Embraced by the underworld, the colors disappear

[Anonymous No.22796203]

Calming shadows, soothing darkness, raging silence.

[Anonymous No.22796276]

I think we overlook how big a leap it was when people discovered literature could be about bleakness and emptiness and dark passions without redemption. I'm thinking of Baudelaire specifically. Everything before him had to do a big apology about how it was reflecting the soul of man and the manners of society for the purpose of their better cultivation, or of their consolation where improvement was impossible. Then people realised you could just write about being an evil little guy living in the cellars of society with the bats and the corpses and the filth. Not as an educative illustration of the consequences of vice, or a stern reprimand to a society that could let such suffering exist, but just experience for the sake of experience, for the sake of hanging out with the bats in the infinite gloom. A victory for consciousness, imo, although even to talk about victory, as if you were talking about a big collective chronicle of praiseworthy human triumphs in which Baudelaire would have his entry, is against the unassimilable spirit of his work.

[Anonymous No.22796297]

>>22796203
Check out Trakl

[Anonymous No.22797088]

>>22796203
>the colors disappear
i miss when things were vibrant

[Anonymous No.22797897]

>>22797088
>>22796203
It's over