ITT: high quality /lit/ Copypastas/saved

[Anonymous No.10406704]

ITT: Copypastas/saved posts/lit humor that are objectively better than common lowbrow lit like Rupi Kaur. I'll start:


It's nice to see Proust held to the same regard that I hold him. Aside from his philosophically brilliant and stylistically delightful epic, I identify with Proust as a person and an artist. You see, according to letters from Proust to his loved ones, he was a chronic masturbator.

Not like your average adolescent, we're talking 10-15 times a day, well into his late 30s. It's no wonder he didn't start seriously writing ISOLT/Swann's Way until the late age of 38, because his wrist must've been devoid of cartilage by age 35 requiring strenous recovery, like how some 30-year-old NBA players have the knees of an 80-year-old after a modest career. I too have this problem, it's a curse. But it comforts me knowing that there is an upper echelon of chronic masturbators who are brilliant artists and thinkers throughout human history. It comforts me knowing that when I die there might be a glowing castle in the clouds where all the great chronic masturbators throughout history stay, and Proust, from the highest tower, upon seeing my one normal arm and muscular arm with a chaffed lumberjack palm, blows smoky stardust from his divine pipe and shouts "Lower the bridge, he's one of us!", and I am greeted with Target 5 for $5 hand creams as I take my rightful place in eternity

[Anonymous No.10406710]

>>10406704
I took a creative nonfiction course with David Wallace at Ponoma back in '94. We weren't allowed to show anyone our essays outside of the class for some reason. He seemed naturally intelligent, didnt need to look at any notes or textbooks or prepare for any lectures, he just knew his stuff and was super casual.

I saw him talking to a girl on campus one day. He uncharacteristically wore a Fila sweatsuit, the kind that looks like it's made from the same material as parachutes, and trainer sneakers with a matching bandana. That was his pussy hunt outfit apparently. Several times a week, same outfit, I'd see him hitting on women in it. I once saw him wearing it while carrying an identical outfit from the dry cleaners, he had like 4 sets of same Fila sweatsuit.

I asked him about it in class and he said we aren't allowed to discuss anything unrelated to class while inside class, the same way we can't show anyone outside of cass our essays. A student called out "but Dostoevsky isn't in this class and last week you talked about replicating his black tea obsession to test its affects on your own writing". Wallace stared blankly at the student with dead eyes for 30 seconds in dead silence then said "you just got knocked down a full letter grade. Any other smart asses? Didn't think so." and pushed up his glasses with his index finger.

I remember telling myself this guy will either be super successful or kill himself.

[Anonymous No.10406722]

>>10406710
ok. ok. wow. just. ok. here are the true rankings, and I would go as far as saying that the rest of fiction as a whole is a waste of time, and you're better off reading poetry or watching TV instead of reading authors who are not in this list

SUPREME MASTER GOD TIER: THE MASTER OF ALL IN THE KINGDOM OF GREAT WRITERS IN HUMAN HISTORY, AT THE TOP OF THE HIGHEST TOWER, MASTURBATING 10-15 TIMES PER DAY, AS THE HAND WITH WHICH HE WRITES ARTISTIC MASTERPIECES IS MORE SEXUALLY APPEALING THAN ANY ADONIS THE GODS CAN CONJURE
>Proust

VICE-SUPREME MASTER GOD TIER: THE ONLY WRITER DESERVING TO BE IN SAME ROOM AS THE SUPREME MASTER GOD
>Joyce

GOD TIER: OCCUPYING THE MARBLE CASTLE WITH THE SUPREME AND VICE SUPREME MASTER GOD
>Tolstoy
>Homer
>Dante
>Dostoevsky
>Shakespeare

ANGELIC DEMON TIER: PATROLLING THE CASTLE WALLS OF THE GOD TIERS AND ABOVE, AND DOING THEIR BIDDING ACROSS THE UNIVERSE, CAPTURING AND PILLAGING ENTIRE PLANETS TO TO INTO PLANET-SIZED "THE MATRIX"-TYPE BODY HARVESTING FARMS, BUT THEY HARVEST HUMAN FARTS INSTEAD OF ELECTRICITY, PACKED IN DIAMOND JARS, FOR THE FART-LOVING PROUST AND JOYCE TO HOLD UP TO THEIR NOSES AND SHIFT THEIR NOSES LEFT AND RIGHT ALONG THE RIM OF THE JAR LIKE SNIFFING A FINE WINE, THEN TAKING A HUMONGOUS INHALE AND ACHIEVING UNFATHOMABLE ORGASM, "AH, A 2017 RUSSIAN LUMBERJACK FART, GOOD YEAR" THEY SAY, NODDING THEIR HEADS AT THE ANGELIC DEMONS WHO DO THEIR BIDDING, THE ANGELIC DEMONS' HEARTS FILLED WITH JOY AT THE HONOR OF SERVING THEIR MASTERS
>Goethe
>Kafka
>Chekhov
>Morrissey
>Nabakov
>Melville
>Milton
>Chaucer
>Cervantes
>Ambrose motherfucking Bierce!

HONORABLE DRAGON WORK CREATURE TIER: THESE WRITERS' SOULS HAVE POSSESSED THE BODIES OF DRAGONS WITH LIME GREEN FUR AND FLORESCENT TIGER STRIPES WHO BREATHE GAMMA RAY BURSTS AND CIRCLE THE SUPREME MASTER GOD'S KINGDOM BY THE MILLIONS, AND OPERATE AS A HIVE MIND, AND HAVE BEEN GENETICALLY MODIFIED WITH TARDIGRADE DNA TO SURVIVE IN SPACE AND EVEN BLACK HOLES, TO HONOR WORKS THAT I ENJOYED PERSONALLY BUT THAT MAY NOT BE AS JUSTIFIED ON AN ARTISTIC LEVEL BY CONSENSUS
>Hesse
>Pynchon
>Hemingway
>Foster Wallace
>Woolf
>Flaubert
>George Eliot
>Balzac
>Borges

[Anonymous No.10406747]

>>10406704
>be notorious class clown in high school, one time diving across a teacher's desk like a slip-and-slide and knocking over everything on his desk.
>night classes, classmates single parents and former military who work during the day, razor thin tolerance for bullshit
>read Infinite Jest the summer before college. unironically believed it was the pinnacle of literature despite only reading high school literature prior to it.
>English Literature, The American Experience class
>female "instructor", AKA Ph.D student
>I bring up Infinite Jest in literally every single discussion, even if it has nothing to do with it
>instructor tells me how Infinite Jest is a contemporary work that might be forgotten in the next 10 years, not worthy of comparison to the classics, and beyond the scope of this class
>actual animosity builds between instructor and i
>sometimes in the middle of discussion while she's talking, i'll take my copy of Infinite Jest out of my backpack and loudly smack it onto my desk, making the entire class jump and look at me. This caused the professor to KNOW I'm about to ask a question relating her monologue to Infinite Jest, and you can feel her shifting her monologue mid-sentence to steer away from as much possible Infinite Jest-related things as she could. That simple smack was a real mind fuck. The rest of the class was glaring at me.
>one day I did this and a former US Marine sitting next to me literally grabbed my copy of Infinite Jest and threw it out the window. We were on like the 4th floor and it was raining outside.
>the class applauded loudly
>then SMACK! i had another copy of Infinite Jest in my backpack. I was SO proud of this, and trying so hard to hold back my shit-eating grin but I couldn't contain it. I looked beyond autistic.
>"Get out!" the instructor yelled. Thinking everyone would laugh, I was scared at her response, and the Marine took my backpack and book and placed it in the hallway and held the door for me to leave
>i ended up dropping the class

[Anonymous No.10406759]

I am sick and tired of this. Every day I come to /lit/, and every day there is at least one thread up with an OP image of an attractive woman dressed scantily and posing seductively. It's probably the same one or two people who do it honestly. Let me tell you something, you faggot pieces of shit who are doing this: you are the poster child for everything that is wrong in literature, art, and society as a whole today. You are incapable of coming up with anything creative, thought provoking, or of substance, and you lack even the smallest modicum of intelligence, so you use "style" and "flash" and pizazz in place of it and to draw attention to yourself, because that's the only way your SHIT "creation" and ideas would ever get seen by anyone. And before you say anything, this has NOTHING to do with the fact that I don't have a girlfriend. Anyway, I will be petitioning the owner of this website to ban your asses, so enjoy being able to post here while it lasts, because it's not going to last long, just like you that one time you convinced an obese girl to let you fuck her.

[Anonymous No.10406764]

why bother reading someone who couldn't even live with himself. the only sincere moment in the life of David Foster wallace was when he kicked away the chair. the rest of his life was a lie, the new sincerity was a joke whose punchline was the creaking of a leather belt around the rafter.his literary career was a menagerie of self help lies told to keep his depression at bay. the audience pussy and drugs were the ghosts at that feast of hypocrisy. the depression was warranted because behind all the gimmicks and the self awareness and the bandannas was no discernible talent

[Anonymous No.10406779]

>puts down a toni morrison novel
>cracks open the latest new yorker
>downloads an npr podcast
>goes to a free summer concert series
>gets hair cut at place that serves whiskey, like back when real men shaved with straight razors
>wears an untucked gingham shirt not over a t-shirt and over-polished menswear wingtips
>waits three hours for a text from the new small plates pop-up restaurant
>orders the second least-expensive malbec
>tries to watch all the oscar nominees each year
>cannot believe how good the new rap album is
>goes to a coffee tasting
>orders a kindle and hard copy of the latest kwame ngobongo novel but listens to it on audiobook during commute to his new marketing job
>goes to four spinning classes a week
>talks about how busy life as a creative is
>buys a groupon for hamilton
lives in new york city

[Anonymous No.10406799]

saved this shit today

Boy, Oreo® Cookies sure are great! Sometimes, all I want at the end of a long day is to enjoy a nice cold glass of milk with some of my favorite cookies in the world: that’s right, Oreos®!
Sometimes, running on only a few hours’ sleep, when the baby’s been crying for what seems like an hour straight and I have the shameful urge to yell out, “shut the fuck up!”, I rush over to the pantry and rip open a packet of scrumptious Nabisco™ brand Oreo® Cookies. Pouring some milk, I take an Oreo® cookie and let it soak up half-way. I bite into that perfect combination of flavors, sinking quickly into a sweet and creamy stupor.
Sometimes, after the end of a hard 14-hour shift, when the wife is berating me about some bullshit chore that I somehow forgot to do, and I’m a hair’s breadth away from telling her that I’m done with this marriage and that I’m done with this white-picket life and that I’m going to go and take the risks that I never had the balls to take when I was young and free, I flee to the kitchen and gorge myself on those little layered delights: Oreos®! I let myself get sucked out by that cookies-n-cream riptide, all the way out: miles from shore and happily drowning in a vast expanse of flavor-ocean.

[Anonymous No.10406802]

>>10406799
Sometimes, in the heart of the witching hour, I find myself wide awake with my thoughts running wild. I begin to obsess over all the little forks in the road which could have brought me to some other, better place. I find myself coming to the sad conclusion that my trajectory is fixed, and that this version is the version of my life that I will die trapped within. I find myself thinking back, many years ago, to the woman I loved; not my wife but the one before, the one that I let slip away. The one that I should have married. When I find myself alone with these thoughts, I sneak down to the kitchen, tip-toeing like a thief. I crack open the fridge. From below, the light flares up and betrays me. It illuminates a tired and sunken face; the expressions painted on, there only for schlepping through the motions of life. I take out a carton of milk and pour a glass. The milk rises up, higher and higher and higher, until it begins to spill out over the edge and down the sides. The sound of it dripping off the counter and smacking into the hardwood floor brings me out of my trance, and I curse as I realize what I’ve done. I put the milk back and finish cleaning up after my spill. I can’t seem to focus on anything anymore. Anything at all. Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s one thing I can focus on. The silky smooth interior and crispy crunchy exterior of milk’s favorite cookie, Nabisco™ brand Oreos®!
Sometimes, you might suddenly realize that you’ve gone about life in all the wrong ways. Sometimes, you’re all alone on a night when what you really need is someone right there next to you. Sometimes, you make the same mistakes you’ve made before, and you can’t seem to figure out why you haven’t learned from them. It’s easy to berate yourself; to beat yourself down. It’s easy to see only the flaws. Some people look at an Oreo® and see an unhealthy snack that doesn’t even really taste that great. Some people look at a middle-aged man who’s gained twenty kilograms since his glory years, whose eyes betray the disappointment of his inner child, and see a failure. But I see a little white streak of brilliance against dark surroundings. And I see a man who still has the chance to follow his heart.
When I look at an Oreo®, I see a cookie that will always be there for me. I see a snack that I’d never regret. And when I look at an Oreo®, the only mistake I see is not having another.

[Anonymous No.10406809]

Do they all have to be from /lit/?
/tv/ has the best pastas tbqh
>inb4 shitstorm

[Anonymous No.10406813]

None of these are even worth a You much less worth space on my hard drive.

[Anonymous No.10406821]

>>10406809
please post them

[Anonymous No.10406827]

>>10406821
I don't have any