Faulkner or Joyce

[Anonymous No.21564143]

CHOOSE

[Anonymous No.21564147]

>>21564143
Faulkner. Next.

[࿇ C Œ M G E N V S ࿇ !KNDY/Ar.iI No.21564157]

JAMES JOYCE.

[Anonymous No.21564159]

Joyce

[Anonymous No.21564166]

About to read Portrait followed by Dubliners. What am I in for lads?

[࿇ C Œ M G E N V S ࿇ !KNDY/Ar.iI No.21564178]

>>21564166


A NOVEL, AND A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES.

[Anonymous No.21564192]

>>21564143
William Faulkner.

[Anonymous No.21564194]

>21564178
Easily the worst trip on this site

[Anonymous No.21564472]

>>21564143
Joyce is unbeatable when it comes to the mastery and experimentation of the English language, but Faulkner's stories and characters blow him the fuck but he is also a master of the English language so I guess Faulkner wins this one.

[Anonymous No.21564548]

>>21564143
Well if this were a scenario where I could only read one for the rest of my life, I'd almost be more inclined to pick Faulkner because he just has more work to read, and more that I haven't already read, however I do feel more inclined to pick Joyce because despite him having relatively few works to enjoy, those few works have outstanding variety. Faulkner's books are diverse, but almost all are stream-of-consciousness southern gothic fall-of-the-family tales, meanwhile Joyce has Dubliners, Portrait, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake all of which are wildly different from one another in topic and style. So I think it's gotta be Joyce for this one.
can't believe I'm voting for a filthy catholic

[Anonymous No.21564555]

Faulkner(I have experience reading neither)

[Anonymous No.21564562]

>>21564143
Faulkner though I’ve only started a Joyce novel, and set it down, never picking it up again. Hoping to read Joyce soon but he’s a bit flowery.

[Anonymous No.21564612]

Cuckner doesn't compare to Joyce.

[Anonymous No.21564614]

>>21564143
If you are willing to take your time with a book, then Joyce. If you just want to get through the book, then Faulkner.

Joyce is better but Faulkner is more accessible

[Anonymous No.21564633]

Faulkner
He says the n word more

[Anonymous No.21564636]

>>21564562
>bit flowery.
kek, I see what you did there

[Anonymous No.21564720]

>>21564143
Joyce by a million miles.

Joyce is the greatest prose author in the history of the English language. Faulkner some American corncobber.

[Anonymous No.21564733]

>>21564720
>Joyce is the greatest prose author in the history of the English language.
Melville is better.
> Faulkner some American corncobber.
Nobel Prize winner. Massively influential. Compared to Shakespeare by some writers and critics.

[Anonymous No.21564737]

>>21564166
Dubliners was forgettable. I read As I Lay Dying right before it and it was way more memorable. Was a tough read at first, but Faulkner can really write characters to hate.

[Anonymous No.21564744]

McCarthy

[Anonymous No.21564754]

>>21564733
>Melville is better
No, he isn't
>Compared to Shakespeare by some writers and critics.
Lol. By his groupie that made a career writing papers on him.

[Anonymous No.21564757]

>>21564744
McCartney*

[Anonymous No.21564762]

>>21564754
>No, he isn't
As a prose stylist, he is.
>Lol. By his groupie that made a career writing papers on him.
Nope, by actual writers and critics.

[Anonymous No.21564782]

>>21564762
>As a prose stylist, he is
This board's retarded shilling of Moby Dick has ruined people's brains.

[Anonymous No.21564784]

>>21564762
>by actual writers and critics
By cultists.

[Anonymous No.21564788]

>>21564782
His short stories are also better than Joyce's.

[Anonymous No.21564794]

>>21564784
Not at all. General lovers of literature.

[Anonymous No.21564807]

>>21564794
Hahahahahahahaha
>>21564788
Yet Dubliners has far more renown and The Dead is singularly better than Faulkner's entire career.

[Anonymous No.21564812]

>>21564807
I meant Melville's stories. Learn to read, mick. And no, The Dead is not "better than Faulkner's entire career" lmao stay seething.

[Anonymous No.21564815]

>>21564636
What I mean is Joyce is a loftier language. Faulkner is more eathy.

[Anonymous No.21564866]

>>21564812
Retard

[Anonymous No.21564868]

>>21564782
>This board's retarded shilling of Moby Dick has ruined people's brains.

Show me one of your favorite Joyce passages and i will top it with one of Melvilles. Bitch.

[Anonymous No.21564883]

>>21564868
They war loving, they love laughing, they laugh weeping, they weep smelling, they smell smiling, they smile hating, they hate thinking, they think feeling, they feel tempting, they tempt daring, they dare waiting, they wait taking, they take thanking, they thank seeking, as born for lorn in lore of love to live and wive by wile and rile by rule of ruse ’reathed rose and hose hol’d home, yeth cometh elope year, coach and four, Sweet Peck-at-my-Heart picks one man more.
>Redditspacing cuck is a Melville fag
Like clockwork.

[Anonymous No.21564907]

Feels weird seeing /lit/'s love for Faulkner. My mom is from Mississippi and used to talk about how loved he is over there, you can tour his house I think

[Anonymous No.21564916]

>>21564762
>As a prose stylist, he is.
The idea that Melville is a superior prose stylist to Joyce is deranged. Ulysses alone is an encyclopedia of English prose style.

[Anonymous No.21564919]

>>21564883
Not bad but check this out:

"There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters' Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness. "
>Verification not required.

[Anonymous No.21564920]

>>21564868
>What special affinities appeared to him to exist between the moon and woman?

>Her antiquity in preceding and surviving successive tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising, and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant implacable resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible.

[Anonymous No.21564940]

>>21564916
Idk... For me the strenght of Moby dick lies not so much in the prose ( pierre is where melville really shines with his prose) but what makes Moby dick so great is the interconnectedness of the chapters and of course the symbolism.

[Anonymous No.21564946]

>>21564919
Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

[Anonymous No.21564958]

>>21564919
I fell asleep by the end of the first subordinate clause. It isn't bursting with same level of word music as Joyce.

[Anonymous No.21564959]

James my choice

[Anonymous No.21564965]

>>21564920
>>21564946
Pretty cool, Joyce is one of my favorite writers i just like melville a bit more.

" I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where'er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass. Yonder, by the ever-brimming goblet's rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon,—goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; I, the wearer, see not its far flashings; but darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. 'Tis iron—that I know—not gold. 'Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain- battering fight! Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne'er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good night, good night!”

[Anonymous No.21564968]

>>21564940
>concedes already

[Anonymous No.21564978]

>>21564958
Eh, try reading it slowly and out loud, there is music in it, I can hear it. ( also think of the catastrophe and about the Bulktington chapter)

[Anonymous No.21564982]

>>21564143
Faulkner. How is this even a question? Kek at being impressed or liking Joyce’s “Tap. Tap. Tap.” as the blind man walks by

[Anonymous No.21564985]

>>21564968
I concede nothing
Melville prose > Joyce prose
Melville depth >>>> Joyce depth

[Anonymous No.21565045]

>>21564965
Where was his boyhood now? Where was the soul that had hung back from her destiny, to brood alone upon the shame of her wounds and in her house of squalor and subterfuge to queen it in faded cerements and in wreaths that withered at the touch? Or where was he?

He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight and gayclad lightclad figures of children and girls and voices childish and girlish in the air.

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and softhued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slateblue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some darkplumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither and thither; and a faint flame trembled on her cheek.

—Heavenly God! cried Stephen’s soul, in an outburst of profane joy.

He turned away from her suddenly and set off across the strand. His cheeks were aflame; his body was aglow; his limbs were trembling. On and on and on and on he strode, far out over the sands, singing wildly to the sea, crying to greet the advent of the life that had cried to him.

Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory.

On and on and on and on!

>>21564985
>Melville's prose > Joyce's prose
Lmao.

[Anonymous No.21565055]

>>21565045
>>Melville's prose > Joyce's prose
>Lmao.
He's right. Melville would never writer ridiculous shit like :

Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad the Kailer and Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer

[Anonymous No.21565061]

>James Joyce

8 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My sweet little whorish Nora,

I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over me with a whore’s glow in your slumbrous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometime too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your hot drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

JIM

[Anonymous No.21565068]

>>21565061
>You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole.
>Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird!

[Anonymous No.21565079]

>>21565045
Love sees ten million fathoms down, till dazzled by the floor of pearls. The eye is Love’s own magic glass, where all things that are not of earth, glide in supernatural light. Love’s eyes are holy things; therein the mysteries of life are lodged; looking in each other’s eyes, lovers see the ultimate secret of the worlds; and with thrills eternally untranslatable, feel that Love is god of all, both Creator’s and Saviour’s gospel to mankind; a volume bound in rose-leaves, clasped with violets, and by the beaks of humming-birds printed with peach-juice on the leaves of lilies.

[Anonymous No.21565090]

>Fuck me if you can squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung, and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside… Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand into his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts.

[Anonymous No.21565093]

>>21565090
>If you only knew how bad things really are.

[Anonymous No.21565242]

>>21565055
>Doesn't know what humor is.
Not everything in a 700 page book has to self serious and "muh profound".

[Anonymous No.21565246]

>>21565079
What is good about this? Sounds generic romanticism.

[Anonymous No.21565264]

>>21564143
Faulkner.

[Anonymous No.21565285]

>>21564757
Troon

[Anonymous No.21565287]

>>21565246
>What is good about this? Sounds generic romanticism.

And this isn't?
>Heavenly God! cried Stephen’s soul, in an outburst of profane joy.

>He turned away from her suddenly and set off across the strand. His cheeks were aflame; his body was aglow; his limbs were trembling. On and on and on and on he strode, far out over the sands, singing wildly to the sea, crying to greet the advent of the life that had cried to him.

>Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory.

[Anonymous No.21565398]

>>21565287
This isn't romanticism and very good.

[Anonymous No.21565414]

Faulkner, as i lay dying is a top 20 book

[Anonymous No.21565544]

>>21564143
Faulkner, and it's not even close.

Was this supposed to be a difficult decision?

[Anonymous No.21565651]

>>21565544
Easy decision for those with taste. You won't understand.

[Anonymous No.21565654]

>>21564143
Faulkner bros, we won again?

[Anonymous No.21565723]

>>21564143
Faulkner. Joyce's moral fetishism for cuckoldry has aged poorly.

[Anonymous No.21565897]

>>21564548
> almost all are stream-of-consciousness southern gothic fall-of-the-family tales
No they aren’t. He doesn’t even use stream of consciousness in all his books.

[Anonymous No.21566218]

>>21564178
Two novels, a collection of short stories, a theater piece, and a collection of poems plus other stuff, but you don't read

[Anonymous No.21567117]

>>21566218
>Finnegans Wake is relegated to 'other stuff'

[Anonymous No.21567123]

>>21566218
>About to read Portrait followed by Dubliners. What am I in for?
>Two novels, a collection of short stories, a theater piece, and a collection of poems plus other stuff,
???
he just named a novel and a short story collection.

[Anonymous No.21567262]

>>21565055
>>21565079
>>21564978
Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and gigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing with choking, crying:

—O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried. With his bit of beard!

Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman, delight, joy, indignation.

—Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.

Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each each to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I knows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.

Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.

—O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished I hadn’t laughed so much. I feel all wet.

—O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!

And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.

[Anonymous No.21567489]

>>21564143
Joyce. There just ain't no choice. His prose makes me moist the most, and he makes Faulkner look like dried up toast. With Juicy J, you're getting the full roast, a good cook and fantastic host.

[Anonymous No.21567509]

>>21567489
Based.

[Anonymous No.21567776]

I think there's something seriously wrong with anglos and all descendants.
Anyone else agree?
Reading a foreign work even in translations is more worthwhile
It's like night and day. The anglo work vs any other
They just seem sick

[Anonymous No.21568580]

i dont know either of these authors

[Anonymous No.21568589]

>>21568580
Faulkner was a racially prejudiced
Joyce was a pervert
One likes to say nigger
One liked farts, small and bigger
But don’t ever revert
To memes about those writers
Nora’s handjob and farts forever missed
As Joyce yells out, did you ever suck on someone’s prick? Did he shout, “Tighter, tighter!”

[Anonymous No.21568661]

>>21568589
>Faulkner was racially prejudiced

[Anonymous No.21569774]

>>21568661
He was a white southern man who grew up in the 1900-1910s… it would be astonishing if he wasn’t racist.

[Anonymous No.21570100]

>>21568661
This is just the tea, sistah...

[Anonymous No.21570105]

>>21570100
cute

[Anonymous No.21570135]

>>21565061
Melville sisters… we must concede

[Anonymous No.21570277]

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My sweet naughty girl I got your hot letter tonight and have been trying to picture you frigging your cunt in the closet. How do you do it? Do you stand against the wall with your hand tickling up under your clothes or do you squat down on the hole with your skirts up and your hand hard at work in through the slit of your drawers? Does it give you the horn now to shit? I wonder how you can do it. Do you come in the act of shitting or do you frig yourself off first and then shit? It must be a fearfully lecherous thing to see a girl with her clothes up frigging furiously at her cunt, to see her pretty white drawers pulled open behind and her bum sticking out and a fat brown thing stuck half-way out of her hole. You say you will shit your drawers, dear, and let me fuck you then. I would like to hear you shit them, dear, first and then fuck you. Some night when we are somewhere in the dark and talking dirty and you feel your shite ready to fall put your arms round my neck in shame and shit it down softly. The sound will madden me and when I pull up your dress.

[Anonymous No.21570438]

>>21570277
god damn what a based pic

[Anonymous No.21570453]

I'd choose Joyce even tho the only thing I've never read is Finnegan's Wake. I don't know, but there's something in Ulysses and I assume in FW that seem magical, out of this word. Some secret that few really know.

[Anonymous No.21570495]

Melville is a greater prose poet than Joyce because he has a far greater gift for metaphor and imagery. Joyce is more varied and ambitious when it comes down to portray different prose styles, so one can say he is the best prose-writer based on that criteria. But if one is looking for poetry Melville is far superior.

[Anonymous No.21570536]

>>21570495
Shut up retarded faggot. The evidence in this thread proves otherwise.

[Anonymous No.21570543]

>>21564143
I choose Faulkner, but only because he is to my culture's language what Joyce was to that of Ireland. Faulkner is just more readable to me because his words fit perfectly into tiny little notches and tracts within my mind. A lot of the time, I didn't even know they were there to be filled. Joyce's words carve my brain up into compartmentalized segments and dissolve them with battery acid.

[Anonymous No.21570654]

>>21564548
Joyce seems very critical of the catholic church, I kind of get the impression that he is anti-catholic but I could just be mistaken.

[Anonymous No.21570714]

>>21570536
Sonority and rhythm aren’t imagery, and imagery that is conventional is not striking.
I was talking about the works of Melville and Joyce, not the posts in this thread, yet even in the posts Anons made you can see that Melville is more metaphorical than Joyce.
If you translate Joyce a lot of his effects are lost. If you translate Melville you retain a lot of his beauties.
Again, Melville is not as varied and all-encompassing as Joyce, in great part, I believe, due to his lack of exposure to realism and the naturalness that emerged in the end of the XIXth century.
But if you think on the great poets of humanity, like Aeschylus and Shakespeare and the author of The Book of Job, you will find that a common trait they all have is a vast gift for imagery, and Joyce simply isn’t in the same level. Here and there you see an original metaphor or simile - 'The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.' -, but most of his poetic writing, like excerpts from Portrait, are derivative, and that is natural for Joyce, since a great deal of his working method was to parody older styles of writing.

[Anonymous No.21570803]

>>21570714
Joyce was writing in a different period and with a different perspective from Melville. You are using Aeschylus and Shakespeare as example, but Melville freely borrowed their methods. Joyce is partially responsible for Modern stylist's obsession with Prose sound. They go beyond imagery because the epoch they share is skeptical of symbolism and even the gifted imagistic writers of today (Cormac McCarthy, John Banville etc.) write prose where the imagery is vivid but doesn't serve direct narrative purpose. You are using ancient scales to judge a stylist's worth. Joyce has better grasp of sequencing words without relying purely on imagery, and rightfully, this is why he doesn't translate as well. Contrary to your position, this is exactly why Joyce is a greater Prose writer. What he is doing only retains its magic in the language it is written.

[Anonymous No.21571288]

>>21570536
>The evidence in this thread proves otherwise.

No, I doesnt. The Melville quotes far surpasse those of Joyce in this thread. The anon who defended joyce did not even fully read the Melville quotes. And just dismissed them. The Joyce anon was and is a full blown retard.

[Anonymous No.21571295]

>>21570277
Like I can understand wanting to see your wife flick the bean in a closet, but taking a dump while doing it? Come on, man.

[Anonymous No.21571305]

>>21571288
The Joyce passages are far better, you redditspacing retard. The Melvillecuck was getting visibly insecure.

[Anonymous No.21571417]

>>21571305
And yet he delivered and won against the joyce fag. The melvillecuck at least admitted the joyce passages are good but the joycefag just dismissed the melville passages, didnt even finish them, shows how much of a retard that joyce fag really was. All things considered: Melville 3 and Joyce 0. winner: Melville

[Anonymous No.21571427]

>>21564737
Jewel did nothing wrong.