/lit/ - Literature

[Critique please No.948214]

He sat on a wooden bench under the yellow leaves in the deserted park, contemplating the dusty swans with both his hands resting on the silver handle of his cane, and thinking about death. On his first visit to Geneva the lake had been calm and clear, and there were tame gulls that would eat out of one's hand, and women for hire who seemed like six-in-the-afternoon phantoms with organdy ruffles and pink parasols. Now the only possible woman he could see was a flower vendor on the deserted pier. It was difficult for him to believe that time could cause so much ruin not only in his life but in the world.

[Anonymous No.948218]

shitsux

go back to school

[Anonymous No.948216]

FFS write moar

[Anonymous No.948221]

my eyes are bleeding.

[Anonymous No.948226]

I like it. Whatever you post here on 4chan though....haters gonna hate

[OP No.948229]

He was one more incognito in the city of illustrious incognitos. he wore the dark blue pin-striped suit, brocade vest, and stiff hat of a retired magistrate. He had the arrogant mustache of a musketeer, abundant blue-black hair with romantic waves, a harpist's hands with the widower's wedding band on his left ring finger, and joyful eyes. Only the weariness of his skin betrayed the state of his health. Even so, at the age of seventy-three, his elegance was still notable. That morning, however, he felt beyond the reach of all vanity. The years of glory and power had been left behind forever, and now only the years of his death remained.

[Anonymous No.948239]

that pen is better put to use in you ass than in your hand.

[Anonymous No.948241]

>>948226
>No taste.

[Anonymous No.948243]

Looks pretty good actually.

[OP No.948247]

He had returned to Geneva after two world wars, in search of a definitive answer to a pain that the doctors in Martinique could not identify. He had planned on staying no more than two weeks but had spent almost six in exhausting examinations and inconclusive results, and the end was not yet in sight. They looked for the pain in his liver, his kidneys, his pancreas, his prostate, wherever it was not. Until that bitter Thursday, when he had made an appointment for nine in the morning at the neurology department with the least well-known of many physicians who had seen him.

The office resembled a monk's cell, and the doctor was small and solemn and wore a cast on the broken thumb of his right hand. When the light was turned off, the illuminated X ray of a spinal column appeared on the screen, but he did not recognize it as his own until the doctor used a pointer to indicate the juncture of two vertebrae below his waist.

"Your pain is here," he said.

[OP No.948268]

For him it was not so simple. His pain was improbable and devious, and sometimes seemed to be in his ribs on the right side and sometimes in his lower abdomen, and often caught him off guard with a sudden stab in the groin. The doctor listened to him without moving, the pointer motionless on the screen. "That is why it eluded us for so long," he said. "But now we know it is here." Then he placed his forefinger on his own temple and stated with precision:

"Although in strictest terms, Mr. President, all pain is here."

His clinical style was so dramatic that the final verdict seemed merciful: The President had to submit to a dangerous and inescapable operation. He asked about the margin of risk, and the old physician enveloped him in an indeterminate light.

[Anonymous No.948277]

gimme a free book-http://www.amazon.com/wishlist/19JE4C8PIBM4M

[OP No.948426]

"We could not say with certainty," he answered.

Until a short while before, he explained, the risk of fatal accidents was great, and even more so the danger of different kinds of paralysis of varying degrees. But with the medical advances made during the two wars, such fears were things of the past.

"Don't worry," the doctor concluded. "Put your affairs in order and then get in touch with us. But don't forget, the sooner the better."

[OP No.948438]

It was not a good morning for digesting that piece of bad news, least of all outdoors. He had left the hotel very early, without an overcoat because he saw a brilliant sun through the window, and had walked with measured steps from the Chemin du Beau-soleil, where the hospital was located, to that refuge for furtive lovers, the Jardin Anglais. He had been there for more than an hour, thinking of nothing but death, when autumn began. The lake became as rough as an angry sea, and an outlaw wind frightened the gulls and made away with the last leaves. The President stood up and, instead of buying a daisy from the flower vendor, he picked one from the public plantings and put it in his buttonhole. She caught him in the act.
-----

That's the last bit I'll post for now. Please critique if you have a chance.

[Swordy !QUDKivgGR2 No.948450]

you write like robert frost

[Anonymous No.948661]

>>948221
>>948218
>>948216

[Anonymous No.948759]

>He sat on a wooden bench under the yellow leaves in the deserted park, contemplating the dusty swans with both his hands resting on the silver handle of his cane, and thinking about death.

You might try reading this aloud. I think you may be missing natural breathing places, something like:

He sat on a bench in the park, contemplating dusty swans and yellow leaves. He thought about death. His hands rested on his cane.

I also get a feeling of reading a catalogue, so much is crowded into each sentence. I admit I like simpler sentences.

But that's just me. Well crafted.

[Anonymous No.949637]

ITT: Proof that /lit/ can't judge literature for shit.

This is a short story by Gabriel García Márquez translated into English by Edith Grossman and published in 1993.

It's Buen viaje, Señor Presidente (Bon voyage, Mr. President) from Doce cuentos peregrinos (Strange Pilgrims).

[Anonymous No.950987]

>>949637
Why you troll us Gabo?

[Anonymous No.950995]

>>948213

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jkosjb nqqlxt ce fdjw bsihh trkfks jxkvbkpv

[Anonymous No.951007]

He sat on a wooden cock under the yellow stream of piss in the deserted brothel, contemplating the dusty cunts with both his hands resting on the purple handle of his cock, and thinking about climaxing. On his first visit to Brothels the cum had been calm and clear, and there were tame whores that would eat out of one's hand, and boys for hire who seemed like six-in-the-afternoon phantoms with nylon ruffles and pink parachute pants. Now the only possible child he could see was a flower fucker on the deserted water bed. It was difficult for him to cum at that time, because so much ruin would hit the world from his mega stream.

[David !4changtcqk No.951008]

>>949637
>implying anyone tried to critique it
try harder
1/10

[Anonymous No.951224]

[Anonymous No.951898]

>>951008
"Shit sux" "FFS write moar" "no taste"

"Try reading this out loud." That guy was actually nice and helpful though.