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/lit/ - Literature

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[ERROR] No.18860853 [Reply] [Original]

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>> No.18860962

>>18860853
Zenith is a closeted homosexual who both resents and profits remarkably from his stranglehold on Pessoa in the anglosphere--resents clearly because he's a smug prick who wrongly supposes he's superior to Pessoa, as any uptight yuppie whose own poetry never took off would.

>> No.18860993

>>18860962
What does preferring sausage or tuna have to do with this?

>> No.18861660

>>18860853
>>18860853
Post PDF

>> No.18861877
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>>18860993
His sodomy-induced (or desire thereof) self-loathing leads him to project onto Pessoa his own emotional and moral defects. While, at the same time, the part of him which is in denial looks down upon this limpwristed fantasist Pessoa, the irony being that this Pessoa is a mere distorted tapestry of glimmering silk seen fleetingly at midnight, reflecting Zenith's soul while having very little to do with Pessoa himself besides a few Euclidean dates and places across which Zenith, never fully emerging from the shadows, weaves his twisted, arachnid nightmare. Simple as.

>> No.18862001

>>18861877
Not everybody with delicate wrists are self loathing. How can you be so assured Zenith is closeted and self loathing?

>> No.18862020

>>18862001
>How can you be so assured Zenith is closeted and self loathing?

That I can't disclose, jocko

>> No.18862040
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>>18862020
Am I wasting my time?

>> No.18862082
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>>18862040
Time, yes---time and money.

>> No.18862158

>>18862082
This is Arcady:

Used to be a hobo right smart. back in the thirties. They wasnt no work I dont care what you could do. I was ridin through the mountains one night, state of Colorado. Dead of winter it was and bitter cold. I had just a smidgin of tobacco, bout enough for one or two smokes. I was in one of them old slatsided cars and I'd been up and down in it like a dog tryin to find some place where the wind wouldnt blow. Directly I scrunched up in a corner and rolled me a smoke and lit it and thowed the match down. Well, they was some sort of stuff in the floor about like tinder and it caught fire. I jumped up and stomped on it and it aint done nothin but burn faster. Wasnt two minutes the whole car was afire. I run to the door and got it open and we was goin up this grade through the mountains in the snow with the moon on it and it was just blue looking and dead quiet out there and them big old black pine trees going by. I jumped for it and lit in a snowbank and what I'm goin to tell you you'll think peculiar but it's the god's truth. That was in nineteen and thirty one and if I live to be a hunnerd year old I dont think I'll ever see anything as pretty as that train on fire goin up that mountain and around the bend and them flames lightin up the snow and the trees and the night.

>> No.18862247
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>>18862158
Don't believe it for a second. Tell ya strait, that sounds like a yarn... Get my drift? Well don't 'lit' into it because you'll find yourself dungaree-deep in horseshit. I don't believe the belletrist of this passage ever done lived the life--the hard hard life good lord knows it--of a crusty 'bo. No siree.