/lit/ - Literature

>>21251183

Weren't the shapeshifters - Kandra or something - gender neutral since the original trillogy? Sexless races are pretty common in fantasy, or at least used to be before the recent way of progressivism made the topic much hotter than before. I wouldn't see trans themes there, not quite the same thing, though you could say it's adjacent. Cross-dressing is also hard to perceive as real cross-dressing, it's been used for ages in fiction in form of comedy or practical disguise.

It's not an attack on you or anything, just in case. It's just weird to me that someone could perceive common literary themes through modern lens and claim Sanderson is 'inclusive' or anything. If you read his interviews, he seems to be a very anxious person toing the line between his faith and modern sensibilities, not quite agreeing with the mainstream, but too smart to buy into the religious dogma. Just a normal, intelligent nerd in his 40s.

Although I wouldn't be surprised if he was pushed into some progressive elements in his writing, the scene about one of minor character in the third Stormlight Archive book being guy was downright atrocious, so much it made me believe Sanderson was forced to write it. Maybe it was just him being a bad writer, though.

Damn, I have problem with recalling almost anything from The Band of Mourning. Usually my book memory is excellent, but this book makes me drawing blanks. I guess I didn't like it too much if it's that forgettable.

The guy in the vision at the end was Kelsier from the original trillogy, right?

Anons, I am going to say it: Stating that a piece of fcition 'gets good' at a certain point is absolutely valid form of recommendation. There are hundreds of substandard or average works, making anything worthwile stand-out. And don't bullshit me with 'b-but I can read something better in the meantime, not waiting for it to get good.' Fuck no, we all instictively know that a really good work is worth getting through average stuff, we've all been there. I'd rather read four books of mundane stuff to reach the really good one, instead of reading four average/good books. It's just worth more and you know it.

Adding to the discussion above, I'm not a native english speaker, but I like 'they.' My language uses he, she or it extremely, everything is gendered, but using 'they' to refer to a unknown person is good, especially in literature. Just using 'he' or 'she' would be stupid, having a neutral word is nice.

As for the biological argument, I used to believe that there are only two sexes, then I changed my position when I heard the argument that there isn't really any concrete 'sex' and only some biological factors leaning in one or the other direction, since then I had been thinking that there is no sex. However, as of late I've come to a different position, I still believe that objectively sex doesn't exist, but we as humans have two sexes, 'male' and 'female' imprinted directly into our brains by biology, so while sexes don't exist on their own, they exist for humans directly in our programming, i.e transgender people who have brains biologically incongruent with their bodies brains. Therefore saying that sexes aren't real is silly and negates that it's humans we are talking about, not some random conciusnesses that are able to reason.

Considering the above, I am for using they for unknown characters in literature as it's simply adding a new avenue for mystery, or just makes more sense when refering to a proffesion or anything like that.

Should we be discussing it in /sffg/, though?

>>20350919
It provides an advanced society with mechanics allowing for characters to become prominent, but not too advanced, so you don't need to deal with modern bullshit. Too primitive societies are not enough to explore moral and philosphical concepts, too advanced ones seem all too similar to our own, thus reducing the distance mind acquired by telling the story in medieval context, removed from modern sensibilities and expectations.

>>20272965
Fiction is just applied ideas, morality and world-view. You either go out and debate with people, or craft fascinating stories which represent genuinely thought-out and interesting stories that reflect on philosophy, world and humanity's relation to both. Human condition something something. Escapism seems like a very base thing, people say that but I am not sure whether I truly ever read for escapism except for when I procrastinated.

When you read, Author of the story presents a certain world in which beings interact, represented to the best of Author's ability to portray. To tell Readers something, or at least make them indulge in certain feeling. To me, it was always about reading what Author will say about X. Thing X happens. What will the characters do? Which is the right thing to do? A question is asked, and Author answers, or at least presents several possible answers. This is what reading is for, especially Fantasy: What is the Answer to the provided Question?

It might sound a bit pretentious, but that's how I see fiction, people telling me something I don't know or I haven't thought about, rolled up in interesting fictional worlds that support the Answers.

Or maybe I'm just insane and an exception from normal readerbase. But I stand by the opinion that writing Fantasy or Sci-Fi requires knowledge from several different fields and how humans act, being simply applied Worldview/Philosophy.

>>20168558
You were right anon, I'm reading all of Book 3, the parts about the rhytms of words and how long a sentence should be are an eye-opener to me. This shit is amazing.
Guys, are there other classics on writing? Either greek or from other ages.

>>20166809
This is something I've been thinking for some time now, why do we not use emojis all the time? Not in the books, there are words there for a reason, but in normal internet conversations. Majority of communication between humans is done by non-verbal stuff, like expressions, body language etc.
Books get around that by literally describing what someone feels or behaves, while normal writing, like on 4chan for example, lacks that.

This is why so many people don't get jokes online. If you write 'you are a retard,' then without adding rolling eyes emote or laughing face the content of the message is entirely for subjective determination of the receiver.

Internet language without emojis is simply language of spergs and mental vegetables, and I believe it makes people inhuman by subtracting the emotional component of the language from common conversations.

Do I think we should all use emojis? Not really, but there should be some common movement towards creating universal emotes with certain expressions, even if only the most basic ones like 'sad' or 'smile'. Otherwise we are all dumber by being bereft of it.

I only name my books after I have written 10,000 or more words so I don't get attached to a failed project.

In the last thread, an anon asked if there was unedited version of this pepe. Here you go, friend.

So, I've started really reading things in english just a year and half ago, mostly because I was done with waiting for fantasy books to be translated to my native language. Since that time I've read dozens of books and tens of thousands pages of webnovels in english, but there's another step that I'm dreading.

I'd like to start reading philosophy books in english, or at least so-called 'high literature', but I'm afraid it's an entire step higher than normal fiction. Whenever I try to read wiki or stanford summaries of things my mind just blanks as I cannot understand even half of the things I see.

Any ideas what to do? I mean, I could just keep reading things in my native language, but I feel it would be a waste considering I basically do everything in english these days and almost everyone I'd talk to would have had read discussed books in english too.

Am I destined to become half-languaged brain-dead reader? Anyone here had similair experience with harder literature in non-native language?

Hell no. Bring some noise canceling headphones, your book, plop your butt up on one of the bar stools, order a nice glass of warm milk, and just let yourself become absorbed in your reading

Are there any comfy discords focused in talking about literature and books and make friends without any 4chan hate or toxicity?

>>18001055
Any clues to that book?

What's the most fun you've had while reading a book?

Good evening /lit/. I am upset tonight. I am upset by the disregard that the majority of men show for the natural world and most disappointingly the disregard those in power have for protecting it. I will read you an excerpt from T.S. Eliot's 'Little Gidding' of the Four Quartets which reflects how I've been feeling as of late.

Ash on an old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air
suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house--
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth
Over the eyes and in the mouth,
Dead water and dead sand
Contending for the upper hand.
The parched eviscerate the soil
Gapes at the vanity of toil,
Laughs without the mirth.
This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed
The town, the pasture and the weed.
Water and fire deride
The sacrifice that we denied.
Water and fire shall rot
The marred foundations we forgot,
Of sanctuary and choir.
This is the death of water and fire.


Good night friends, and sleep well, and remember that the Earth is a gift.

Good evening /lit/. Here are some particularly gorgeous lyrics I'd like to read you before bed by the Scottish Pete Seeger himself, Dick Gaughan.

Workers' Song - Dick Gaughan

Come all of you workers who toil night and day
By hand and by brain to earn your pay
Who for centuries long past for no more than your bread
Have bled for you countries and counted your dead in the factories and mills, in the shipyards and mines
We've often been told to keep up with the times
For our skills are not needed, they've streamlined the job
And with sliderule and stopwatch our pride they have robbed
But when the sky darkens and the prospect is war
Who's given a gun and then pushed to the fore
And expected to die for the land of our birth
When we've never owned one handful of Earth?

We're the first ones to starve, we're the first ones to die
We're the first ones in line for that pie in the sky
And always the last when the cream is shared out
For the worker is working when the fat cat's about
All of these things the worker has done
From tilling the fields to carrying the gun
We've been yoked to the plough since time first began
And always expected to carry the can


Good night friends, and sleep well.

I realised i can only read physical books. Virtual books are pain to my sore eyes. Anyone here with the same realisation?

Good evening friends of /lit/. Winter is seasonally near and meteorologically here! Let's celebrate with a poem by Mary Oliver before bed.

White-Eyes

In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless-
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds-

which he has summoned
from the north-
which he taught
to be mild, and silent-

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent-
that has turned itself
into snow.


Good night friends, and sleep well.

Good evening friends of /lit/. It's time to read you all a poem before bed. These winter days often set the stage for meditating on memories of times past.

Here's a poem by William Morris Meredith Jr. He was an American poet and educator was the Poet Laureate Consultant for a time in the '70s.

Winter Verse for His Sister

Moonlight washes the west side of the house
As clean as bone, it carpets like a lawn
The stubbled field tilted eastward
Where there is no sign yet of dawn.
The moon is an angel with a bright light sent
To surprise me once before I die
With the real aspect of things.
It holds the light steady and makes no comment.

Practicing for death I have lately gone
To that other house
Where our parents did most of their dying,
Embracing and not embracing their conditions.
Our father built bookcases and little by little stopped reading,
Our mother cooked proud meals for common mouths.
Kindly, they raised two children. We raked their leaves
And cut their grass, we ate and drank with them.
Reconciliation was our long work, not all of it joyful.

Now outside my own house at a cold hour
I watch the noncommittal angel lower
The steady lantern that's worn these clapboards thin
In a wash of moonlight, while men slept within,
Accepting and not accepting their conditions,
And the fingers of trees plied a deep carpet of decay
On the gravel web underneath the field,
And the field tilting always toward day.


Good night friends, and sleep well.


On another note, if any of you are are artists out there, it would be nice to have a unique drawing for these threads. I was thinking of a drawing of an elderly apu reading to his grandchildren. If any of you are up to the drawing challenge please have at it!

Good evening friends of /lit/. I have a long one for you tonight. Over three feet of snow here since last night, the streets are quiet and the shops are empty as we all shovel our ways out.

Here's a snow poem by Lisel Mueller. She and her family successfully fled the Nazi regime and arrived in the States in 1939 when she was just 15. She began writing poetry and published her first collection in 1965.

Not Only The Eskimos - Lisel Mueller

We have only one noun
but as many different kinds:

the grainy snow of the Puritans
and snow of soft, fat flakes,

guerrilla snow, which comes in the night
and changes the world by morning,

rabbinical snow, a permanent skullcap
on the highest mountains,

snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger,
riding hard from out of the West,

surreal snow in the Dakotas,
when you can’t find your house, your street,
though you are not in a dream
or a science-fiction movie,

snow that tastes good to the sun
when it licks black tree limbs,
leaving us only one white stripe,
a replica of a skunk,

unbelievable snows:
the blizzard that strikes on the tenth of April,
the false snow before Indian summer,
the Big Snow on Mozart’s birthday,
when Chicago became the Elysian Fields
and strangers spoke to each other,

paper snow, cut and taped,
to the inside of grade-school windows,

in an old tale, the snow
that covers a nest of strawberries,
small hearts, ripe and sweet,
the special snow that goes with Christmas,
whether it falls or not,

the Russian snow we remember
along with the warmth and smell of furs,
though we have never traveled
to Russia or worn furs,

Villon’s snows of yesteryear,
lost with ladies gone out like matches,
the snow in Joyce’s “The Dead,”
the silent, secret snow
in a story by Conrad Aiken,
which is the snow of first love,

the snowfall between the child
and the spacewoman on TV,

snow as idea of whiteness,
as in snowdrop, snow goose, snowball bush,

the snow that puts stars in your hair,
and your hair, which has turned to snow,

the snow Elinor Wylie walked in
in velvet shoes,

the snow before her footprints
and the snow after,

the snow in the back of our heads,
whiter than white, which has to do
with childhood again each year.


Goodnight friends, and sleep well.

Good evening /lit/. It's once again time for me read you a poem before bed. Tonight we'll be taking a look at a man who most likely didn't experience winter in the same way that the majority of us do. On this cold December evening, let’s consider the following poem by W. S. Merwin. An American poet who wrote more than fifty books of poetry and prose, and produced many works in translation. His writing derived influence from an interest in Buddhist philosophy and deep ecology. Residing in a rural part of Maui, Hawaii, he wrote prolifically and was dedicated to the restoration of the island's rainforests.

December Night - W.S. Merwin

The cold slope is standing in darkness
But the south of the trees is dry to the touch

The heavy limbs climb into the moonlight bearing feathers
I came to watch these
White plants older at night
The oldest
Come first to the ruins

And I hear magpies kept awake by the moon
The water flows through its
Own fingers without end

Tonight once more
I find a single prayer and it is not for men

Good night friends, and sleep well.

Good evening friends, scholars, countrymen. It's Pop-pop here to read you a poem before bed. It’s Tuesday in mid December with a big Nor'easter in the works forecast for this week. Looks like he's send us a great blanket to tuck us in. Here’s a poem for you by Frederick Louis MacNeice , he was a member of the Auden Group y'know!

Snow - Frederick Louis MacNeice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes—
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands—
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

Good night friends, and sleep well.

>>17029738
Yes indeed, I like to read things out from time to time. Thank you for your kindness, fren.

Good evening /lit/, it's your grandfather here again to read you a poem before bed. It's a quiet, cold Saturday night with snow flurries in the air. A time to contemplate how we love.
Here’s a poem by American poet Genevieve Taggard.

Letter in Solitude

Here are autumn certainties:
I will love you and the trees
Go on yellowing and the sun
Stand and pour its radiance down.

Count the seasonal certainties:
I will love you and the trees
Color like a carnival,
Color and refuse to fall,
To show a new aspect of trees
More nearly like themselves than these.

I will love you as I have said:
After all the leaves are shed,
And the sky is fastened down,
And the valley depth is brown,
And the ruts begin to freeze,
There are other certainties.

Surely love you, but with none
Of that radiant tint of sun;
As if a cloud had curled across
The sun, and clung like Iichened moss;

Love you surely, but in a prone
Dogged way, more like a stone;
As if a stone's touch gave a cue
To a clearer love of you.

However absently the eyes
Thinking their inner thoughts may stare
They match within, the sharpened size
Of hillshapes in the cutting air.

And so, by seeing uncovered ground
And outlines gaunter all the time
I see love also winter-bound
And think more simply into rhyme.

And since love gets its tempered sense
From the large fact of altering earth,
I love the winter, stubborn, dense,
And love the storm my love is worth.

Good night friends, and sleep well.