Of Educated Adults
Who Ignore 4 Simultaneous
Days Same Earth Rotation.
Practicing Evil ONEness -
Upon Earth Of Quadrants.
Evil Adult Crime VS Youth.
Supports Lie Of Integration.
1 Educated Are Most Dumb.
Not 1 Human Except Dead 1.
Man Is Paired, 2 Half 4 Self.
1 of God Is Only 1/4 Of God.
Bible A Lie & Word Is Lies.
Navel Connects 4 Corner 4s.
God Is Born Of A Mother –
She Left Belly B. Signature.
Every Priest Has Ma Sign
But Lies To Honor Queers.
Belly B. Proves 4 Corners.

Your dirty lying teachers
use only the midnight to
midnight 1 day (ignoring
3 other days) Time to not
foul (already wrong) bible
time. Lie that corrupts earth
you educated stupid fools.

GoBelly-Button Logic Works.

When Do Teenagers Die?
Adults Eat Teenagers Alive,
No Record Of Their Death.
Father Son Image, Not Gods.
Every Man Born Of Woman.

Belly-Button Is the Signature
Of Your Personal Creator -
I Believe Her Name Mama.

Pastor Told His Flock That
God Created All Of Them -
Truth Was That They All had
Mama Made Belly Buttons,
Church Was Full Of Liars.

Earth Has 4 Days In Same 24 Hrs., 1 Day God Was Wrong.
Einstein Was ONEist Brain.
Try My Belly-Button Logic.
No God Knows About 4 Days,
It Is Evil To Ignore 4 Days,
Does Your Teacher Know ?

Fraudulent ONEness of religious
academia has retarded your opposite
rationale brain to a half brain slave.

>> No.11510324
File: 13 KB, 236x258, b2a7aa69b4f2c4aa7f0d36f9d15cfb4b--cruise-ships-crane.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Actually forreal it's prolly this, from Hart Crane:

O Thou steeled Cognizance whose leap commits
The agile precincts of the lark’s return;
Within whose lariat sweep encinctured sing
In single chrysalis the many twain,—
Of stars Thou art the stitch and stallion glow
And like an organ, Thou, with sound of doom—
Sight, sound and flesh Thou leadest from time’s realm
As love strikes clear direction for the helm.

>> No.11510330


This thread sucks sweaty socks.

>> No.11510331

Think we found it anons

>> No.11510335

Gravity’s Rainbow

>> No.11510339
File: 5 KB, 170x219, 170px-William_Butler_Yeats.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

>> No.11510353

After me roared and clattered angry hosts
Of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts.
‘Life! life! I can’t be dead! I won’t be dead!
Damned if I’ll die for anyone!’ I said...
Cerberus stands and grins above me now,
Wearing three heads – lion, and lynx, and sow.
Quick, a revolver! But my Webley’s gone,
Stolen... no bombs... no knife... The crowd swarms on,
Bellows, hurls stones... Not even a honeyed sop...
Nothing... Good Cerberus!... Good dog!... but stop!
Stay!... A great luminous thought... I do believe
There’s still some morphia that I bought on leave.
Then swiftly Cerberus’ wide mouths I cram
With army biscuit smeared with ration jam;

And sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple.
He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple
With the all-powerful poppy... then a snore,
A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor
With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun –
Too late! for I’ve sped through.
O Life! O Sun!

>> No.11510385

red and basedpilled

>> No.11510386

"Words, words, words" - Hamlet

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, II.ii.183

>> No.11510397

Poet on 400mg MDMA

>> No.11510456


what is the metaphor?

>asking for a friend

>> No.11510826

That bit where he sees the girl on the beach is pretty good too

>> No.11510909

This has made me never want to read Vonnegut. Thank you.

>> No.11510950

Nice. Thanks for sharing.

>> No.11511004

but my desire and will were moved already—
like a wheel revolving uniformly—by
the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.

>> No.11511029

Loose strands of ambercolored kelp lay in a rubbery wrack at the tideline. A dead seal. Beyond the inner bay part of a reef in a thin line like something foundered there on which the sea was teething. He squatted in the sand and watched the sun on the hammered face of the water. Out there island clouds emplaned upon a salmoncolored othersea. Seafowl in silhouette. Downshore the dull surf boomed. There was a horse standing there staring out upon the darkening waters and a young colt that cavorted and trotted off and came back.

He sat watching while the sun dipped hissing in the swells. The horse stood darkly against the sky. The surf boomed in the dark and the sea's black hide heaved in the cobbled starlight and the long pale combers loped out of the night and broke along the beach.

He rose and turned toward the lights of the town. The tide-pools bright as smelterpots among the dark rocks where the phosphorescent seacrabs clambered back. Passing through the salt grass he looked back. The horse had not moved. A ship's light winked in the swells. The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men's knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

>> No.11511457


>> No.11512688
File: 19 KB, 300x429, localan.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

"I told my dentist all this."

>> No.11512951
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>> No.11512965

>And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of
hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning,
restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and wilful as a bird's


>> No.11512987
File: 144 KB, 1028x526, josh.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]


>> No.11513144

Never read this before, but instantly knew it was Russian.

>> No.11513175

" Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head—"

>> No.11513401

So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,
Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.

>> No.11513558


That only makes sense if you know who Jesus was and have read his story. Without this information the sentence has nothing special on it.

If I change the phrase and make it like:

>Anacletus wept.

It doesn’t say anything to any of you. But a phrase like:

>When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy

Is beautiful in any cultural context, and even to people who don’t believe in any deity.

>> No.11513799

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play.

>> No.11514145


>> No.11514457

Nobody cares what some mongrels think

>> No.11514765

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.

>> No.11514779

fuck off faggot

>> No.11514792

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

>> No.11514795

Your face is a sign of approval for getting bitch slapped

>> No.11514811

The heaviest weight. - What if some day or night a demon were to steal into your loneliest loneliness and say to you : 'This life as you now live it and have lived it you will have to live once again and innumerable times again; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you, all in the same succession and sequence - even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!' Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god, and never have I heard anything more divine. '

>> No.11514898


Nobody cares what you think

>> No.11514901


lol, christ-fags

>> No.11514916


Beautiful. I didn't know Stevens was capale of lines like:

>Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?

>The silken weavings of our afternoons,
>And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!

>> No.11514949

Have to side with the anon here. Christian culture is mostly boring, but those are some really gorgeous passages.

>> No.11514972


>> No.11514994

Yeah Stevens gets a little autistic with his phonic echoes now and again (especially when he leans with a Spenserian weight upon alliteration) but when he’s on point there is no one who playfully luxuriates in figurative language as beautifully as he does

>> No.11514999


Not saying they aren't beautiful, but they depend a lot of their context. If we are to judge the most beautiful passages shouldn't they speak to most readers, in any part of the world,in any given time, inserted in any culture?

>> No.11515049

Then we could only include passages that did not mention or allude to anything specifically western. Given how deeply ingrained Christianity is to the West, literary references to it/from it are as culturally specific as literary references to mountains. Sure some cultures have never seen the mountains and haven’t incorporated them into their cultural understanding, but a large enough set of people are contextually grounded enough to understand what people mean by mountains that it would be silly to preclude any work mentioning mountains from a collection of the most beautiful passages of literature. Although it’s a bit of a hyperbolical stretch, I think it’s essentially the same with Christian stuff.

>> No.11515175

None of us would be here without cum

>> No.11515196


>> No.11515227

Boy does Araby fuck me up. Joyce you absolute god

>> No.11515294

As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay
This was the tenour of my waking dream.
Methought I sate beside a public way
Thick strewn with summer dust, & a great stream
Of people there was hurrying to & fro
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam,
All hastening onward, yet none seemed to know
Whither he went, or whence he came, or why
He made one of the multitude, yet so
Was borne amid the crowd as through the sky
One of the million leaves of summer's bier.—
Old age & youth, manhood & infancy,
Mixed in one mighty torrent did appear,
Some flying from the thing they feared & some
Seeking the object of another's fear,
And others as with steps towards the tomb
Pored on the trodden worms that crawled beneath,
And others mournfully within the gloom
Of their own shadow walked, and called it death

>> No.11516391
File: 103 KB, 1200x630, 321248_1.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.

>> No.11516432

I don't think this is a real Jackson Pollock. It makes me want to vomit

>> No.11516462

No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

>> No.11516626
File: 73 KB, 138x208, 1566553.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Pynchon was truly ahead of his time

>> No.11516634

I remember first reaching this part of the book and how it blew me away. All hail Joyce.

>> No.11516642


that line alone takes the entire passage out of context though.

>> No.11516660

A little girl wrote better stuff than pretty much anyone in /lit/'s critique threads.

>> No.11516705

i read the book like 15 years ago but i think i remember the plague represents war.

>> No.11516774

or the absurd

>> No.11516798
File: 128 KB, 241x273, 1392587441929.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]


>> No.11516812


>> No.11516822

is this the time cube?

>> No.11516838

>That only makes sense if you know who Jesus
>still thinking jesus christ is a real historical figure
anon, i...

>> No.11516842
File: 46 KB, 278x121, burn.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]


>> No.11516843


Tsuyu no yo wa tsuyu no yo nagara sari nagara

This dewdrop world --
Is a dewdrop world,
And yet, and yet . . .

After years of legal wrangles, Issa managed to secure rights to half of the property his father left. He returned to his native village at the age of 49 and soon took a wife, Kiku. After a brief period of bliss, tragedy returned. The couple’s first-born child died shortly after his birth. A daughter died less than two-and-a-half years later, inspiring Issa to write this haiku (some said he wrote it after a monk, on which he searched for consolation, told him that all the globe and the universe were simply a drop of dew)

>> No.11516860


In a way, this poem tells everything about the central issues of life: death, finitude, evanescence, hope in the afterlife, love, longing.

The poet mentions the millennial wisdom that everything in the world is fleeting, everything is evanescent. There would be no reason to suffer in face ofdeath, for eventually everything and everyone will die, the universe will disappear, and all joys and sorrows, long gone (the human race will perish way beforethe final fate of the universe, when the stars will all be dead), if they still existed in some form of matter, somewhere in the fabric of the cosmos , now finally will end up being nothing.

And yet.

And yet we still feel the pain of losing who we love. And yet the longing still exists, love still exists, those who have existed will never be erased, even though absolute nothing will eventually come: they once existed, and nothing will change that. And yet you still dream of the kind of woman and human being your baby daughter would have become had she lived. And yet you still love that little baby, that dewy murmur that has evaporated.

And yet we still dream of the possibility that the frozen dew of the concrete world may mist up into some sort of paradise. We still dream that our loved ones can welcome us in the beyond. We come up with all sorts of wonderful fantasies and sweet rapturous religious ecstasies to be able to self-deceive and say "and yet."

For me this is one of the most beautiful poems ever composed.

>> No.11516867

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
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.

>> No.11516897

>1 Corinthians 13

Objectively the most beautiful passage ever written.

>> No.11517083

Beautiful passage, r/books.

>> No.11517812

“Little soul, gentle and drifting, guest and companion of my body, now you will dwell below in pallid places, stark and bare; there you will abandon your play of yore. But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again....Let us try, if we can, to enter into death with open eyes...”
― Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian

>> No.11517818

>Beautiful passage, r/books.
actually i came here from /hm/
(uh-oh, i guess that should go in confessions thread)

>> No.11517827

what the fuck is this nigger talking about

>> No.11517837

Morfar darra av sinnesnärvaro... Skogen vakta hans mörka saga, den eviga kampen mellan ont å gott.
- Ett ord, som än ida’ ä de fulaste som finns, hördes allt oftare: Fitta... dom hade fitter, sas de, en sorts pälsjur, lenare å saftiare än anus å int lika hedniskt trånga...
Dom som pröva va sålda... Amfoorrrtasss!!!
De va die Wunde, den ä som ett gapande, blödande, varit sår som aldri vill läkas...
De va fitterna dom använde när dom tog Norrland ifrån oss!
Å ögon som bitterljuva svek, munnar me ekorrflinka tunger...
Olycklit kära kom vandrande, brända å slocknade... Enkidus bittra öde!
Dom dog i våra armar, bönande om förlåtelse för sitt avfall...
Dom närma sä obönhörlit, horerna... smög nattetid in i kamrarna å börja snaska... vampyrer...
me ständit allt fler perversa, förhäxade kavaljerer i släptåg... vagnslaster me horungar! krams å
husgeråd!... Dom gilla billiga nöjen å dyra smycken, låga njutningar å höga tonlägen... Liliths å Circes döttrar... O Tertullianus! Ack juvenalis! Jean de Meun! Gudomliga Earl av

>> No.11517845


“Nailed to the beloved body like a slave to a cross, I have learned some secrets of life which are now dimmed in my memory by the operation of the same law which ordains that the convalescent, once cured, ceases to understand the mysterious truths laid bare by illness, and that the prisoner, set free, forgets his torture, or the conqueror, his triumph passed, forgets his glory.”
― Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian

“But other hordes would come, and other false prophets. Our feeble efforts to ameliorate man’s lot would be but vaguely continued by our successors; the seeds of error and of ruin contained even in what is good would, on the contrary, increase to monstrous proportions in the course of centuries. A world wearied of us would seek other masters; what had seemed to us wise would be pointless for them, what we had found beautiful they would abominate. Like the initiate to Mithraism the human race has need, perhaps, of a periodical bloodbath and descent into the grave. I could see the return of barbaric codes, of implacable gods, of unquestioned despotism of savage chieftains, a world broken up into enemy states and eternally prey to insecurity. Other sentinels menaced by arrows would patrol the walls of future cities; the stupid, cruel, and obscene game would go on, and the human species in growing older would doubtless add new refinements of horror. Our epoch, the faults and limitations of which I knew better than anyone else would perhaps be considered one day, by contrast, as one of the golden ages of man.”
― Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian

>> No.11517850

Nice blog, but it belongs on your diary desu

>> No.11518201


that's truly a little jewel

>> No.11518338

i don't speak in runes

>> No.11518346

these are pretty good

>> No.11519081

Had a chuckle

>> No.11519257

I think Mallarmé wrote the most beautiful and the most poetic poetry I ever read, but he's a very demanding author and I wouldn't recommend him if you can't read the original.

>> No.11519326
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>> No.11519396

Just be yourself, it worked for me.

>> No.11519817


>> No.11519964

Probably the most pointless post ever made on /lit/

>> No.11519985

Well there's Francophones around