/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.8472742]

Post writers (and examples of their work) that /lit/ never talks about.

I'll start with Papini

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=coo.31924057673406;view=1up;seq=319

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=coo.31924063551307;view=1up;seq=466

[Anonymous No.8472752]

>>8472742

Some more works

The Failure (in Italian): https://archive.org/details/unuomofinito00papiuoft

Four and Twenty Minds (in English): https://archive.org/details/fourtwentymindse00papiuoft

[Anonymous No.8472809]

Nicolas Gomez Davila.

>Only religion can be popular without being vulgar.

>Men are less equal than they say, and more than they think.

>The idiot loses his hopes, never his illusions.

>Power doesn't corrupt, it unlocks latent corruption.

>The artist doesn't compete with his peers, he struggles with his angel.

>Any individual with "ideals" is a potential murderer.

>All literature is contemporary, for the reader who can read.

[Anonymous No.8472841]

>>8472809
Most of these are shit though.

[Anonymous No.8472871]

>Because of her excessive curiosity, an old lady fell out of the window and smashed into the ground.
Another old lady looked out of the window, staring down at the one who was smashed, but out of her excessive curiosity she also fell out of the window and smashed into the ground.
Then the third old lady fell out of the window, then the fourth did, then the fifth.
When the sixth old lady fell out of the window, I got bored watching them and went to Maltsev market where, they say, someone gave a woven shawl to a blind.

[Anonymous No.8472890]

>>8472841
'no'

[Anonymous No.8473570]

John Gould Fletcher

Irradiation XV

O seeded grass, you army of little men
Crawling up the long slope with quivering, quick blades of steel:
You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of Earth,
Interlace yourselves tightly over my heart,
And do not let me go:
For I would lie here forever and watch with one eye
The pilgrimaging ants in your dull, savage jungles,
The while with the other I see the stiff lines of the slope
Break in mid-air, a wave surprisingly arrested,
And above them, wavering, dancing, bodiless, colourless, unreal,
The long thin lazy fingers of the heat.

XXVIII

I remember, there was a day
During which I did not write a line of verse:
Nor did I speak a word to any woman,
Nor did I meet with death.

Yet all that day I was fully occupied:
My eyes saw trees, clouds, streets, houses, people;
My lungs breathed air;
My mouth swallowed food and drink;
My hands seized things, my feet touched earth,
Or spurned it at my desire.

On that day I know I would have been sufficiently happy,
If I could have kept my brain from bothering at all
About my next trite poem;
About the tedious necessities of sex;
And about the day on which I would at last meet death.

XXXI

My stiff-spread arms
Break into sudden gesture;
My feet seize upon the rhythm;
My hands drag it upwards:
Thus I create the dance.

I drink of the red bowl of the sunlight:
I swim through seas of rain:
I dig my toes into earth:
I taste the smack of the wind:
I am myself:
I live.

The temples of the gods are forgotten or in ruins:
Professors are still arguing about the past and the future:
I am sick of reading marginal notes on life,
I am weary of following false banners:
I desire nothing more intensely or completely than this present;
There is nothing about me you are more likely to notice than my being:
Let me therefore rejoice silently,
A golden butterfly glancing against an unflecked wall.

[Anonymous No.8473574]

>>8472871
filename is accurate

[Anonymous No.8473583]

Frederic Prokosch

The Tragedians
ENTER the unremembered city:
Command before your eyes, call forth
To horrified sight those whom even the keenest
Among you have forgotten: stare:

Like gluttonous orchids flowering forth, and flooded
With emerald light: monstrous, tender, exact:
The child whose hands, strangely equipped for love,
Turn like a leaf to terror; yes, and he
Whom life has treated gently, now grown pallid,
Shapeless as water, a kinsman of the plant;
He who in tears remembers everything,
A thousand grey chicaneries and sorrows
Dimmed, but by weakness, not by time;
He who has learned to shape his daily love
Thus: a slow ritual of tongue and tooth
Crusted with evil; and the one who dreams
Only in the presence of watchers, whose bleak mind
Spills into being postures beyond all dread,
Horribly expert; he who lives in ice,
Motionless, thoughtless, utterly alone;
And darker than all, the old, the old and terribly
Wizened, whose hands reflect their caverns of grief,
Who gaze all day into the arteried glass
Of their habitual hopes.

He also wrote a few books, the two most famous being The Asiatics and The Seven Who Fled.

[Anonymous No.8473588]

Gilberto Owen

El infierno perdido

Por el amor de una nube
de blanda piel me perdí
duermo encadenado al cielo
sin voz sin nombre sin ser
sin ser voz suena mi nombre
mas donde sueña no sé
que se me enredó la oreja
descifrando un caracol
tras una reja de olas
lo hará burbujas un pez
mas mi boca ya no sabe
la sílaba sal del mar
sílaba de sal que salta
del mar a mis ojos sin
lágrimas que la desposen
y el frío mal traductor
mal traidor ángel del frío
roba mi nombre de ayer
y me lo vuelve sin fiebre
sin tacto sin paladar
contacto bobo del cero
grados que era su inicial
con su tardes de ceniza
en mi lengua de alcohol
en su verde voz de llama
de menta ahoga en mi voz
con su blando amor de nube
que el orden me encadenó.

also his letters are very interesting

[Anonymous No.8473593]

>>8472742
I've only read GOG, but that and Zeno's Conscience really left me wondering how Pirandello (who's the king of fucking purple prose) became Italy's "officla" modernist in literature

[Anonymous No.8473625]

>>8472871
Also GOAT.

If you're OP, just for mentioning Daniil and Papini, you made me want to check out the other writers, thank you

[Anonymous No.8473654]

>>8472742
thanks op, thats a good story, the magnanimous suicide, I hadn't heard of it before

[Anonymous No.8474936]

bump

[Anonymous No.8476174]

>>8473570
>John Gould Fletcher
I'm going to look up this guy. Thanks, op.

[Anonymous No.8477304]

Per Petterson, Harry Martinson, Erlend Loe

[Anonymous No.8477409]

>>8472742
>/lit/ never talks about Papini
not even wonder why...

[Anonymous No.8478283]

bump for too lazy to look at this now