/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.19574362]

Think of all those who ever were, back to the start of time. And me, transient as they, flickering out as well into their grey world. Like everything around me this solid world itself which they reared and lived in is dwindling and dissolving...

[Anonymous No.19574399]

>>19574362
Screenshot'd
Absolutely kino and brutal meditation. You have captured this feel perfectly within few words. This is what I wrote about this feel on /p/ few days ago:

As photographers we all have a secret desire, which is to get some sort of praise for our work. If we don't have this desire then what is the purpose behind sharing and discussing our work? Getting joy is nice but when years pass by it becomes tedious without any "meaningful" outcome or a community. To get some sort of "praise", your only option is to share your photos on internet and on the internet billions of images are being uploaded everyday to keep people with 3 second attention spans distracted. How many of them are being uploaded by validation seeking humans just like me? One among billions with same aspirations and dreams, one vanity among billions. All of this reminds me of a forgotten graveyard under mountain which I visit every month and imagine myself in those nameless graves. Words like "destiny" feels like an utter joke when I stand there. Standing there I contemplate the agonies of our ancestors hiding in the caves from natural terrors of jungles. I often remember a noon of my childhood which I remember in tremendous detail and it is one my earliest memories. That day I went to hospital with my grandfather and hospital was extra crowdy then someone told us that student bus which was on a museum tour got rekt, I went into ward, I remember one teenage kid who was opening his backpack and he brought out a broken glass, his hands were little bloody, he was trying piece together that broken glass and his blood left a mark on it. I can't seem to forget the hopeless gestures of his delicate hands and how disappointingly he stared the broken glass for few seconds.

[Anonymous No.19574422]

The soul of life lies embedded in what is transitory. The very nature of beauty is ephemeral. To deny this is to deny the high destiny that is the ancient heritage of mortals. In a few flashing moments that are his, it is possible for a man to glimpse immortality, the only immortality he will ever know, in the presentation of what is, in its essence, perishing... Life is but a shifting floor. Tragedy, yes, and dark misery come forward and recede, intermingling their steps with light dances of joy and gladness. Though death cancels, though time obliterates, we have had experience of the eternal delirium. We have seen the sun. We have seen the moon. We have come out from a great darkness and looked upon a great light. How can we forswear our inestimable privilege?

[Anonymouṡ No.19576303]

>>19574422
Such a nice shot. Russian women sitting on fences really gets to the heart of something or other.

[Anonymous No.19576488]

>>19574362
Are you just paraphrasing the penultimate paragraph of The Dead

[Anonymous No.19576593]

Nothing is more difficult than to realize that every man has a distinct soul, that every one of all the millions who live or have lived, is as whole and independent a being in himself, as if there were no one else in the whole world but he.

Survey some populous town: crowds are pouring through the streets; some on foot, some in carriages; while the shops are full, and the houses too, could we see into them. Every part of it is full of life. Hence we gain a general idea of splendor, magnificence, opulence, and energy. But what is the truth? why, that every being in that great concourse is his own centre and all things about him are but shades, but a "vain shadow," in which he "walketh and disquieteth himself in vain." He has his own hopes and fears, desires, judgments, and aims; he is everything to himself, and no one else is really any thing. No one outside of him can really touch him, can touch his soul, his immortality; he must live with himself for ever. He has a depth within him unfathomable, an infinite abyss of existence; and the scene in which he bears part for the moment is but like a gleam of sunshine upon its surface.

Or again: when we read history, we meet with accounts of great slaughters and massacres, great pestilences, famines, conflagrations, and so on; and here again we are accustomed in an especial way to regard collections of people as if individual units. We cannot understand that a multitude is a collection of immortal souls.

All who have ever gained a name in the world, all the mighty men of war that ever were, all the great statesmen, all the crafty counsellors, all the scheming aspirants, all the reckless adventurers, all the covetous traders, all the proud voluptuaries, are still in being, though helpless and unprofitable.

And so again all the names we see written on monuments in churches or churchyards, all the writers whose names and works we see in libraries, all the workmen who raised the great buildings, far and near, which are the wonder of the world, they all live.

Moreover, every one of all the souls which have ever been on earth is, as I have already implied, in one of two spiritual states, so distinct from one another, that the one is the subject of God's favor, and the other under His wrath; the one on the way to eternal happiness, the other to eternal misery. This is true of the dead, and is true of the living also. All are tending one way or the other; there is no middle or neutral state for any one; though as far as the sight of the external world goes, all men seem to be in a middle state common to one and all. Yet, much as men look the same, and impossible as it is for us to say where each man stands in God's sight, there are two, and but two classes of men, and these have characters and destinies as far apart in their tendencies as light and darkness: this is the case even of those who are in the body, and it is much more true of those who have passed into the unseen state.