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/lit/ - Literature

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9061126 No.9061126 [Reply] [Original]

Guys, intellectually I'm all spooked out. I can't stand philosophy because of all the unfalsifiable garbage. Many fields like economics etc are just applied common sense and stamp collecting. I see novels as nothing but entertainment despite pretentious people claiming life / philosophical insights and tonnes of people will consider you a disgusting plebeian if you don't initially read shitloads of boring as fuck canon novels.

I think I am painfully adapting to the idea of the Internet age / information overload by abandoning any pretension that I can be an all rounder or even dilettante in everything. There are ten trillion books called "Introduction to [broad and important field]", even if you only have one of each field.

History is similar to novels. Shitloads of reading along with a shitload pretension thrown on top telling you that you truly cannot no nuthin unless you have an in depth understanding of the Greeks / Romans / Christianity / USA / WW1 / WW2 / financial systems / or shitloads of other topics I can't stand it. And then there's current events. I don't care about climate change, outer space, inequality, China, the EU, applied psychology, the education system, diversity, Russia, South America, refugees, nutrition, mental health, and more. Admitting just one of these would make me an iredeemable idiot, no doubt.

Has anyone else had similar thoughts? The spooks are powerful and must be removed but their removal leaves your mind in a promordial state that is more susceptible to spooks than before.

I go to the city centre and see people shopping and the streets are busy, which is comforting compared to when they're empty, but walking through then brings no epiphanies.

I am so past watching movies or tv shows, even ones that pander to "edgy" young males. I just about read books but only because society tells me I should, though I don't derive much enjoyment

And obviously I have an existential crisis but /lit/ is fucking pathetic in demanding that anyone who has one should immediately "grow up" and become a monotheist and wagecuck. I fucking hate wagecucking. Seeing attractive young people is humiliating. I tell myself every day that I'll soon work intensely on one thing but I can't bear to do this. If you're really good at one thing then there are people lining up to call you a tard for not watching opera or being able to run a marathon or whatever shit. So I do nothing.

Every "thinker" is at their core an utter fucking fraud. Nietzche is a Tony Robbins tier Rorschach test. Science and mathematics provide non trivial insights but only in ultra specialised ways that probably require autism to appreciate. I listen to In Our Time podcasts and Bret Easton Ellis podcasts and I think at heart everyone cares about nothing more than social drama.

Apart from money, health, and time, there are very few non trivial concept.

>> No.9061155

>>9061126
Dumb frogposter.

>> No.9061168

Νεφρό this a long ass copypasta.

>> No.9061232

atleast you are aware that you are spooked. have a nice life

>> No.9061258

>>9061126

People will call you dumb but I honestly agree, "social drama" is really what most people care about when their basic necessities are fulfilled

>> No.9061272

dumb frogposter

>> No.9061276

first post best post tbqh senpai

sage report hide

>> No.9061283

Visiting from /fit/, you should ditch these losers and come hang out with us.

>> No.9061340

It's sad how few people on /lit/ have actually lived. I mean really lived. There are so many aspiring writers here who haven't even left their own country, or have only left it to holiday with family in their youth. There are people here who have not experienced a series of tumultuous relationships, people who have not hitchhiked for hundreds of miles in whatever direction suits them best that moment, people who have not found themselves drinking hard liquor with a gang of strangers at 2am in a city they can't even remember the name of. Me? I've done all these things. I've traveled the lonesome highways, caught trains and buses and sat shivering and damp in the passenger seats of cars belonging to people who told me more about life than the lonely and callow narcissists on this board ever have. I've gazed lovingly into the eyes of women who taught me the ineffable secrets of their mysterious sex. I've worked more jobs I can remember and learned more skills than I will ever need. I have made friends and enemies from coast to coast and experienced more emotional peaks and valleys than most people here can even comprehend. How can you guys even call yourselves writers when you haven't even mastered the world about which you are intending to write? How can you expect anybody to take your writing seriously when you have experienced barely more than a child afraid of what lies beyond the boundaries of his comfortable little world? My writing flows with an assurance that reflects my own internal state. The dialogue I write is representative of the parlance of the man on the street, not the child in the abstract universe you have concocted to compensate for the fact that the world outside your window terrifies and confuses you. When I write a profound sentence I do it knowing I will be understood and admired not only by the academic whiling away a quiet afternoon in his armchair, but also for the orphaned young man working sixty hours a week as a knuckle-puller in a Sheboygan abattoir. And all this at the age of nineteen, my literary life almost entirely ahead of me, several USBs hanging from my keychain full of stories that would no-doubt make the pale and sheltered suburbanites that browse this board gasp in incredulity. Next month I move to New York to begin a degree in English Literature, focusing on creative writing. The professor phoned me as soon as he had read my application to ask that I choose his university (it's one of the best in the country, why wouldn't I?) with the promise that he will personally guide me over the next three years, or however long it's going to take for me to get my first book out there. Have you lived /lit/? I mean, really lived?

>> No.9061355

>>9061126
Listen OP. Although I hate you bc you're a frogposter, I want to help you. This is what I do. It's weird, maybe, but it's very nice.
Sometimes, I just walk through the city. Pointlessly. Without direction. I have no point, I'm not looking for anything. This happens because I don't want to be alone. But this is very nice.
One of my favorite things- and this is very odd, I'll admit... you go to where there are a lot of strangers, going about their day. And you stand in the middle and you listen to Life on Mars by david bowie. Just listen to that song, and watch everyone else move around you. It's very nice.

>> No.9061362

>>9061340
comeback when youre published

>> No.9061627

>>9061126

I've read this 3 times and I still can't tell what you're trying to say.

All I gathered is that you're apparently obsessed with appearances.

>> No.9061907

>tfw too intelligent to exist

the post

existential crisis is not a bad thing in itself but your literal problem is too high of a steem
saged