/lit/ - Literature

Days are too short. Not to mention the nights

Write what's on your mind

You can't, that's why it's special. By its very nature, it can't be replicated in real life, that's the allure. It allows for a kind of discussion that was impossible before the internet, where ideas can be judged entirely on their own merit.

>>7170561
But my man, how am I supposed to get the reference just like that? I either get a reference or I don't; I don't google something up and aknowledge that I got it just for the sake of appearing as if I fit in. I haven't read Chinese literature at all and I feel certain prejudice against it. It's perhaps that their names sound so ever boring and repetive, their history seems a one big turd of something something dinasty, emperor kills lotsa people, heavenly mandate, yada yada, or, more importantly, what annoys me the most is that I feel like that Chinese literature is way overblown. There is something instinctively telling me that there is something absolutely depressing about China. I can't stand it. China is as foreign as Mars to me - all of the Zhangs, Zhis and alike produce no lasting imaginings or images produced by my active imagination. My passive imagination only springs forth something depressive. Think of it like a background to your thoughts, that mostly unconscious mass from wherein your feelings arise and give a 'color' to your thoughts. Apply that to my perception of arts when I 'look' upon them.

No, I didn't get the joke and didn't want to get it. I don't think I will get it for a long time, not so much that I don't have the mental capacity for it, but more so in that I don't want to bend my mind around something as terrible as China.

You know what I want to do? I want to throw myself in the landscape of old Europe, the Meditarrean and alike. Europe, at least the pretty part, has been the sole idealisation of my life for a longer time now, so I live in it, mentally, through books. Village wherein the young Werther roams, that spring from where those peasants carried away water, those linded trees he was burried under. That France of Revolutionary era, that tale of strong passions. That visage of Medieval humor I already mentioned, that comfy feeling of Renaissance budding as it was written and the attitudes therein reflect it. That beautifully depressive scenery of St.Petersburg, with one monomaniac to be completely unaware of it at most of the times. London, in it's wretched poverty and splendid luxury. Go on, I would, but not now.

I like reading what I like. I like exquisite things. I'm selective. Your books, although they might indeed be pretty and fairly vivid, have no chance to strike images which help me keep my head balanced and furnished with what I perceive as beauty. I might read them, if I feel like it, though not now.

On a simpler note, I was in quite the mood of shitposting and baiting some fellow posters, but here, here is a serious reply if you ever wanted one. Go on, call me names. I'm wretched, but all wretchedness has it's limits and cures.

Here is a comfy image to accomply this post if you wanted to see something comfy.