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Is there any Merit to be had with writers like Peter Sotos? I tried reading his infamous Pure zine series, and its just him praising the work of killers/rapists/pedophiles in great detail.

Its literally just Marquis De Sade mixed in with true-crime. I understand that Sotos is trying to neutralize how victims int he media are seen as "angels" who have never done any wrong.

Just seems like a lot of effort to look as grimy as possible without having to resort to reading a Deadite Press book.
With Sotos, you have to keep in mind that Pure is essentially juvenilia written when he was fresh out of art school. It's obviously important within the context of his life due to his arrest and everything, but the writing leaves a lot to be desired and lacks the kind of intense self-loathing and regret that makes his later stuff more poignant. I don't think he truly came into his own until the rapid-fire period when he put out Index, Lazy, and Tick.

As for "merit", to me, it's not exactly about the critiques he levels or the bizarre art critic stance he takes, but more that his writings immerse you in his everyday world to an extent that is both extremely uncomfortable and unlike anything I've ever experienced in another author's work.

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Just as the Bible is the most important work of religion and the Capital of the economy, What are the most relevant works/s in the fields of politics, sociology, psychology and philosophy?
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I don't know why people are so scared of Das Kapital, it's like they think it just says "purges are cool, kulaks are poop." It's a very broad work that covers a lot of stuff.

Try jumping in here on the chapters on Primitive Accumulation, i.e. how capitalism began not with prudent peasants saving enough to become bourgeois, but by government fiat through things like the enclosure acts.

the bible isn't the most important book on religion. that's like saying Don Quixote (or whatever stupid tome you think is the greatest novel ever) is the greatest book *on* literature.

>Capital wasn't important
factually untrue. there's only a couple of thinkers who come close in creating an intellectual wake. Plato, maybe Jesus.

>Politics: If Democrats Had Any Brains, They'd Be Republicans by Ann Coulter
>Sociology: Bell Curve
>Psychology: Maps of Meaning
>Philosophy: 12 rules for life
Whatever credibility this troll had was blown with 12 rules, if not already with Coulter. Probably could have sneaked Bell Curve in if you had stuffed the list with some Stalin or something and posed as a NazBol. Keep it plausible next time.


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Yes, there is. Most naturalistic obsrvation reveals that labour value theorydoesn't hold. Even if you didn't go out into the field, the theory behind it is crummy. There are also anthropological arguments against the concets of primitive communism, as described by Marx, and his general conception of linear historical progression. Anyway, not being part of the cannon means not being mainstream. Marxism is still very much a fringe school. Schools actually, Das Kapital has sprouted nearly as many different ideological trends as the Bible.
>Most naturalistic obsrvation reveals that labour value theorydoesn't hold.

Please explain this in your own words.
First we ask ourselves: How much time is a person willing to work for a unit of currency?
How many units of currencies would that person be willing to spend to acquire a certain good? That certain good's production required how much labour time?

It takes two cooks the same time to cook a burger each, with equal ingredients. Sold at different locations and/or to different peoples, and they can fetch a different price.

On the other hand, if one of the cooks were to use purple onions while the other used white onions, and both kinds of onions would take the same labour time to be grown, the respective burgers (which, again, took the exact same labour time to be produced) could also fetch different prices.

Realize that labour time is not a good basis for predicting prices. Realize that any commodity could play the role of labour time in Marx's model, to solve the transformation problem (why finished goods can fetch prices greater than the raw materials that are used to make them).

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What were some of your first philosophical thoughts as a child, before you even knew of philosophy?

I distinctly remember pacing around my room at night, thinking about the nature of time.
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You're freaking me out, that's so similar to my own experience; right down to the fractals. I can no longer experience that if I do it willingly, but if I get stoned and close my eyes they appear
Six year old me would've gotten along well with Zeno. Not even pseuding.
The arrow and achilles vs tortoise are both paradoxes I can specifically remember thinking of very similar scenarios too, and being unable to answer.
I remember my parents trying to console me about this saying that heaven would have everything good I could ever want, but what I was scared of was eternity, and that I cannot conceptually understand how I could be happy for eternity. I still feel I would become exhausted with existing eventually.
I'm not very familiar with Christian theology but I think the point is that you wouldn't get exhausted. You would be in a perfect state, incomprehensible by earthly standards.
I remember trying to explain to my mom that morality is relative to the individual. She tried to explain that there was a, heh... """God""" that decides what is and isn't moral. How quaint. It wasn't until I was 10 that I first picked up Max Stirner, how intrigued I was to find a kindred soul.

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How about we write some microfiction, /lit/?

Ill start:

The Buddah looked at his surroundings. He then saw a small turtle. He just laughed. The turtle laughed too. The Buddah was startled and no one could take him out of his stupor. Deification came later.
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The waters were deep. A marriage made in heaven. She swallowed all he gave her, he just enjoyed.
Thomas comes to, tucked to the chin in a half-sized bed placed at the center of a small, dimly lit room. Over his chest and between his upturned feet, a long corridor stretches yonward before him, breaking the maritimed darkwood walls of the chamber. Fully dressed all at once, beard clean and flowing grey by his chest, he leaves the bed and makes his way down the gaping hallway, right shoulder leading him in caution. All dark turns the hall as he proceeds, until it ends with a mahogany door framed by a sepian light that sounds from its edges. It swings by its hinge and Thomas brings his hands to his aching eyes as he emerges into a great goldenbright grassfield. Wincing, he waits to bear the light, and as he does, a heaving melodic hum comes to him from all around. He sees: a great choral ring at least two hundred men strong closes off his place in the field. Men, women, and children alike, they stand wallstraight and proud in lovely white dress burned gold by the warm light of the day. A great array of diverse instruments wait in their palms and at their feet, taught and brassparts gleaming: harps, trombones, hurgy-gurdies, celestes, banjos, harmonicas, cellos, flutes. Smiling at Thomas, they continue their melodic seethe in careful harmony. He proceeds forward, eyes finally adjusted, and there standing in front of him, they are. His father, looking no further than thirty years, in a pinstriped suit like a barbershop quartet, and his mother, all dressed up in an exquisite display of feathers and color, just like the Rio girls in Carnival used to be, fruited headdress towering high and brown skin glistening in the day, stand side by side before him, just as handsome and proud as Thomas remembers. He begins to totter towards them, mouth parted, and breaks into a desperate run, hands wildly reaching out. The choir's tune builds and stirs, and closer he stumbles, eyes welling up, mumbling and whimpering, and here now he's thirty feet, now twenty feet, now ten feet, and the singers all mount their instruments and the song explodes in a great bursting chorale of holy unity and play, strings shimmering and reeds revving and cymbals crashing and voices belting, and he falls in agony at his parents' feet, unable to meet their eyes, sobbing and snotting and shaking, screaming at the ground and screaming for forgiveness.
Great until "waiting for the other to scream"
Her small figure looked so delicate over the bed. The flashing lights leaked inside the room. They are taking me away, she said. Not just you, he said. She stood over the bed and shared a hug with him.
Car lights were still. Doors open. Man was reaching with his hand extended. Mute mouth. Woman was running away. Carelessly. Train settled this affair.

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for me, it's lacan's equations
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>Did Lacan just make up his own language but make the notation similar to maths just to give it fake credibility?
>our hackery is just like science and shiet too
>also fuck actual science
French post war faggots in a nutshell.
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the absolute madman
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A lua me traiuuuu
read a discrete math textbook

the A is "All", used in predicates like "All OPs are fags"
the E is "There exists" as in "there exists an OP who is not a fag"

A x " All x's"
E x "There exists an x"

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What the fuck was he talking about when he was going on about mathematical identities? Sounded like some pseud shit to me.
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I read it and can't remember 'mathematical identities', elaborate
"The solutions of all possible questions of life apparently could not satisfy me, because my question, no matter how simple it appeared in the beginning, included the necessity of explaining the finite through the infinite, and vice versa. . . .
In my reflections I constantly equated, nor could I do otherwise, the finite with the finite, the infinite with the infinite, and so from that resulted precisely what had to result: force was force, matter was matter, will was will, infinity was infinity, nothing was nothing,-and nothing else could come from it.
There happened something like what at times takes place in mathematics: you think you are solving an equation, when you have only an identity. The reasoning is correct, but you receive as a result the answer: a = a, or x = x, or 0 = 0. The same happened with my reflection in respect to the question about the meaning of my life. The answers given by all science to that question are only identities.
Indeed, the strictly scientific knowledge, that knowledge which, as Descartes did, begins with a full doubt in everything, rejects all knowledge which has been taken on trust, and builds everything anew on the laws of reason and experience, cannot give any other answer to the question of life than what I received,-an indefinite answer. It only seemed to me at first that science gave me a positive answer,-Schopenhauer's answer: "Life has no meaning, it is an evil." But when I analyzed the matter, I saw that the answer was not a positive one, but that it was only my feeling which expressed it as such. The answer, strictly expressed, as it is expressed by the Brahmins, by Solomon, and by Schopenhauer, is only an indefinite answer, or an identity, 0 = 0, life is nothing. Thus the philosophical knowledge does not negate anything, but only answers that the question cannot be solved by it, that for philosophy the solution remains insoluble."

Of course, it's when I type this out that I grasp what he's getting at.
He is being a good Christian and waving a big middle finger at Hegel
>Sounded like some pseud shit to me.
A pseud would say that.

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What do you think?
of the meme? breddy gud
of the book? One of the most important works of the 20th century, and not as inaccessible as your professor might tell you, its an easy read.
If you are looking to read it, I think it pairs great with Descartes's meditations on first philosophy. Read them in the same week, you'll get a really interesting image.
Kramer = pynch
Jerry = gaddis
Elaine = dfw
George = otoole
Why is there a show about nothing instead of a show about something?
Why is there something instead of nothing?

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Post a piece of art and get a book recommendation.
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Gravity's Rainbow
in search of lost time, unironically
the red badge of courage
relevant topic/theme but not plot

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Let's talk about Umberto Eco. I've only read Baudolino and Foucault's Pendulum, both around ten years ago when I was 20. Needless to say Foucault pretty much flew over my head, but Baudolino was great. I've decided to go through his seven novels this year, but I don't care to do it chronologically. What's your favourite one?
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Name of the Rose is fun, and Queen Loana, but I enjoyed the Prague Cemetary a lot.
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nice bait

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Post /lit/ cancer
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did she not have an editor?
Reminds me of that litizen whose magnum opus was 10% 'nigger'
>All those calling Beatrice ‘Dante’s girl’
> he was cucked ‘till she died
This is just a cutesy way for people for people to practice some creative writing.

I bet there are a ton of dumb replies, but the prompts are whatever
Lost World, Dune, and Holmes seem pretty unique, but a whole shelf, no thanks

kant's interpretation of the principle of freedom as self determination (a foundation of his practical philosophy) is infamously characterized through the parables of his behavior : a man who lived in time absolutely regimented by virtuous habit.

Is this the right way to live? should you be living every day regimented by the hour towards goals you determine rationally before hand? is this the ideal form of life or neurotic madness?

How do I become a better author?
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write for ten hours a day every day no matter what. Write about anything. Not kidding btw
That's like telling someone to draw for 10 hours every day. Sure they'll get better, but not by much. The trick isn't how much you draw, but that you're drawing the right things.
Doubt it
Aww, hey there special fella. Does your handler read you the really hard big boy books? Is that why you're on /lit/?
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I really like buying those B&N hardcover classics because they just look so good on the shelf, and generally I buy ones I want to read. The other day however I bought one about the works of Nikola Tesla strictly because I liked the electro tower thingy on the spine, but now I feel ridiculous knowing I don't really wanna read it at all....
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Basically this
the barnes and noble hardcover classics are so fucking tacky, they look like tryhard bullshit. i want to puke just thinking about them
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Sweet Jesus have mercy. These vexing B&N hardcovers rouse more passion in my heart, from simmering rage to unbridled hatred, passion of a greater intensity than anything I've experienced when laying with a woman, or from engaging in fisticuffs with some scoundrel, which does happen on occasion. This literature... in my country it is nothing.
>Barnes & Noble
Folio and Easton Press are for wasting money on books you don't read.
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Folio Society is getting tacky too. But they have no excuse at their prices.

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>There is a great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him “personal.” Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

what did he mean by this?
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Every reasonable person feels like this at least 50% of the time
It can be taken as writing advice or just as well as a comment on the nature of poetry. One will anyway reveal the other.

There's an erroneous belief that if an emotion is genuinely felt, it will transmit naturally into good poetry. The Romantics believed something like this, but more specifically thought poets should be honest about their inspirations, not that that inspiration will assuredly lead to good poetry. After all, poets don't hone their craft by working on inflating their emotions to create grander poetry; to get better, they pay attention to the sounds of words, their usage, and so on.

By way of analogy, perhaps you can recall being so overcome with emotion that you were struck dumb, despite being desperate to share your feelings with someone. Despite the honesty of your emotion, your ability to communicate (which of course relates to poetry) was compromised.

If it were so easy, you could just get hammered and (supposing you enjoy getting drunk) write pages of brilliant prose, able to capture the excitement and joy of intoxication. More likely than not you'll realize you just enjoy everything more while drinking, and in the morning when you're sober or worse the writing you were so excited about the night before will reveal itself for what it is: not very good.

If you can catch your emotion as if they were a fly buzzing in front of your face, you're able to examine them. It's not so important that you investigate their contours while you're still experience them, but only that you can describe the experience -- or whatever you want to describe -- reliably.

Anyway, I hope this helps.

>There is a great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him “personal.” Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things
Wow what a shocker an MA thesis about how an author was actually super gay. What original insight!
What a pretentious quote.
No, my thesis was more about his use of water imagery in Ash-Wednesday. But the research does suggest a lot of repressed and hidden shit in Eliot's sexuality.

What are some good books to change me from a beta failure to an alpha sex god?
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Why don't you just B URSELF?
Starting Strength
The Illiad
History of the Peloponessian War
The Intelligent Investor
Starting strength
Atlas Shrugged
A world undone
Sex at dawn
Y: The last man
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