/lit/ - Literature

>>5735591
if you're going to go that deep into it, you'll definitely have to put it as an authors notes in the back

>>5735407
then maybe a randomized set up is the best way to go about putting it together. With the only ordering being things that are apparently from the same thread/subject related but without chapters to keep expectation away from the reader

>>5735384
I'm all for that, but at the same time if the quality of the stories noticeably degrades a quarter way through the book thats gonna lose peoples interests pretty quick since there is nothing connecting any of these stories. It's like a book of poems, as soon as you get board you put the whole book down. Also it will seem amateurish like you stopped trying a quarter way through

>>5735355
shit forgot to post this hours ago and doubled that image.
Good cover, except yeah, the subtitle needs work.

>>5734840
Just google greentext stories, and then request from other boards. I think
>be me
needs to happen, that really would be quite the piece in all seriousness. How would you sort it though? would you keep the comedy and heavy stuff to separate chapters? or mix it all in to give an emotional roller coaster feel with seemingly funny stories ending in tragedy and vice versa to keep the reader guessing?

>>5696454
epic
>>5696457
maybe write about her contribution to feminism or what she has written about feminism? i think that's her biggest "legacy"

plath a shit

lit help me out
I'm doing a project on the legacy of sylvia plath.
What do you think was plath's most accurate legacy?
any works that she has put out that could compare to her legacy?

Skip to 2:27. This movie gets so hilariously #rekt it's unbelievable

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCuFUQuIWI4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qi9KW6aBSU0

lol, just saw this, BEE getting blown the fuck out. Although his counsellor review where he blows Cormac McCarthy the fuck out is much funnier (start at 2:26)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCuFUQuIWI4

Recommend me some african american sci-fi

OP, r9k is correct. The only reason you should leave is because they do nothing about it.

Browse reddit-redpill to learn how society gives no shits about you, assuming you're male.

Read Whatever and Atomised/elementary particles by houellebecq to see r9k but better written.

watch wolf of wall street

I'm planning to read the mysteries of Pittsburgh. It's about some graduating student who has two romances in the summer (one with a guy, other with a girl). I'm ugly and have no friends, even in uni, so this is the warm book that I wish was my life (I don't want gaysex though). Young cool people in summer with barely any cares.

I made it sound like boring shit, but it has some conflict, without getting overly dramatic about it. The characters are the sort of hipsters we want to be but would call faggots/tumblr tier if we saw them in the street (although this isn't tumblr shit)

>>4789327

>needing to date something before you can know anything about it

How dumb can your logic get?

>>4789345

the one with the drink

PROFANE?

>>4772221

Holding her exercise book in my hand, I could make out a word or two: Remember

... hell ... I sat next to her and put the book down on the desk, but I couldn't manage to say anything to her. We sat there in silence for more than a minute. I stared into her big black eyes, but I was aware of every little movement of her body, the rise and fall of her breasts. She had turned halfway toward me and then she parted her legs. I don't remember doing what I did next—I think it was half-involuntary—but the next thing I knew I felt her thigh against the palm of my left hand, then it's all a blur. I remembered Caroline Yessayan and froze with shame. I had made the same mistake-twenty years later, I had made the same mistake. Just like Caroline Yessayan twenty years earlier, she did nothing for a second; she blushed a little. Then, very gently, she moved my hand away, but she didn't get up, didn't make any move to leave. Through the bars on the windows I could see a girl in the playground racing off to the station. With my right hand I opened my fly. Her eyes widened and she looked at my penis. Her eyes on me felt like hot vibrations—I nearly came just from her watching me, but I knew that she had to actually do something if this were to be mutual. I moved my right hand toward hers but couldn't go through with it; imploringly, I took my cock in my hand as if to offer it to her. She burst out laughing; I think I laughed, too, as I started to masturbate. I went on laughing and jerking off as she got her things together, as she got up to leave. When she got to the door, she turned around and looked at me one last time; I ejaculated, then everything went black. I heard the door close and her footsteps dying away. I was stunned, as though I'd been struck like a gong. Still, I managed to phone Azoulay from the station. I don't remember the train back to Paris, or the metro; Azoulay saw me at eight. I couldn't stop shaking, and he had to give me an injection to calm me down.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

That's my favourite section in the book

>>4772217

Outside, on the sidewalk, I felt a pang of despair. It was late afternoon, the weather was warm, women walked past me along the boulevard Saint-Germain, and I understood that I'd never be a writer, but I also understood that I didn't care. But what was I going to do? I was already spending half my salary on sex; I couldn't believe that Anne hadn't figured out something was wrong by now. I could have joined the National Front-but why bother getting into bed with those stupid assholes?

In any case, there aren't any women on the far right, or if there are, they only fuck paratroopers. My article was crazy-I threw it into the first trash can I saw. I had to stick to my 'liberal humanist' position; I knew in my heart it was my only chance of getting laid. I sat on the terrace at the Escurial. My penis was hot, swollen and aching. I had a couple of beers and then walked back to the apartment. As I was crossing the river, I remembered Adjila. She was a pretty little Arab girl in the see onde. Good student, serious, a class ahead of her age. She had an intelligent, sensitive face, not at all cynical. She really wanted to make something of herself-you could tell. A lot of girls like that live with thugs and murderers, so all you have to do is show them a little kindness. Again, I started to believe it was possible. For the next two weeks, I talked to her often and called her up to the blackboard. She responded to my glances, she didn't seem to think anything was up. I didn't have much time, it was June already. When she walked back to her desk, I could see her little ass in her tight jeans. I liked her so much I stopped visiting prostitutes. I'd imagine sliding my cock into her long, soft black hair; I even jerked off over her homework once.

"On Wednesday ii June she turned up in a little black skirt. Class would be over at six. She was sitting in the front row. Vvhen she crossed her legs under her desk I thought I'd pass out. She was sitting beside a fat blonde who ran off as soon as the bell rang. I went over and put a hand on her books. She just sat there, and didn't seem to be in any hurry. All the other kids left and the classroom was quiet again.

>>4772213
Monday, I called L’Infini. This time Sollers asked me to come to his office. He was sharp and mischievous, just like he is on television—better, even. 'It's obvious you're a real racist. That's good, it really carries the piece. Well done!' He pointed to one of the pages with a graceful gesture. He had underlined a section: We envy and admire the Negro because we long to regress, like him, to our animal selves; to be animals with big cocks and small reptilian brains which are no more than appendices to their pricks. He tapped the page: 'It's strong, spirited, very aristocratic. You've got talent. A gift for words. I'm not keen on the subtitle: "We Become Racist, We Are Not Born That Way." I always think irony is a bit, um . . .' His face darkened, but then he twirled his cigarette holder and smiled again. He was a real clown, but a nice guy. 'It's very original, too, and not too heavy. You're not even anti-Semitic!' He pointed to another passage: Only Jews are spared the regret of not being Negroes, because they have long since chosen the path of intelligence, shame and guilt. Nothing in Western civilization can equal or even approach what the Jews have made of guilt and shame; this is why Negroes hate the Jews most of all. He sat back in his chair, seeming really pleased. He folded his arms behind his head; for a second I thought he was going to put his feet up on the desk, but he didn't. He leaned forward again—he just couldn't stay still.

"'So, what are we going to do?'

"'I don't know. You could publish it.'

"'Publish it in L'Infini?' He burst out laughing, as though I'd just told a really good joke. 'I don't think you realize what you're suggesting, my good man ... You might have got away with it in Cé1ine's day. These days, there are some subjects about which you can't just write anything you feel like. Something like this could make life really difficult for me. You think I don't have enough problems? You think that because I'm at Gallimard I can do what I like? People keep an eye on me, you know.

They're just waiting for me to make a mistake. No, no—it would be too difficult.

Haven't you got anything else?'

"He seemed really surprised that I hadn't brought another piece with me. I was sorry to disappoint him; I really wanted to be his good man, I wanted him to take me dancing and buy me whiskey at the Pont-Royal.

>>4772209

"I stopped for a minute. I could tell the poem had moved them; there was total silence. It was my last class of the day, and in half an hour I would be on the train heading home to my wife. Suddenly I heard Ben's voice from the back of the classroom: 'You've got death on the brain, old man . . .' His voice was loud, but he didn't seem to be trying to insult me; in fact, he sounded rather admiring. I don't really know if he was referring to me or to Baudelaire, but as a response to the text it was pretty appropriate. But I had to deal with it somehow. I just said: 'Get out.'

He didn't move. I waited thirty seconds, so scared that I was sweating. I knew that if I waited much longer I wouldn't be able to say anything, but I managed to croak

'Get out' again. He stood up, got his things together very slowly and walked toward me. In any conflict, there is a moment of grace when the opposing forces are equally matched. When he got to me, he stopped—he was a good head taller than I was and for a moment, I thought he was going to deck me, but he didn't, he just walked past me to the door. I had won. It was a small victory, of course; he was in class again the next day. I think he had understood what was going on—maybe he caught me looking at her—but he started feeling his girlfriend up right there in class.

He'd push her skirt up, put his hand as high as possible, very high on her thigh, then he'd look right at me and smile, really cool. I wanted the bitch so badly. I spent the weekend writing a racist pamphlet—I had a hard-on all the time I was writing it.

>>4772206

These dozens of pages about the purity of the bloodline, the nobility of genius compared to the nobility of race, the rarefied atmosphere of great doctors ... it all seemed bullshit to me. We clearly live in a simpler world. The Duchesse de Guermantes has a lot less dough than Snoop Doggy Dogg; Snoop has less than Bill Gates, but he gets the girls wet. There are two possible criteria, that's it. Of course you could write a Proustian novel about the jet set, about money and fame-a major star brought face to face with a literary legend. It would entrance the literati, but in the end, who cares? Literary fame is a poor substitute for real stardom, media stardom, which is linked to show biz; after all, show biz rakes in more than any other industry in the world. What's a banker or a senator or a CEO next to an actor or a rock star? Financially, sexually, any way you look at it, they're nonentities. The strategies of distinction so subtly described by Proust are completely meaningless nowadays. From the point of view of man as a hierarchical animal, as a builder of hierarchies, the twentieth century had about as much in common with the eighteenth as the GAN insurance tower with the Petit Trianon. Proust was fundamentally European—he and Thomas Mann were the last Europeans—but what he wrote no longer bears any relationship to the world as we know it. The passage about the Duchesse de Guermantes is magnificent, of course, but I found it all rather depressing. I found myself increasingly drawn to Baudelaire. Here were real themes: death, anguish, shame, dissipation, lost childhood and nostalgia—

transcendent subjects. It was pretty strange really; it was spring, the weather was beautiful, there were stunning girls everywhere and there I was reading: Be calm, my pain, and venture to be still.

You clamored for the Night; it falls; is here:

The city shrouds itself in blackest chill,

Brings peace to some, to others fear.

'Neath Pleasure's lash, the grim high executioner,

Mortal souls, that vile and worthless throng,

Reap grim remorse amidst the abject ceremony,

Pain, take my hand; let us now along ...

>>4772198

Whatever, in the showers at the gym I realized I had a really small dick. I measured it when I got home—it was twelve centimeters, maybe thirteen or fourteen if you measured right to the base. I'd found something new to worry about, something I couldn't do anything about; it was a basic and permanent handicap. It was around then that I started hating blacks. There weren't many of them in the school—most of them went to the technical high school, Lycée Pierre-de-Coubertin, where the eminent Defrance did his philosophical striptease and propounded his pro-youth ass-kissing. I only had one, in my premz'@re A class, a big, stocky guy who called himself Ben. He always wore a baseball cap and Nikes; I was convinced he had a huge dick. All the girls threw themselves at this big baboon and here I was trying to teach them about Mallarmé—what the fuck was the point? This is the way Western civilization would end, I thought bitterly, people worshiping in front of big dicks, like hamadryas baboons. I got into the habit of coming to class without any underwear on. This black guy was going out with exactly the girl I would have chosen myself—

blonde, very pretty, with a childlike face and small firm tits. They would come to class holding hands. I always kept the windows closed while they were working; the girls would get hot and take off their sweaters, their T-shirts sticking to their breasts.

Hidden behind my desk, I'd jerk off. I still remember the day I gave them a passage from Le C6t6 de Guermantes to comment on.

... the purity of a bloodline into which for many generations there had flowed only what was greatest in the history of France had rid her manner of everything that the lower orders call "airs" and had endowed her with perfect simplicity ...

"I looked at Ben: he scratched his head, he scratched his balls, he chewed his gum.

What the hell would it mean to him, the big ape? What would it mean to any of them? I was beginning to wonder whether I understood what Proust meant, exactly.

The below text is from "The Elementary Particles" (also called "Atomised" by Michel Houellebecq). It's fucking glorious. I was crying of laughter in public when reading it. The narrator is a teacher.

"I walked around town for several hours, and even went back to the Café de la Plage. I thought about Caroline Yessayan and Patricia Hohweiller, but nothing there particularly reminded me of them. I suppose I'd never really forgotten them. I noticed a lot of young immigrants—blacks, mostly, a lot more than when I was a teenager; that was the only thing that had really changed. Then I went back to the school and introduced myself. The housemaster was delighted to hear I was a former pupil; he said he might go and dig out my file but I changed the subject, so at least I didn't have to go through that. I took three classes: seconds, premi@re A and premi@re S. I realized straightaway that the pre mi@re A would be the worst: there were three boys and about thirty girls. Thirty sixteen-year-old girls-blondes, brunettes, redheads, white girls, Arabs, Asians ... every one of them lovely and every one of them desirable. And they weren't virgins, either-you could tell. They slept around, swapped boyfriends—enjoying their youth to the full.

I used to walk past the condom machine every day and they weren't the slightest bit embarrassed to use it right in front of me.

"The problems started when I decided I might have a chance. A lot of their parents were probably divorced, so I was convinced I could find one who was looking for a father figure. It could work—I was sure of it. But I'd have to be a big, broad-shouldered father figure, so I grew a beard and joined a gym. The beard was a qualified success -it grew in thinly, which made me look like a dirty old man, a little like Salman Rushdie but the gym was a great idea. Within a couple of months I had welldefined pecs and deltolds. The problem- and it was a new one for me-was my dick. It probably sounds strange now, but in the seventies nobody really cared how big their dick was. When I was a teenager I had every conceivable hang-up about my body except that. I don't know who started it—queers, probably, though you find it a lot in American detective novels, but there's no mention of it in Sartre.

Lately I think that all the time OP. /lit/ makes fun of the question but has no good answers. They literally tell you to spend all of your money on family (that will make you a slave), or be a wage slave, or some crap.

I'm going through uni and everything looks so shit, I'm not a NEET with zero options. Literally almost any job is braindead or wants you to work tonnes of hours, except for academia, which is extremely fucking boring and feels more pointless.

I see women as only whores who want my money. I don't see satisfaction in any job. On one end of the scale you have Zuckerberg who makes billions by doing nothing but repackaging people's narcissism for them. On the other you have Bill Gates advancing society shitloads and then helping tonnes of poor people. I literally couldn't care less about emulating either of them. I can't see satisfaction from either.

>>4044547
>social science
Isn't new and is pretty much all about devising new methods of social control. ("Nudge", "positive thinking" and "happiness research.")