/lit/ - Literature

>>12566728
What's wrong with him is that he tries to be a Maximalist in a very condensed space. This leads to an ADHD style wherein none of the ideas end up being developed to a satisfactory degree. Also his style of writing just feels like casual speaking and that feels very awkward to me. His books lack any salient point.

"Alright my life is all fucked up" a man thought. "What I need is a unilateral transfiguration of all my ideals, I needn't even accept it on good faith. I need to find a new outlook immediately and I'll be damned if I let even another 45 minutes of vacillation slip by." His left hand, now impelled by its master's non-negotiable timetable journeyed out into the pitch. Intrepid and resolute, the factotum passed into the even darker black occupying the space under the bedside table, tethered only to a sinewy arm. It gracefully landed upon its target before being unceremoniously reeled in by the impatient god. "Ah here we go" a thunder sounded and the hand was tasked to flick on the lamp, an action, which had it been performed beforehand would have surely made the former sound all the less perilous. Was it a test? No matter. Having now recovered a book, he glanced at the cover "Kurt VONNEGUT, TIMEQUAKE". "Fucking Kurt Vonnegut Again." he exclaimed at the top of his voice as he taciturned the pages of his first Kurt Vonnegut novel in outraged reflection. Another matter that made things worse perhaps was that the right hand had been granted the honor of holding the book for reading, while the left had been quite deliberately tucked into the waist of his pants and also his crotch. Oh well, righty had always been a favorite. No matter. "I fucking hate Kurt Vonnegut" he thought, because he wasn't really quite certain as his prepossessions about the writer had largely been informed by internet invective. That said, he was aware that Vonnegut and Kilgore Trout were one and the same and therefore he actually had all the information he needed to make an informed decision.

"Alright my life is all fucked up" a man thought. "What I need is a unilateral transfiguration of all my ideals, I needn't even accept it on good faith. I need to find a new outlook immediately and I'll be damned if I let even another 45 minutes of vacillation slip by." His left hand, now impelled by its master's non-negotiable timetable journeyed out into the pitch. Intrepid and resolute, the factotum passed into the even deeper black occupying the space under the bedside table, tethered only to a sinewy arm. It gracefully landed upon its target before being unceremoniously reeled in by the impatient god. "Ah here we go" a thunder sounded and the hand was tasked to flick on the lamp, an action, which had it been performed beforehand would have surely made the former sound all the less perilous. Was it a test? No matter, having now recovered a book, he glanced at the cover "Kurt VONNEGUT, TIMEQUAKE". "Fucking Kurt Vonnegut Again." he exclaimed at the top of his voice as he taciturned the pages of his first Kurt Vonnegut novel in outraged reflection. Another matter that made things worse perhaps was that the right hand had been granted the honor of holding the book for reading, while the left had been quite deliberately tucked into the waist of his pants and also his crotch. Oh well, righty had always been a favorite. No matter. "I fucking hate Kurt Vonnegut" he thought, because he wasn't really quite certain as his prepossessions about the writer had largely been informed by internet invective. That said, he was aware that Vonnegut and Kilgore Trout were one and the same and therefore he actually had all the information he needed to make an informed decision.