/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.5980812]

/lit/, are there any pieces of literature written in English that capture the Japanese phrase Mono No Aware (the general feeling of being greatly moved by understanding that everything will pass away, and that it is not solely a tragic thing but a tragic and beautiful thing)?

I know this is a rec thread but I desperately want to read works that capture this. I am always looking for something like this and almost never find it.

[Anonymous No.5980822]

>>5980812
That artist does great album covers, they even made a calendar for this year, humorously limited to 666 copies

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5980830]

>>5980812
>the Japanese phrase Mono No Aware (the general feeling of being greatly moved by understanding that everything will pass away, and that it is not solely a tragic thing but a tragic and beautiful thing)

[Anonymous No.5980835]

>>5980830
I did that just in case people didn't know what the word meant and wouldn't reply because they couldn't be bothered to look it up, and wrote the original phrase for those who know more about it then I do as my explanation might be missing something about the phrase.

[Anonymous No.5980837]

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

[Anonymous No.5980840]

>>5980812
Lord of the Rings

[Anonymous No.5980841]

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning ——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

[Anonymous No.5980844]

>>5980837
I haven't read Shelley in a long time. Yes, that is around what I am looking for.

[Anonymous No.5980845]

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoyd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro
Gleams that untravelld world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnishd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

[Anonymous No.5980849]

1 The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.

2 Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

3 What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?

4 One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.

5 The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.

6 The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

7 All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

8 All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.

9 The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.

10 Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.

11 There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.

12 I the Preacher was king over Israel in Jerusalem.

13 And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all things that are done under heaven: this sore travail hath God given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith.

14 I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.

[Anonymous No.5980851]

>>5980840
Already read it and that isn't really what I am looking for.

>>5980841
Already read it but yes something along those lines. Although Gatsby didn't really hit me in the way I would expect a work that captures that feeling to hit me.

Shelley's poem is much closer, probably because it just shows the cause of what would make you feel this, rather than just say poetically that you are feeling this.

[Anonymous No.5980854]

this is a translation of Rimbaud

No one’s serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

II.

--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

III.

The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
--And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp’s pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father’s starched collar. . .

Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.

IV.

You’re in love. Off the market till August.
You’re in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you’re bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!

That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one’s serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.

[Anonymous No.5980859]

more Rimbaud

I

On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.

The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.

II

O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.

It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;

It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees!

Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!
You melted to him as snow does to a fire;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!

III

- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

[Anonymous No.5980869]

>>5980837
>>5980844
Read Adonais

Absolutely fucking incredible. I love you Shelley man. Why did you have to die ;_;

‘O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 235
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.

[Anonymous No.5980875]

>>5980845
>>5980854
>>5980859
>>5980869
This poetry is very nice and I'm looking for. Makes me sad that I stopped reading poetry so many years ago because I didn't know where to look. Suggestions?

Also, I was mainly asking for prose. This poetry is definitely a surprise and very relieving, but I was looking for prose.

Honestly I'm looking for anything of the subject since it takes up a lot of my time.

[Anonymous No.5980878]

translation of the end of the Old English poem The Seafarer into Modern English

The days are gone
of all the glory
of the kingdoms of the earth;
there are not now kings,
nor Cæsars,
nor givers of gold
s once there were,
when they, the greatest, among themselves
performed valorous deeds,
and with a most lordly
majesty lived.
All that old guard is gone
and the revels are over --
the weaker ones now dwell
and hold the world,
enjoy it through their sweat.
The glory is fled,
the nobility of the world
ages and grows sere,
as now does every man
throughout the world.
Age comes upon him,
his face grows pale,
the graybeard laments;
he knows that his old friends,
the sons of princes,
have been given to the earth.
His body fails then,
as life leaves him --
he cannot taste sweetness
nor feel pain,
nor move his hand
nor think with his head.
Though he would strew
the grave with gold,
a brother for his kinsman,
bury with the dead
a mass of treasure,
it just won't work --
nor can the soul
which is full of sin
preserve the gold
before the fear of God,
though he hid it before
while he was yet alive.
Great is the fear of the Lord,
before which the world stands still;
He established
the firm foundations,
the corners of the world
and the high heavens.
A fool is the one who does not fear his Lord
-- death comes to him unprepared.
Blessed is he who lives humbly
-- to him comes forgiveness from heaven.
God set that spirit within him,
because he believed in His might.
Man must control his passions
and keep everything in balance,
keep faith with men,
and be pure in wisdom.
Each of men must
be even-handed
with their friends and their foes.
though he does not wish him
in the foulness of flames
or on a pyre
to be burned
his contrived friend,
Fate is greater
nd God is mightier
than any man's thought.
Let us ponder
where we have our homes
and then think
how we should get thither --
and then we should all strive
that we might go there
to the eternal
blessedness
that is a belonging life
in the love of the Lord,
joy in the heavens.
Let there be thanks to God
that he adored us,
the Father of Glory,
the Eternal Lord,
for all time. Amen.

[Anonymous No.5980883]

this is perhaps the best mono no aware poem of Shelley I've read

THE MOON

I.

AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east
A white and shapeless mass.

II.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

[Anonymous No.5980887]

>>5980845
>>5980854
>>5980859
>>5980869
This poetry is very nice and is what I'm looking for. Makes me sad that I stopped reading poetry so many years ago because I didn't know where to look. Suggestions?

Also, I was mainly asking for prose. This poetry is definitely a surprise and very relieving, but I was looking for prose.

Honestly I'm looking for anything on the subject since experiencing it takes up a lot of my time and I'm trying to come to terms with it.

[Anonymous No.5980891]

>>5980878
That's shit compared to Pound's translation

http://www.writing.upenn.edu/library/Pound_Ezra_The-Seafarer.html

[Anonymous No.5980897]

>>5980887
try a translation of the Tale of Genji and Pessoa's Book of Disquiet.

I've just realized that mono no aware is really just a way of saying "nostalgia", in English.

[Anonymous No.5980900]

>>5980883
Jesus.

How have I spent so much time not reading things like this.

[Anonymous No.5980901]

>>5980891
I absolutely disagree. Pound's is bad. He modernizes too much. "May I for my own self song's truth reckon" is awful. He intentionally leaves off the last half of the poem which develops into a prayer. Nah Pound's sucks.

[Anonymous No.5980903]

Daffodils by Ted Hughes

Remember how we picked the daffodils?
Nobody else remembers, but I remember.
Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy,
Helping the harvest. She has forgotten.
She cannot even remember you. And we sold them.
It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them.
Were we so poor? Old Stoneman, the grocer,
Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot
(It was his last chance,
He would die in the same great freeze as you) ,
He persuaded us. Every Spring
He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen,
'A custom of the house'.

Besides, we still weren't sure we wanted to own
Anything. Mainly we were hungry
To convert everything to profit.
Still nomads-still strangers
To our whole possession. The daffodils
Were incidental gilding of the deeds,
Treasure trove. They simply came,
And they kept on coming.
As if not from the sod but falling from heaven.
Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck.
We knew we'd live forever. We had not learned
What a fleeting glance of the everlasting
Daffodils are. Never identified
The nuptial flight of the rarest epherma-
Our own days!
We thought they were a windfall.
Never guessed they were a last blessing.
So we sold them. We worked at selling them
As if employed on somebody else's
Flower-farm. You bent at it
In the rain of that April-your last April.
We bent there together, among the soft shrieks
Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken
Of their girlish dance-frocks-
Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy,
Opened too early.

We piled their frailty lights on a carpenter's bench,
Distributed leaves among the dozens-
Buckling blade-leaves, limber, groping for air, zinc-silvered-
Propped their raw butts in bucket water,
Their oval, meaty butts,
And sold them, sevenpence a bunch-

Wind-wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave's stony cold
As if ice had a breath-

We sold them, to wither.
The crop thickened faster than we could thin it.
Finally, we were overwhelmed
And we lost our wedding-present scissors.

Every March since they have lifted again
Out of the same bulbs, the same
Baby-cries from the thaw,
Ballerinas too early for music, shiverers
In the draughty wings of the year.
On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering
They return to forget you stooping there
Behind the rainy curtains of a dark April,
Snipping their stems.

But somewhere your scissors remember. Wherever they are.
Here somewhere, blades wide open,
April by April
Sinking deeper
Through the sod-an anchor, a cross of rust.

[Anonymous No.5980905]

>>5980897
It isn't nostalgia. It is more than just longing for the past, it feeling emotional about time passing. Nostalgia can be a part of it but you feel it for the future and present as well. It also isn't only tragic or depressing, it is also celebratory at the same time.

[Anonymous No.5980906]

>>5980905
> it feeling emotional about time passing.
> It also isn't only tragic or depressing, it is also celebratory at the same time.

these can be said for nostalgia.

[Anonymous No.5980909]

>>5980901
>He modernizes too much

But that's the whole point. "Make it new". What on earth is the point in trying to faithfully translate a 1100 year old poem from a different language? It's impossible, the context is gone. Your translation reads just like chopped up prose.

[Anonymous No.5980915]

>>5980909
No. You can translate a poem into a modern language in such a way as to preserve the sound, feel, and sentiment of the original as much as possible. Pound intentionally changes the content of the poem itself because he didn't have enough respect for it.

[Anonymous No.5980916]

>>5980906
Right, but not nostalgia is only focused on the past. Mono no aware is not only focused on the past, it is about being ephemeral.

[Anonymous No.5980923]

>>5980887
Poetry is much better at capturing an single feeling like mono no aware (nice term btw, hadn't heard of it before) than prose. It's the natural turf of lyric poetry. In prose you generally need a plot and characters and a setting and so on, which often gets in the way of a single direct expression of feeling.

As for novels, I don't know. Proust in a very general sense?

[Anonymous No.5980931]

>>5980916
yeah, OK, nostalgia is usually taken to be a brief moment of inspiration whereas mono no aware is more a continuous way of looking at life, but it's not hard to incorporate nostalgia into that formula

let's look at the Portuguese saudade:

>Saudade (European Portuguese: [sɐwˈðaðɨ], Brazilian Portuguese: [sawˈdadi] or [sawˈdadʒi], Galician: [sawˈðaðe]; plural saudades)[1] is a word in Portuguese and Galician that has no direct translation in English. It describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing may never return.[2] A stronger form of saudade may be felt towards people and things whose whereabouts are unknown, such as a lost lover, or a family member who has gone missing, moved away, separated, or died.

>Saudade was once described as "the love that remains" after someone is gone. Saudade is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It can be described as an emptiness, like someone (e.g., one's children, parents, sibling, grandparents, friends, pets) or something (e.g., places, things one used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. It brings sad and happy feelings all together, sadness for missing and happiness for having experienced the feeling

it says there is no direct translation in English, but really nostalgia, saudade, mono no aware, are all really related to the same experience, even if they emphasize different aspects of that experience.

[Anonymous No.5980937]

>>5980923
I know but I so badly want a piece of prose to capture it. I feel like it can be done, or at least that others have attempted it with some success.

I was hoping someone wouldn't suggest Proust since I read Swann and couldn't get through it, and now I'm wondering if I fucked myself for getting a very old translation and not a modern one.

I mean, I can imagine a story that is mainly focused on people feeling conflicted feelings. A character hates their father and then finds out he just died. The character is first happy, but then sad, and then the work explores how his grief comes from the fact that since the father is dead, there is now no chance for the child to reconcile with their father, even if they weren't aware that they wanted this at some level.

That could just be one character going through something like this with other character going through similar things.

[Anonymous No.5980943]

>>5980931

here's a quote from Nabokov:

>“Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness.

>"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

every nation naturally thinks it has the best word for this experience lol

[Anonymous No.5980944]

>>5980915
>You can translate a poem into a modern language in such a way as to preserve the sound, feel, and sentiment of the original as much as possible.

Not only is that impossible, but also why would you? What's the point? You're trying to create something in a separate language. Trying to hew to the original as closely as possible creates a dead poem, like what you posted. Translations need to live on their own.

>Pound intentionally changes the content of the poem itself because he didn't have enough respect for it.

You don't have an understanding of Pound's philosophy. Translating any poem into a new context inevitably changes the content of the poem. Pound is going back to ancient verse to revitalise the stale poetry of his time. Accusing him of 'lacking respect' for The Seafarer is ridiculous. He's reinterpreting it.

[Anonymous No.5980947]

>>5980937
I read the first chapter of Genji the other day in translation. It's extremely beautiful.
Unfortunately it seemed to devolve into Jane Austen dreck in the second chapter so I stopped reading, but the first chapter by itself is a solid prose work.

[Anonymous No.5980952]

>>5980944
> Trying to hew to the original as closely as possible creates a dead poem, like what you posted

the one that I posted isn't dead, it's beautiful.
it's not the fault of the translator that you can't feel it.
it's much more beautiful than Pound's translation which is sickly.

[Anonymous No.5980955]

The numerous works about the Wandering Jew probably have it.

[Anonymous No.5980983]

>>5980947
I will definitely read that.

Still I would think this is a fairly common theme? I mean when I made this thread I thought people were going to call me edgy for asking something so common and thinking its novel.

[Anonymous No.5980992]

>>5980983
Now that I think about it Salinger might have been the closest to what I'm thinking of. He was very good at making a twist ending that didn't at all feel gimmicky and could really make you feel depressed about how naive/feel wonderful about how relieved his characters had revealed themselves to be.

[Anonymous No.5980997]

>>5980812
OH
OH
OHHH

OP

The Stranger

OBVIOUSLY

[Anonymous No.5981010]

>>5980997
I've already read that, it was written in French and not English, and I don't think it captured that feeling very well.

[Anonymous No.5981017]

"Zhuangzi's wife died. When Huizi went to convey his condolences, he found Zhuangzi sitting with his legs sprawled out, pounding on a tub and singing. 'You lived with her, she brought up your children and grew old,' said Huizi. 'It should be enough simply not to weep at her death. But pounding on a tub and singing – this is going too far, isn't it?'
Zhuangzi said, 'You're wrong. When she first died, do you think I didn't grieve like anyone else? But I looked back to her beginning and the time before she was born. Not only the time before she was born, but the time before she had a body. Not only the time before she had a body, but the time before she had a spirit. In the midst of the jumble of wonder and mystery a change took place and she had a spirit. Another change and she had a body. Another change and she was born. Now there's been another change and she's dead. It's just like the progression of the four seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter.
Now she's going to lie down peacefully in a vast room. If I were to follow after her bawling and sobbing, it would show that I don't understand anything about fate. So I stopped.'"

Zhuangzi, chapter 18

[Anonymous No.5981021]

Okay, don't laugh, but... Vonnegut? Sounds like the sort of thing he at least brushed on.

[Anonymous No.5981093]

>>5981021
In what way? And which book?

[Anonymous No.5981102]

>>5981017
That is more like it.

So far in this thread people have been only focusing on the dread, but there is definitely a confusion and a celebration that comes with the feeling.

I really need to find a new copy and translation of In search of lost time. Everything I'm saying should be in there.

[Anonymous No.5981112]

>>5980830

top lel

[Anonymous No.5981559]

bump

[Anonymous No.5981571]

>>5980891
Pound's is more an interpretation than a translation.

[Anonymous No.5981581]

>>5980849
Amazing how many contemporary phrases appear to originate in that single passage. The earth abides, the sun also rises, nothing new under the sun, the rememberance of things past...

[Anonymous No.5982060]

Two stories come to mind, although neither really deal directly with what you're asking for OP. I think the feeling comes more as a result of what happens during and after the stories but maybe I'm just hallucinating and there's really no similarity between what you're asking and what I'm thinking of.
they are:
Xeethra by Clark Ashton Smith
The Quest of Iranon by HP Lovecraft

[Anonymous No.5982152]

>>5982060
I'm definitely looking for a story that captures/makes you experience the feeling rather than having characters wax philosophical on the subject.

[Anonymous No.5982193]

>>5982152
as a warning, they're both works of fantasy. Xeethra takes place in Smith's Zothique setting, which is the last continent on a far future earth and the Quest of Iranon is set in Lovecraft's Dreamlands.
so if fantasy isn't your thing, I'd suggest skipping them and looking elsewhere.

[Anonymous No.5982226]

>>5980878
Like this guy; looks for old english poetry; surrounded by the greatness of roman's slowly dying poems like The Wanderer, Deor, The Ruin and as posted above the seafarer.

All worth a read.

[Anonymous No.5982250]

>>5982226
But no prose?