/lit/ - Literature

What advice would you give to an aspiring young writer, artist, philosopher?

>>19532110
>is an aussie
They're gonna link up and Waldun is gonna end up wringing out the sweat from her socks straight into his mouth, right after barebacking her with Tchaikovsky's waltz of the flowers playing in the background

>>19057712
The combination of classical erudition with cluelessness regarding the real world. Fermor is walking through Germany immediately before WWII but is only interested in gothic cathedrals and scaring peasants by loudly reciting Latin poetry to himself while on the road. It's very endearing, reminds me a little of our boy pic related.
>>19057717
In the intro, Fermor briefly mentions being sent to an "alternative school" run by nudists that was later shut down for child abuse. You may be onto something.

>>18926252
>>18926260
>>18926279
Here is the first complete chapter in all the ESL goodness.

https://vocaroo.com/1etrm6H9geOF

Will Pynchon be remembered in 100 years? 1000 years?

Massive butthurt

>From the distance I could see, how my fellow and now apprentice writer Timur was being closely followed by a bulky but attractive stranger.
>The coolness of his eyes... The coldness of a killer... or worse... Of one that has tasted the Asiatic extasis of...
>I snapped back to reality, I stopped reminiscing about my younger days... When I was but a mere plaything for strong and muscular stallions of every race that compose mankind... and even when of a literal stalling... Just thinking... about his equine pillar entering my soft and pink insides...
>that just made my duodenum shudder with anticipation... appreciated and loved my young Timur...
>but my arse.. my arse ached for a big meat rod that Timur with his Indian ascendency and small penile length would not be able to provide...
>I would take the streets at night... The legend of the devourer of phalluses would rise again!
>I would take that nom de guerre again... Waldun. W.C Waldun until I become satisfied with the seed of hundred, no thousand of men...

Its over bros... how we can even compete?

we dit it lads, we reached bump limit

>>18119784

>>18122704
>get money
>get dark academia
>write in grim cafes
>learn the secret way to use your cutlery that signals sophistication

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>>18113071
I shuffled off my burlap messengers bag and peacoat, slid into the booth, and took out my moleskin journal - the black one, not the brown one. It took me a few minutes to decide between pens. Finally I chose my second-favorite super-fine-tipped black pen, which didn't bleed too much, but still had a nice flat look when absorbed into the page. I opened my journal to page two, where I'd left off after I bought it last week. I gave a sigh and prepared to write. The ambiance of the dimly-lit cafe distracted me. I could see the baristas sliding past each other, almost dance, serving thirsty and cold wanderers like myself. I sat back unable to write, not because I was a talentless hack with no ideas, but because the objective beauty of my personal experience was overwhelming.

But as a writer, I had learned to sacrifice myself in a way. It was my duty to impart beauty upon my inevitably large audience, so I pulled away from the consuming perfection of my life and looked at the blank journal page. I pushed up my glasses and began the sacred work. "Once upon a time..."

Ten minutes later, I give my weary soul a break from its labor. A writer lives on coffee, so made my way to the bar for an order. I looked directly into the eyes of the tall maiden behind the bar and said "I'll take a coffee, if you've got any to spare." She smirked, obviously charmed, but to her probable disappointment, I had no intentions of flirting. "Cream and sugar?" she replied. "Black" I replied.

As I leaned on the bar waiting for my writers nectar, thoughts flew through my head about where to go with my writing. Not what I was actually writing, but how I would shape the wet clay of my career as an author. Then, it came to me. It was a revelation as subtle and beautiful as my presence in a cafe listening to smooth jazz and drinking black coffee: I would post a video to the internet explaining my intentions to write a story every day. That it could be done with exceptional benefit to both my development and my oeuvre was a given, but telling people on the internet of my intentions would be a source of hope and excitement for the viewers. I got my coffee, returned to my table, and stared at the page impatiently. My phrase "once upon a time" was surely a promising opening, but ideas for the thumbnail of the video were burning in my head. I had to pack up and leave.

*saves literature*