/lit/ - Literature

>>18813359
>Does my penis exist?
>probably, but what is it like?
>I cannot experience the Noumenal Penis-in-Itself and so have no epistemic certainty about the true nature of my penis.
>instead I must rely on the Transcendental Aesthetic to understand the limits of my penis knowledge.
>The Phenomenal Penis is all I have epistemic access to.

>>18791063
Clean shaven master race

>We can't know things in themselves
>But we can know the mode in which they affect our senses
Contradictory

Philosophy is just a cope for word salad writing midwits who couldn't into STEM.

What makes a story based and kino? I’m hoping to write a novel one day but I want to avoid it being reddit, if that makes sense.

This is what I listen to when I read Kant:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WzsbPD4lkE

I genuinely and unironically think Kant was a moron, or at the very least he was insane.
Kant's political and ethical philosophy is some of the most retarded and naive ideas ever conceived, and it blows my mind how anyone takes them seriously.

"I believe morality is subjective" is an observation of how things are, not a belief in how things ought to be. Religion is an attempt at systemising morality, and giving it weight independent from human values by attributing them to something above humans. It's an attempt at giving society a common & solid ethical ground to stand on. Now, regardless of what morals are espoused by those grounds, having them is necessary for any society to function at all. So in an increasingly secular world, one has to wonder: "what other approaches could you employ to establish said ethical common grounds without instating religion or military totalitarianism?". I think the answer to this is to accept that ethics do not have to come from above, from a non/beyond-human source, but that they indeed come from within, at no loss of value. The same laws that were created in those systems have after all come from man himself, but their were foundation was artificially externalised out of man's grave lack of faith in his own dignity. Therefore the other approach necessitates man valuing the laws he himself creates, without needing to attribute them to a higher power (be it the state, or local deity, or science, etc.). It is his right to create them, for he has needs that must be fulfilled in this world. The birds have their laws. The lions have their laws. The whales have their laws. So must man have his own, laws that fit his needs, and that's simply all the justification he requires: the fitting of a need.

>But first, we need to talk about Parallel Phenomena

>dude what if invariances in the world were invariances in our cognition lmao
Why does everyone worship this hack

When did you outgrow his moral philosophy?

Is there a more cucked philosophy and ethics than Kantianism?

i really gotta read this goofy ass nigga at some point

>>18321989
>The thing
>IN
>AND
>OF
>ITSELF
mind blown

>In 1791, Maria von Herbert, a keen student of the philosophy of Immanuel Kant, wrote to the great philosopher "for help, for comfort, or for counsel to prepare me for death", reporting that she had lost the love of a man to whom she was deeply devoted and for whom she lived.
>Kant didn't hear from Herbert again until January 1793, when she wrote to him that despite having been forgiven by the man she had loved, she felt utterly empty and longed for death.
>I only want one thing, namely to shorten this pointless life, a life which I am convinced will get neither better nor worse... each day interests me only to the extent that it brings me closer to death.
>She begged Kant to say something that would help get "the intolerable emptiness" out of her soul, and asked for permission to visit him in Konigsberg.
>Kant, the great champion of the moral necessity of duty, of the requirement to treat people as ends and not merely means, did not reply. Rather, he parceled up Herbert's correspondence, and sent it to a friend under the title, "Example of Warning". He included a letter from a mutual acquaintance which disclosed that Herbert's secret was that she was not a virgin:
>"...she gave herself to a man who misused her trust. And then, trying to achieve such love with another, she told her new lover about the previous one."
> In 1803, having never heard again from Kant, Maria von Herbert killed herself.
Kantbros....

This is the man, this is the killer of metaphysics, the piece of shit we have to thank for turning modern scientists into effeminate basedlord atheists discrediting the achievements of the greatest philosophers of history. Hegel warned us, we only had to listen, but now it is too late.

>lmao you can't lie for good that's immoral
why do we even care for this FAG moral theory? he'd basically got buttfucked by all philosophers that came later

I just can't understand him. I read the same sentence 10 times and my eyes still just glaze over. No other philosopher so far has given me this much trouble

>>18173064

/lit/ is NOT a slow board, /lit/ is a FAST board. let's show em boys!

>Any progress on your novels?
Yes, I'm done now. I was never going to become the next Faulkner, the next Nabokov or the next Joyce, but I hid behind the language barrier to avoid criticism for months, maintaining an illusion that was fun to live in while it lasted. I had thought my country's education system was topmost in the world, but this turned out to be utter bollocks. A child of 18, a person ten years my junior, has a greater vocabulary than I, who had to look up the word “topiary”, and no one likes the expression theory of art anymore, I am likened to a long lost dinosaur.
This will be my final post on /lit/. I've been humiliated and exposed as a fraud. My writing is pretentious, infantile, banal drivel. My observations are dull, my language grade school level. My tenses are mixed up; I use colloquialisms, ellipses and onomatopoeia. I mix tired and trite idioms together to obfuscate their unoriginality with a veneer of irony; I have continued to recite ornate Jewish chimpanzee parables with diminishing returns. The parable seemed very clearly to me to be asking me whether or not the now-grown-adult can choose. I say yes, of course, but that's not my issue.
I was never cut out for writing. I began writing my "book" on January 6th. Since then I've produced 82 thousand words for it. These words are a tide of garbage without value, without insight, without form. The themes of time, space, infinity, memory and pointless duelling are not present in my work. It was never real writing, it was anime and weebshit. Look how many words I wrote, because apparently literature is bodybuilding and just aimlessly typing will somehow improve my writing. I don't even know what genre it is that I'm writing. Is it autofiction? A comedy? A picaresque?
Regardless, I have failed. I have put down my pen. Never again will my fingers click-clack across the keyboard. No more outlines, no more characters. Goodbye

The categorical imperative BTFO’d all ethics

>Any progress on your novels?
Yes, I'm done now. I was never going to become the next Faulkner, the next Nabokov or the next Joyce, but I hid behind the language barrier to avoid criticism for months, maintaining an illusion that was fun to live in while it lasted. I had thought my country's education system was topmost in the world, but this turned out to be utter bollocks. A child of 18, a person ten years my junior, has a greater vocabulary than I, who had to look up the word “topiary”, and no one likes the expression theory of art anymore, I am likened to a long lost dinosaur.
This will be my final post on /lit/. I've been humiliated and exposed as a fraud. My writing is pretentious, infantile, banal drivel. My observations are dull, my language grade school level. My tenses are mixed up; I use colloquialisms, ellipses and onomatopoeia. I mix tired and trite idioms together to obfuscate their unoriginality with a veneer of irony; I have continued to recite ornate Jewish chimpanzee parables with diminishing returns. The parable seemed very clearly to me to be asking me whether or not the now-grown-adult can choose. I say yes, of course, but that's not my issue.
I was never cut out for writing. I began writing my "book" on January 6th. Since then I've produced 82 thousand words for it. These words are a tide of garbage without value, without insight, without form. The themes of time, space, infinity, memory and pointless duelling are not present in my work. It was never real writing, it was anime and weebshit. Look how many words I wrote, because apparently literature is bodybuilding and just aimlessly typing will somehow improve my writing. I don't even know what genre it is that I'm writing. Is it autofiction? A comedy? A picaresque?
Regardless, I have failed. I have put down my pen. Never again will my fingers click-clack across the keyboard. No more outlines, no more characters. Goodbye