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/lit/ - Literature and Writing

Fiction and Non-fiction

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"Literature"? What are you, gay? We'll have none of that nonsense in this thread. Come and talk about stories about cool things for men.
>nuuuuh, but my poetry
I will literally beat you up.

What are your favourite books? Who are your favourite writers? What are you reading now? What do you plan on reading, but have not yet gotten around to?
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>Have you actually read every old pulp story, though? From Robert Howard to Clark Ashton Smith? You've gone through their whole bibliographies?
Of course not, though I've definitely knocked out a few big names and gotten started on a lot more. That doesn't mean I don't get to criticize modern trends.
>Terror House if you want to get your stuff seen.
I have been published on Terror House, and read it most days. I was actually thinking of the "pulpy" works I've seen on Terror House when I said that modern attempts at pulp are inevitably cringey.
just look at the stuff Nobody got on there.
Cyber Punk was kino.
>GrimDark Magazine
That honestly looks like it's worth checking out. Still, there's that emphasis on darkness and moral greys there, pulling it towards "literary". I understand that a lot of older genre works had those elements too, and that most of these were perfectly enjoyable. But there were also a lot of older genre works that reflected a sort of optimism that isn't really found anymore outside of "humanity fuck yeah" greentexts on /tg/, and those were enjoyable too. Somehow it's just hard for modern authors to capture that essence properly. I know that I've tried to, and that the results are just plain bad stories. Works that are darker, more artistic, or more realistic have their appeals, but it would just be nice if the plain fun adventures hadn't died out.


>Cyber Punk was kino.
Cyberpunk was terrible.
>I have been published on Terror House
Post your stuff.


Here >>396
If you want to shit on my shit, do it in that thread so this one isn't derailed.


Just to interject, all of those games are ten to twenty years old at this point, and the hyper masculine video game hero with no strings attached, isn't even that common anymore.


>cyberpunk was terrible

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Post short stories being read, good readings of longer books or radio dramas here.


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Second part.


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The BBC used to do some great audio dramas.


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Takes a lot of skill to narrate Finnegan's wake

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Why is Sweden incapable of making good literature? Denmark, Norway, Iceland and even fucking Finland have all created great literature, so why can't Sweden do it?


Because that would require them to take an african phallus out of their mouths for a few minutes and that's illegal there.


seriously though, the dragon with a girl tattoo series is insanely overrated. The first book was alright but like the second was very dry and long winded. The overbearing feminism and feminist revenge porn/power fantasy scenes are vomit inducing, lilly or whoever is an absolute mary sue, and the approach to hacking and computers is pathetically laughable to anyone with even a basic understanding of tech. In the second book she gets shot in the head and buried alive for a whole night but has the energy to dig her way out the next morning to dig her way out, navigate through the woods and axe murder her daddy issues. Tripe.


for the record I never bothered with the third because the second was too awful


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Eat my ass.


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>*blocks your path*

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It was with a peculiar sense of unease that I set out on my visit to the Hasbrouck residency at the behest of a worried mother. Her frantic calls to my medical practice had filled me with concern and a sense of unexplainable dread; it was her vague comments regarding her son's deteriorating mental and physical health which made me ill at ease, not because of anything definite, but the added sum of her vague suspicions, and what she hinted at, what she left unsaid. The pleading tone of her voice had at last convinced me to go on a home visit and examine her son. It was a chilly late autumn afternoon in late October, and the darkened, low-hanging clouds held the promise of rain. As I approached my destination the surroundings filled me with an overwhelming sensation of profound gloom and decay; the atmosphere was curiously dense and oppressive, highly concentrated, almost palpable. The house was located right next to a parking lot and the highway, but despite of this I was struck by a sense of isolation and extreme remoteness, like this property existed outside of the busy and chaotic world surrounding it.

The surrounding garden was in a most sorrowful state; left to waste away untended thorough years of neglect. There stood oddly twisted and gnarled trees whose roots drew nutrition from the diseased, watersoaked earth; in their shade grew pale, worm-eaten fleshy fungi among the rotting leaves in great numbers. A utility trailer of severe dilapidation and surrounded by weeds caught my eye as I made my way towards the entrance. The house itself was a ramshackle building of advanced dilapidation, giving off a strong aura of abandonment and neglect, and I couldn't help but wonder how people could have allowed things to slip so far into decay and abandonment. The paint was peeling and much cracked; dry-rot and fungi seemed to have infested the building long ago. As far as could be ascertained the curtains in every window were drawn shut, and I was struck by the thought that the house was slumbering.

I knocked on the door, and it appeared my arrival had been expected, for the door was opened quickly. "Mrs. Hasbrouck?" I greeted, looking at the woman who stood in the doorway. She nodded her head and quickly ushered me inside the darkened interior. She was not old, but her appearance was somewhat haggard and she appeared weary and tired. She might once have been a woman of some beauty, and it was sad to see how the worn and neglected outside of the hoPost too long. Click here to view the full text.


As I held onto the wall for support, another smell made itself known; the malodorous odour of unwashed genitalia and sour sweat was of the most offensive kind - the rank stench permeated the dimly lit basement room, and felt my eyes begin to water as I fought the urge to gag. "Zach?" I called out as I had reached the bottom of the stairs, and looked out at this subterranean dwelling my patient had occupied for so long in solitude. There was a strange kind of grunt in response, in a harsh-sounding tone, though without any intelligible words. I introduced myself as my eyes searched for its source. He sat on a swivel chair in front of a desk littered with all kinds of knick-knack and trash. His head was turned towards me in an unnatural angle, and I was at once struck by the impression that his neck was abnormally malformed and twisted. "Where's the light switch?" I wondered aloud, searching the surroundings in the awful gloomy dimness with my fingers. "No! No light! And close the door!" came a sudden, sharp exclamation from my patient. "But it's so dark in here!" I protested, though obeying his wishes. "Yes, deliciously dark," he said in a voice that made me shudder; it was somehow gibbering and gelatinous, and it filled me with a strong sense of uneasiness and loathing unlike any I had ever felt before. "I can hear the mould growing in the dark, and the rising damp climbing up the bed-legs," Zach continued with a sigh of cocksment, before turning his attention back towards the computer screen.

Though I knew his exact age from his worried mother, I could not have guessed it based on his appearance alone. He had a ghoulishly sallow complexion, and his shifty squinting slant-eyes betrayed his Asiatic ancestry. He gave off the impression of being somehow malformed, though I wasn't able to point to anything definite, though he was noticeably bow-legged, and hunchbacked. The only sound was that of his fingers eagerly tapping away at the crusted keyboard. With some difficulty I was able to find a way over to him over the floor so littered with trash, and up close, in the glow of the computer screen his sallow complexion took on a truly sickly tone, like pallid and mottled, and the gleam in those shifty eyes caused me to shudder. He didn't dignify my presence as he kept typing furiously on the keyboard - all Caps Lock it seemed. "You mother called me, told me to check in on you," I began feeling my mouth go dry as I spoke in this acrid atmosphere. He turned Post too long. Click here to view the full text.


That realisation made me break from the horrible grip of fear, and launched me into action at last. I grasped the bat, and before the shambling shape in the darkness before me could react I struck it with full force. Time after time I swung the bat, and my horror only intensified at the hollow sound as the bat struck the body, till at last it burst open like a bladder from the force of the blows. It was as if his body was as hollow, soggy and worm-eaten as the half-decayed fungi in the garden outside, for there was a softness to the rotten hollow body as if the bone had become mushy, and even after the head had caved in the body continued to tremble and writhe about on the floor. Still, I knew that it would be an unforgivable sin not to continue until all was over.

When the rage and shock which had alone saved me began to subside I dropped the bat with a clatter to the floor and staggered backwards towards the stairs. I felt nauseated and light-headed from the rush of adrenaline, and my mind was still ringing from the dreadful shock my nerves and senses had been subjected to.

As I ascended the basement stairs, leaving the thing which had masqueraded as a human on the floor behind me, I felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I cannot even begin to guess at the relief his parents and sister would feel. I staggered into the hallway and shut the basement door behind me. The mother stood in the doorway to the parlour, her hands clutching at the wall in nervous agitation and for support. "It's finally over," I stuttered. Her eyes searched mine for any final confirmation that the horror was over; after so many years, could she dare to hope? "It's finally over," I repeated, a little more calmly and held her gaze till the realisation finally sunk in, and she fell to her knees and thanked the Lord; her frail body shaking with tears of joy and relief that the nightmare that finally been brought to an end.

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Please suggest books to read which are considered the foundation of western literature. No cuck shit.

So far I have:
The Divine Comedy
The Canterbury Tales
The Death of Arthur
Orlando Furioso
Jerusalem Delivered
The Faerie Queene
Paradise Lost
The Pilgrim's Progress
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/tv/ doesn't read any books and is a bunch of literal reddits, so…


>t. seething redditors


>imagining each of those nations writers were not reading each other and thus heavily influential to each other
>imagining that they do not share common sources for ideas and traditions.


About Don Quixote: before reading it check out at least one knight epic referenced in his library, some get thumbed through by the monk and some other guy when they are about to burn it in Part I.

It's amazing reading Amadís de Gaula and realizing it is better than anything the people that wax poetry about Quixote and the jump to contemporary literature have ever written.

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Hey /lit/izens,
Would you care for joining our inter-board competition, the Infinity Cup 2020? All you have to do is make a thread over at https://anon.cafe/icup/ with your own team and we'd be happy to let you in.

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Recommend me some essential /hitlercore/


Ass Goblins of Auschwitz


Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall


HH bruder

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Is it possible to be sincere online anymore? even anonymous imageboards are coated with layers upon layers of post-irony. It does feel like whenever one tries to be sincere, it comes as corny (or "cringe" as kids like to say today) to the external audience. What we have left are places where inauthenticity runs rampant, whether it is as a means of protecting the self, or as a tool for social climbing. And I frankly hate it as this attitude has severed true connection and understanding with each other, replaced by passive-aggressive remarks and feminine behavior. I remember in the old internet days when one was permitted a certain degree of vulnerability, it wasn't a negative, it made connection with distant human beings possible, I had plenty of friends in that era. But at some point, the zeitgeist dictated that being urself was passé, that ironic detachment was the only way to present yourself to the rest. We dehumanized ourselves for what, petty ego protection? was it even worth it, now that everybody feels ,and is, lonely?
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RIP /qq/


I think it's a problem but at the same time am also guilty of engaging in it.


Define sincere. Being a whiny cunt blog posting has always been looked down upon. No one gives a shit and doesn't want you attention seeking all over the place.

Genuine discussion has shifted because real life connected with the internet. The same front people use IRL now applies online as well. And the people being sneering faggots are doing it while shitting. So you have defensive users taking the internet seriously and retards who don't give a fuck sneering at them while wiping their buttholes.


>was it even worth it
No, but there is no way back.

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Did you read that book?




No, but I think psy stuff is pretty interesting in general.

>Project Jedi

>Jedi sought to use neurolingusitic programming (NLP) as a new way of teaching recruits to fire weapons. This was done through psychological analysis of the thought-patterns of experts shooters as they fired. Soldiers were then trained to fire, some according to the NLP 'guided imagery' and others per conventional instruction. Training time was reduced almost by half for the NLP group.


>account terminated
Lol, wut? Are they just banning all conspiracy content now or did he have some other form of wrogthink on his channel? I preferred programmed to kill anyway and it seems more legit based on the slivers of info available. Makes more sense in the framework of the pedocracy too.


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Was probably something else on the channel that was too much crimethink.

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x1 disagree


I hate trans people


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I unironically stopped reading trash literature after finishing it. It's not the only book you'll ever need but if you soak in it's lessons it will put you off a lot of the others. Also evola is still a fag.

George Lincoln Rockwell described reading mein kampf as a "religious experience" and built a shrine to Hitler in his front room after finishing it. That's the kind of person that mein kampf inspires as opposed to the weird trannies and mouthbreathing alt kikers that jerk off evola.

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