/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.16615319]

can someone please post the "i killed god" shitpost? thx

[Anonymous No.16615381]

>>16615319
I can but WILL I?

[Anonymous No.16615384]

>>16615381
yes

[Anonymous No.16615468]

>>16615381
you will

[Anonymous No.16615473]

>>16615381
uh huh

[Anonymous No.16615863]

>There is only one sane and healthy relation to Christianity; perfect indifference. Mine is not of that kind. My detestation for the Christian faith exhausts my being, and more. I long for its God to exist in order to slake myself as violence upon him. If there are torments coming to me I want them, all of them; God experimenting in cruelty upon me. I want no lethargy in Hell, rather vigour and imagination. Oh yes, it is all very wretched, and if I am grateful to Christianity it is for one thing alone; it has taught me how to hate.
>God drinks upon the poison of my hate with an erotic ardour, since his ruthless erasure is even more precious to him than it is to me. After tasting deep surrender in his passion to annihilate, how could he relish a return to the sordid world of obedience; to that of his duty to exist? Nothing comes to religion later - or more abjectly - than God.
>I have not been a theist for a single second of my life. In my first assemblies at primary school, when the theistic idiocy was first wheeled out, I remember thinking: it is natural that adults should lie to you, but is it really necessary for them to insult the intelligence quite this much? As for the longing to believe, nothing could be more alien to me, because nothing is more obvious than the fact that humanity - far from being a creation - is a disease. Why should the absence of a divinity analogical to mankind be more disturbing than the absence of a giant tortoise supporting the world on its back? If pressed, I would be forced to argue that the latter belief offers more consolation, adds greater richness to cosmology, exhibits greater intellectual sophistication. Monotheists are like those dull and uninspired children who compel you to patronize them. In the end, one has to ignore them, one cannot stoop far enough to argue, after all, if they are capable of believing such things what are they not capable of believing? An insipid pseudo-religion in the terminal phase of its senescence is perhaps safer than the rejuvenating absurdities into which its disillusioned adherents would undoubtedly stumble. [...]
>Sometimes I wonder what is to be involved in writing this book. I am not a particularly industrious individual. The protocols of scholarship have always confused me. It is 03:l0 in the morning and as I lean against the wall my finger runs across a line in the plaster, a fissure, dissociation . . .
>Momentarily I know one thing (alone):
>Bataille's most unfailing signature is spiritual disease.

[Anonymous No.16615891]

God is dwead
God wemains dwead
And whe hawe kiwwed him
How shwall whe comfowrt oweswelves
The mwuwdeweres of awwoe mwuwdeweres?
Whawt whas howwiest anwd mwightiwest ofwe awll dwat the wowwrld hwas awwned hwas bweed two dweath uwunder awwoe kwives
Who wiww wwie thwis bwood owff owwee hwands
What wateww iwis wthere two cwen ouwseweves?

[Anonymous No.16616344]

>>16615319
Would

[Anonymous No.16616375]

>>16615319
"I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whiskey. The barman looked at the blood and asked:

‘God?’

‘Yeah.’

‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’

He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly:

‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’

‘So you snuffed him?’

‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’

I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety:

There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’

‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’

‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’

‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’

‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered.

I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first:

‘So God’s dead?’

‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’

The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily:

‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’

I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled:

‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own.

In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood."