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/lit/ - Literature

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File: 14 KB, 440x479, Baudelaire.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
550358 No.550358 [Reply] [Original]

He is my favorite poet/writer, but that might mean I do opium.

Discuss.

>> No.550376

nothing wrong with drugs...

>> No.550394

>>550376
if your a 12 year old faggot who cant handle all his 'problems' without drugs sure

>> No.550404
File: 119 KB, 500x500, aldous-huxley.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
550404

>>550394

>> No.550412

>He is my favorite poet/writer, but that might mean I do opium.

flawless logic. also, you are clearly a casual drinker of absinthe

>> No.550416

Why did his poetry have to rhyme? How lame is that?

>> No.550419

>>550416
IT doesn't rhyme any more after you translate it so read it that way

>> No.550421

>>550394
Whoa your father must touch you every night

>> No.550422
File: 26 KB, 500x402, 1244943038638.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
550422

>>550404

>> No.550427
File: 23 KB, 313x475, Aldous Huxley - The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
550427

>>550422
>>550422

>> No.550429
File: 26 KB, 684x684, flamewar.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
550429

>>550421

>> No.550434

>>550419
The Gaming Room
The armchairs of worn satin; the aged courtesans,
Livid and rouged, their eyes relentless, their eyebrows blacked,
Jingling eternally from their withered ears, to attract
Attention, their huge earrings, and ogling behind their fans;

The long green table, the rows of lipless faces, the lips
Drained of all color; the gaping, toothless mouths; the unrest
Of hundreds of white nervous fingers, stacking the chips,
Or searching the empty pocket, the convulsive breast;

The dirty ceiling, the blaze of crystal chandeliers,
The low-hung lamps illumining with a crude glare
The ravaged brows of poets, the scars of grenadiers,
Who come to risk the earnings of their lifeblood there.

— Such is the lurid spectacle that with calm dread
I saw as in a melancholy dream unroll:
Myself, too, sitting in a deserted corner, my head
Propped in my hands, mute, weary, jealous to my soul,

Jealous of all that rabble, of the lust of it,
The terrible gaiety of those old whores, the smell
And noise of life, for which they frantically sell
Some remnant of their honor, their beauty, or their wit.

And suddenly I was affrighted at my own heart, to feel
Such envy of all men running wildly and out of breath
Nowhere, and who prefer, like those around that wheel,
Pain, horror, crime, insanity — anything — to death!

Bastard rhyming translators

>> No.550448

if opium's your thing, try Coleridge.

"In Xanadu did Kublai Kahn a stately pleasure dome decree..."