/lit/ - Literature

The Faerie Queene
Aremaic
Eliot
Verse, 'cause the old shit is written init

>>12530821

>Reading is all about better understanding empathy and the human condition

Better understanding of what? Of those things? Then surely an environment in which you can question their dogmas is paramount.

Empathy? Not all theology, philosophy & literature is empathetic.

Muh Human Gondijin

I have been reading The Faerie Queene & am afraid I am getting nothing out of it.

What is the best approach to reading Romance?

Holy fuck I remember this scene from the film.

Holy fuck.

I have been reading The Faerie Queene & am afraid I am getting nothing out of it.

What is the best approach to reading Romance?

I saw five posts & assumed someone had answered my queue, but it was just a load of crap.

I suppose that does answer my queue, tho.

Major in Classical Philology, not Literature.

When Eliot bangs on about tradition, is he literally referring to Homer in Homeric? The Book of the Dead in Hieroglyphs? The Troubadours in Provençal? Mahabharat in Sanskrit? The Tain in old Gaeilge?

By this reasoning, is everyone on this board, including me, full of shit?

Das Nibelungenlied
Spenser

Xholic Opening

Spenser, Queene
Winkler, Geschichte des Westens
G R I L L E T, Moravagine
D'Annunzio, Pound's Pre-Cantos poesy
Hesiod, Theogonia

Which author?

D'Annunzio? Marinetti? Loy? Cendrars? Baudelaire? Laforgue? Pound?

>>12442209

You know of other places for critique?

>>12441603

Is my prose mechanic or organic, though? That is the only thing that matters to me, really.

>>12441704

I mean I fully understand people are upset about my prose, but which words in that sentence would require a thesaurus exactly?

>>12437832

nothing that i didn't already describe in this post

>>12437075

love this version

>>12437117

Apropos synesthesia: I often wrote verse but became bogged down in metric labyrinths & decided to instead approach prose as a poet would approach verse; with images defined through synesthesia. That is, "nature" is defined not by itself but by its synesthetic shadow.

In this piece I made particular use of adjective, but hope to literally carry all the images through the shadow of its demarcation. This means that the narrative will indeed become opaque.

>>12437117

Naturalism was the late 19th century movement which emphasised reality. For me, the river is natural, but the story is not the river or should not be, but rather the mythopoeic tributaries. I believe Impressionism, under the influence of Symbolism, departed from this. Perhaps that is the direction I am going in.

That was the narrative. I thought it was obvious. I thought you meant the greater meaning behind it.

>>12437060

I am trying to gradually subvert the "Naturalist" narrative, specifically, but did not fully achieve it. I will exaggerate this further in my next piece. As to your third question, I personally found the subject of unrequited love & sexual hurt striking & emotional (this is also present in much of literature, often referred to as "cuckoldry", which is not entirely pertinent in this particular piece).

As to your fourth question, the purpose of the piece was initially to crystallise sexual hurt, but it ended up demarcating in to a practice in adjectival-synesthetic prose. I would like to hear your personal opinion on what the narrative was, though.

>>12437014

Each image can be defined adjectivally-synesthetically. In each image there is witchcraft or something erotic & particularly in verse each image is defined by some word derived from some archaic witchcraft.

The greatest prose would then not be a series of banal naturalisms but descriptions of "nature" defined rather by archaic witchcraft. Mythopoeia expanding like tributaries from a river, with the prose exaggerating the tributary-negations as opposed to the river proper.

>>12436904

I didn't even achieve my goal in this piece & honestly it is more lucid than the one I am currently composing. My goal is not to show the river but the tributaries from which it demarcates; to show the negation of reality, that is - imagination. Each real image needs to be defined by its imaginative negation like imhotepic witchcraft. That is "why" I avoid mere Naturalism.

IV/IV

**


The nervous director took care of police-related business & the silent virgin continued to live in the decrepit place.
Often the virgin daughter would go by, staring up @ the mostly naked & shy boy, but was no longer allowed to enter (her key was taken away). That was until she threatened her father, @ which point she entered the apartment every evening & fucked the boy.

III/IV

**


Standing @ the open French window, child-like in unerect coldness & hairlessness, the passing giggling jailbait would trip @ the sight of his sock-shoe‘d nakedness & one time the slut saw this & for some brief moments forgot who it was & stared, then suddenly extremely disgusted, recoiled & hurried in to the apartment, knocking very loudly, saying „I am coming in!“, waiting several minutes, even though he continued to unashamedly stand stark naked except for expensive cotton & leather afforded by the still nervous director, until he realised she would not come in until his flaccid unerect child-penis was covered, which she viewed through the small key-hole.

**


On the last day of the cold winter holidays, @ approximately two in the black morning, the mouldy front door loudly creaked & ultimately fell from its barely-holding hinges. Both utterly naked down to their shoes & socks, the horny director lion-wild slammed the teenage whore‘s soft & developed behind against the also brittle wall, then violently shoved her down to his throbbing phallus, which she began to carefully kiss, until she mistakenly averted her lover‘s gaze to the sleeping virgin & lovecraft-like recoiled.
They then continued in to the adjacent room & continued to violently fuck.
The crazed virgin, now horribly abandoned in some rotting apartment with no working door, climbed in to the cold room where she sleepily lay with her small pink ducts exposed. In the impish throes of violent sex, her flax had merged sweatily & perhaps even seminically with her creamy forehead. Her cheeks didn‘t merely have a blush, but were red with hellfire & there were handmarks all over her barely teenage body.
He bent down & kissed the edge of her childish ducts, where rose-like areola met milky porcelain. She awoke like the first heartbeats of a foetus in serious shock, immediately drew herself quickly off the creaking bed which was now clumsily smeared with stinky semen & her sligo piss. Her lower mouth was more chalky tooth now, with a rusty knife barely held in her girlish arms.
He had imagined her cat-like tongue spit-smeared & achingly stretched out to him that he may passionately lick it with his own zebra-tongue or his child-like member, but instead he found himself rape-like wrestling the dull knife out of her brittle hand & pinning her swan-like neck down on the mouldy floorboards, repeatedly & violently removing her girlish attempts @ even the slightest air-inhalation, which eventually lead to her eye-opened death.

II/IV

**


A shorts-socked silk-bowed young boy gazed fixedly @ the way in which silk dangled from her rounded cream cotton collar & arousedly imagined forcibly pressing his soft tanned forehead rape-ready against the warmth of the toff-like director‘s small pink daughter-ducts. Her neatly tucked blouse ended quite early on her thin soft stomach & her tweed skirt ended before her child-naked unscratched knees (she had clumsily left the debonaire director‘s falling apartment nymph-like half-naked without any soft cottons & still hadn‘t bought any new ones. Her leathern shoes, then, naturally, sat nymph-nude against her small warm feet.
At the end of the never-ending day they awkwardly stayed behind & were slowly informed that they would no longer be attending the old Gymnasium due to poor grades. He had yet to tell his busy father, but the knickerless girl seemed unaffected & even somewhat relieved. They both left the Gymnasium & he secretly followed her winding path. He was an untouched virgin & she was not, so it was not like in one of his cheap novels. She came to the director‘s second apartment, which the shy virgin did not recognise & key-shakingly let herself in. He proceeded to clumsily climb up the decrepit side of the paint-peeling building until he reached the bathroom window, which was unfortunately ajar & which he slowly opened to reveal her stark naked in the middle of defecating & fountain-like urinating on to the rim of the bowl, while she sat on her hunkers on it. She was in the middle of a half-burnt cigarette when she looked shocked @ his cold-faced antlitz outside the thing & let a stool drop as her urine flew against the adjacent door; „Get out!“ she exclaimed & the shy virgin responded that he could not, for if he did he would surely die from the fall.
Stuck in a small squalorous bathroom that smelt of girl-feces, he nervously seated on the closed ceramic bowl & she blushingly against the shining but broken lock on the peeling door, she finger-drummedly waited upon the arrival of the director.
The nervous director solemnly agreed that no direct action would be officially taken in concessional return for his secret lodging & his eternal silence. Proud Gabriele‘s lover rarely came along with him any more but when she disapprovingly did there was an immense silence in the squalorous Gemach. But nonetheless she had also slowly developed a daemoniac appreciation for the feel of the the proud director‘s throb on the fruit of her lips & in the nest of her cunt. He often heard, phallus-erect, the sounds of gagging on middle-aged prick just a short hop away.