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/lit/ - Literature

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2824210 No.2824210 [Reply] [Original]

>He was small, unattractive and sickly, with a thin angular body and brown, deep-set eyes in a pale triangular face. He taught art at a secondary school for boys at Drogobych in southeastern Poland, where he spent most of his life. He had few friends outside his native city. In his leisure hours—of which there were probably many— he made drawings and wrote endlessly, nobody quite knew what.


If you don't know who this author is you are a barbarian with no taste.

>> No.2824214

>implying it's not your OC

>> No.2824224

/lit/ tsk tsk tsk

>> No.2824232

>>2824224
“The days hardened with cold and boredom like last year's loaves of bread. One began to cut them with blunt knives without appetite, with a lazy indifference.”
I've never read a Polish author I've enjoyed OP. Care to give me one? Feel free to have a go because of my dislike for this guy.

>> No.2824233

An author published by penguin who's books are available in the majority of major bookstores.

Stop this /mu/ shit, and just enjoy books.

>> No.2824243
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2824243

Schulz. He's Polish. And shit.

Move along folks, Poland cannot into anything.

>> No.2824245

>After his literary success, he continued to live at Drogobych. The outbreak of World War II found him there. Together with other Jews of the city, he was confined to the ghetto and, according to some reports, "protected" by a Gestapo officer who liked his drawings. One day in 1942, he ventured with a special pass to the "Aryan" quarter, was recognized by another SS man, a rival of his protector, and was shot dead in the street.


>>2824232
Bruno Schulz - The Street of Crocodiles


:"In July my father went to take the waters and left me, with my mother and elder brother, a prey to the blinding white heat of the summer days. Dizzy with light, we dipped into that enormous book of holidays, its pages blazing with sunshine and scented with the sweet melting pulp of golden pears.

On those luminous mornings Adela returned from the market, like Pomona emerging from the flames of day, spilling from her basket the colorful beauty of the sun— the shiny pink cherries full of juice under their transparent skins, the mysterious black morellos that smelled so much better than they tasted; apricots in whose golden pulp lay the core of long afternoons. And next to that pure poetry of fruit, she unloaded sides of meat with their keyboard of ribs swollen with energy and strength, and seaweeds of vegetables like dead octopuses and squids—the raw material of meals with a yet undefined taste, the vegetative and terrestrial ingredients of dinner, exuding a wild and rustic smell.:"

>> No.2824247

>>2824245
I knew it was him, and I said I disliked him. Do you have any names?

>> No.2824259

why would you dislike Bruno?

>> No.2824263

what's wrong with being small you fucking tallfreak
enjoy your lower centre of gravity you lanky bastard

>> No.2824265

>>2824247

His descriptions and imagery are amazing.