/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.18719347]

based book quotes thread

[Anonymous No.18719357]

>>18719347

[Anonymous No.18719669]

>>18719347
>"And now, at this moment in time, the guilt that attaches to living has again led me, as it once did in the war, to the point where I have to kill. But this time I don't find killing repugnant. I have totally accepted the burden of guilt because I have no objection to this stupid, congested world being blown to smithereens. I'm happy to lend a hand, and to perish myself in the process."

[Anonymous No.18719778]

She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. "The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him." She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. "Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger... on... the...wall." She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper.

"Go on," I say, looking around for a waiter. "Finish it."

She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. "Fuck him... Fuck the nigger on the wall."She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. "Black man...is...de...debil?"

[Anonymous No.18719818]

>>18719778
American Psycho is the Great American Novel.

[Anonymous No.18719825]

I am independent. I do what I like with my money. Or do I? It goes into that bottomless abyss of home expenses. A home that no longer exists. And at the end of the day, there is the movies: at the end of
exhaustion, there is the plunge into oblivion. To forget, to forget that you exist, that your back hurts and your head aches, to forget for an evening by sinking into the dream and the lie. You'll come out a little more numb, a little more drained, and since you go to bed at one o'clock, it will be even harder to get up at six. Tomorrow you'll be even more beat, but so what, this evening you had to have a drug, and you had to spend your money, too. My money, my money, what will I use it for? To buy furniture for the house? But I am never in the house. What's the point of fixing it up? I don't recognize it any more. To buy good things to eat? But I don't have time to prepare them properly. Sunday? Oh no, I'm too tired to cook, and anyway I've lost the knack.
But I can buy a refrigerator, a television set, fancy canned goods. The anonymous furnishings, the hi-fi set, the missing food for missing people. And nylon stockings. This is free- dom, this is the whole substance, the whole reality of my freedom!

My husband's vile humor; it is true that when he came home he was always on edge, I used to complain, and I didn't understand. Now we meet at the door of our house, both coming from work, both irritated and tense, both in a bad mood. We could both use a real home, some relaxation, a smiling and affectionate welcome: we meet with the same requirement and the same need. But there is nobody to satisfy it, nobody to calm our nerves, and all we can do is bicker in front of the closed faces of our children. Faces that I can no longer read, for I only see them when they are sleepy in the morning or tired at night, faces that are being shaped by other hands than mine, that receive other affec- tion than mine, faces that become more unfamiliar every day, faces that do not know me and that I do not know.
Long live freedom, Madame!
The freedom of nothingness.

[Anonymous No.18719835]

>>18719347
From platos republic