/lit/ - Literature

It's tiring constantly being discerning. In almost everything I do I try to be discerning. I'm judgemental, but for good reason. My heart sinks whenever I hear people talking about Hunger Games or Harry Potter. Even stuff like Brandon Sanderson novels. People don't know what they're missing. They don't reflect, they're not aware of themselves. It's not just books. I have genuine contempt for people that just absorb all of the lowest common denominator shit. I can't help it though. I always try to seek out what is considered classic, the best and worthwhile. It's in my nature. It's not even just elitism, I just always want to go to the source. If I watch a film, it'll be something old and incredibly well reputed. If I read a book, it'll be the same. I don't play games or give a shit about any of that. Even in my music, a sphere which is famously subjective, I try to listen to classical music and when not classical it'll be some band--more likely a 'music project'--incorporating lengthy lyrics and powerful symbolism, etc.

How do I except that the world tends towards utter trash in culture? How do I live, as someone in his late twenties, with everyone around being the type of person who indulges in unthinking drivel?

What book will I enjoy if some of my favourite books are:

Hunger - knut hamsun
Narcissus and Goldmund - herman hesse
Frankenstein - Mary shelley
We Have Always Lived in the Castle - shirley jackson
Crime and punishment - dostoevsky
The gormenghast trilogy - mervyn peake
The King of Elfland's Daughter - lord dunsany
The worm oroborous - e.r. eddison
Dark Eidolon and other shorts - clark ashton smith


Wide ranging, I know, but feel free to suggest anything you think might fit for any of these. I was originally going to only post a themed list, but meh, I'm desperate for reccs. Much appreciated.

Hey, thoughts on this? Whimsical story set in the 19th century.

On the day that Osto Gren fell from the sky it was because he failed to respect that certain clouds are thinner than others. This was his consolation as he plummeted earthward with gathering speed: far better to vanish by the treachery of his own feet than that of another of the welkin race. Coattails fluttering and black hair waving, a widowbird would have mistaken him for a mate as he made profuse mid-air spins. Short of colliding with the hard earth he fashioned a parachute of his coat and, light because of a diet of nothing but air and colour, landed with only a scratched knee. His hat followed with a drop.

Please suggest a light weight but still intellectually involving diary/life perspective/philosophy type non-fiction book. I can only describe this as In Praise of Shadows with Cioran plus Diogenes aphorisms.

Hello, /lit/. Hope you're having a good day. I just wanted to ask, do you think there's still a market for short story collections? I've had an idea for a while to write short stories strung together by some theme à la Jackson, Chekhov, Ligotti, etc. Do you think this would be marketable? Does it sound interesting?

Lud in the mist
The Golem
Carmilla
Boy in Darkness (somehow)
A Study in Scarlet
The Brothers Karamazov or The Idiot
The Sorrows of Young Werther
Retry The Trial (been a long time, much more experience) / Retry Dorian Gray
The Bodysnatcher (Stevenson)
The Dream of a Ridiculous Man
Bathory history
The Fall
The Body Artist
The House on the Borderland
Anton Chekov – A Nervous Breakdown


Currently have these for my 2020 reading list. What else would you suggest? Thanks.

How does one achieve a sense of sere melancholy in their work? I've always wanted to write a short story or novella which is the equivalent of the film The Illusionist by Sylvain Chomet, or maybe the short animated film The Song for Rain, but it never comes out quite as I want it. I would like to write about rain, longing and the understated but it usually comes off dull and pretentious. Looking for genuine discussion on how to achieve this feeling. Any tips are greatly appreciated. Thank you.

How does one achieve a sense of sere melancholy in their work? I've always wanted to write a short story or novella which is the equivalent of the film The Illusionist by Sylvain Chomet, or maybe the short animated film The Song for Rain, but it never comes out quite as I want it. I would like to write about rain, longing and the understated but it usually comes off dull and pretentious. Looking for genuine discussion on how to achieve this feeling. Any tips are greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Miller waited till the autumn winds died before he spoke again. He turned his collar up and, strolling coolly along the path, one hand in his pocket, indicated a newsstand with his cigarette. We passed through the gate and entered the park.
“Suppose you’re on a train; that’s life going, going on. Kids are glued to the windows because they like the speed, find something funny in the way the trees whizz past and the mountains stay the same. Everything’s new, there’s excitement and thrill. Dad’s reading that day’s paper or finishing important work while mum casts her sentinel gaze over her chicks or gloats with other mums. Seniors find rapture in crosswords because, damn it, the mind needs it. Their stop’s first, life’s over. Where are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
One ought to care about these things, he implored—care because it was the right thing to do. Life was in the signing of one’s name, the folding of an envelope, the race to absorb the fleeting facts of the everyday. Danger was everywhere, he said, so it paid to know when it might strike. He groaned and walked off.
The ash of the cigarette he’d pinged away lay heaped like a mountain crumbled to dust. I delivered it to the bin mere feet away and caught up. “Miller, where am I?”
“One of the kids grazes you and you’re none the wiser: you’re asleep in the middle row.”
Taking our usual positions at the start of the trail—we had half an hour before heading back to the office—Rowan Park Lake came into view. A boy controlled a boat from the bank which sent up a blinding spray as it sped across the expanse. Exultations followed as it effortlessly cut the wind, skimmed the surface, lifted itself into the air, and landed safely on its hull. As clouds parted the revived sun made the jets of water, blasting as if from a firehose, look like an exploded diamond through the mesh of light.
We took seats on the edge of the bank. I could sense his stare as he sat hunched over with his arms wrapped around his knees. He tapped his foot with a kind of nervous energy. Then he paused, looked at me with a grin, took a deep breath for the barrage:
“Christ, maybe you needed more time away, is that it? Do you even know who’s leading the election? No? Okay, take it down a notch, then. Who won Fifty Facts last night? Why can’t you care, Charles?”

Miller waited till the autumn winds died before he spoke again. He turned his collar up and, strolling coolly along the path, one hand in his pocket, indicated a newsstand with his cigarette. We passed through the gate and entered the park.
“Suppose you’re on a train; that’s life going, going on. Kids are glued to the windows because they like the speed, find something funny in the way the trees whizz past and the mountains stay the same. Everything’s new, there’s excitement and thrill. Dad’s reading that day’s paper or finishing important work while mum casts her sentinel gaze over her chicks or gloats with other mums. Seniors find rapture in crosswords because, damn it, the mind needs it. Their stop’s first, life’s over. Where are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
One ought to care about these things, he implored—care because it was the right thing to do. Life was in the signing of one’s name, the folding of an envelope, the race to absorb the fleeting facts of the everyday. Danger was everywhere, he said, so it paid to know when it might strike. He groaned and walked off.
The ash of the cigarette he’d pinged away lay heaped like a mountain crumbled to dust. I delivered it to the bin mere feet away and caught up. “Miller, where am I?”
“One of the kids grazes you and you’re none the wiser: you’re asleep in the middle row.”
Taking our usual positions at the start of the trail—we had half an hour before heading back to the office—Rowan Park Lake came into view. A boy controlled a boat from the bank which sent up a blinding spray as it sped across the expanse. Exultations followed as it effortlessly cut the wind, skimmed the surface, lifted itself into the air, and landed safely on its hull. As clouds parted the revived sun made the jets of water, blasting as if from a firehose, look like an exploded diamond through the mesh of light.
We took seats on the edge of the bank. I could sense his stare as he sat hunched over with his arms wrapped around his knees. He tapped his foot with a kind of nervous energy. Then he paused, looked at me with a grin, took a deep breath for the barrage:
“Christ, maybe you needed more time away, is that it? Do you even know who’s leading the election? No? Okay, take it down a notch, then. Who won Fifty Facts last night? Why can’t you care, Charles?”

Does anyone else feel dictated by what time they read books? I'm currently reading a dark pyschological classic, but I don't read it any other time than evening or at night as it only seems fitting then. Limits how much I can read. I just don't feel like it's suitable to read such a book at, say, 10am. Just curious.

Books like Le Horla, Turn of the Screw, The Yellow Wallpaper, White Nights and Pan. The last two are in there as I'm looking also for a specific introspective and personal, slightly neurotic type of book.

Current wallpaper.

ITT: We post our current wallpapers and readers post which two books they assume are our favourites based on the aesthetic. Go.