>>25539145
You don't have to read them lol. I haven't and I read probably more than 95% of anons on /lit/ and get more out of it.

>>25541637
>650 pages into it
>it finally gets good
Somehow the slog was worth it. I did not expect it to go from 0 to 100 that fast and end up enjoying

>>25539145
the shattered iliad makes a masterpiece, while the odyssey by its ease and interest remains the oldest book worth reading for its story. ‘gay, fine and vivid it is, never huge or terrible.’
the odyssey is sometimes called the first novel of europe. the iliad is more truly an epic poem.

>>25539145
The Odyssey's climax is so underwhelming it feels like an unfinished work. His homecoming is incomplete with the Phaeacian treasures still hidden away. Tiresias' prophecy is still unfulfilled. The Iliad fulfills what it set out to tell.

>>25539145
Odyssey is definitely the easier one to read, it's much more fast paced and the plot threads are few and clear.
But I think I still enjoyed the Iliad more. I feel like the language was more beautiful. There were more flowery descriptions and metaphores. Felt more like a folk story than a grand epic, too, despite not actually being any less grandiose story-wise.

>>25548292
It's an interesting read though it seems to drop off the kids book stuff a little later. Or at least I'm at like page 80 or something. Not the most academic work in the world but I can by and large confirm things from what I already knew and more academic work.

>>25547101
>On November first
That's pretty soon.
Someone's gotta try it.

>>25548312
It's literally got a novella tucked into it. Every few sections it'll be another chapter of the story. I'm on the part where the MC and her artist guy friend conduct sex magick for the first time.

>>25544709
>Technically no
False. Enjoy hell.

>>25543984
Try summoning one and see what happens. Half the "logical atheists" I know genuinely don't wanna be disproven. Subconsciously they're still scared. I'm not even a Christkek. Just have some "fucked around and found out" experience.

>>25549752
Okay? The most popular people who apply Guenon's meditations and metaphysics were/are Christians anyways.

>>25549752
Guenon literally preached what the other guy was saying, the fact that you think this is not the case is I sign that you haven’t even read him

>>25549752
Sufism is almost in it's entirety just paradoxes about the same stuff every culture across the planet has been thinking about. Time, being, existence, etc. Going back to the 11th century there are records about distinguishing between general knowledge of a paradox and spiritual knowledge of a paradox. Some of them died before being able to finish their life's work. There are only 2 routes, go back to the Quran and Hadith, or find a perfect teacher and pursue perfection (there are manuals about finding a perfect teacher and the pursuit of perfection).

>Guenon joined but nothing changed.
>Descartes 1 Guenon 0
>now Guenon has been BTFO

God just cannot be an idea. It cannot be. There's no way

Guenon was a full Muslim, a real Sufi.

bump

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Their gazes burned me.

>>25552267
christians don't read Heart of Darkness. They barely read anything non-confirming. If anything you would have make most of them mad and some of them mystified

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>>25552264

> post some writing in these generals
> just get insulted by retards with no feedback
Give me feedback but what is the point of these gay threads if youre all gonna be rude? You aren't a literary genius or better than me for being rude.

>>25552374
kinda rude calling the thread gay like that.

>>25552379
Is it though?
In context is it really?

>Thing that is alive and well (or at the very least shuffling along in its own little niche) is dead because I need to loosh farm
>men aren't reading anymore. Is that a book I may like? sorry but twitter said men aren't reading anymore and everything is for women so I shan't read it.

>>25550386
All the women have clothing on so it’s impossible to judge

>>25544072
Race-mixing + Malnourishment

>>25548143
No one is actually buying new literary fiction.
It's entirety propped up by organizations and grants, not book sells to individuals planning to actually read them.

>>25541799
College-trained corporate writers flooding the market space

>>25546823
“Put the hurt on em baby.”

>Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. It was no panic terror—indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy—but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august Presence was very, very near. With difficulty he turned to look for his friend, and saw him at his side, cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew.
>Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while Nature, flushed with fulness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.
>"Rat!" he found breath to whisper, shaking. "Are you afraid?"
>"Afraid?" murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. "Afraid! Of Him? O, never, never! And yet—and yet—O, Mole, I am afraid!"
>Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.

In the park a grove of oaks and beeches with a bandstand; in the parlor a piano with a lidded bench containing sheets of music (“The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,” “Song of India,” others); in the living room long foaming sofas and a minuscule TV. I think I see black shapes on that glass ground. I give the screw a final twist and the dime flips from my hand, skips away, rolls away, ringing like my nerves. My wife will think a student’s torn my shirt in her passion. They all have a passion for fat these days and want a man with a girlish bosom, nipples they can gnaw on, a belly they can pound and knead—was your mother the passive partner in your parents’ marriage?—and the fat man’s small cock hidden out sight in his thighs like the lady from Ghent who revealed when she bent; oh, they want a weight to ride on, haw and gee, god damn them, and you too, Lou, you bitch, you bawd, you dehomered Helen, you soft stuffed toy (who rules more sternly than the teddy bear?), ahead of me in every feeling, wiser, dark and fair as a forest on a sunlit evening (what is all this shit about leaves and light?), innocent as a hankie, honest as Christmas mapping, female faggot, fanny fucker, whore, nag, bore, bawd, bitch, Lou, you too, love—you! and in the park a simple ceremony of maples, a single elm in the center like a fountain, and the ladyfingers snapping rapidly—acciaccatura—against the whootling of my father’s cornet in Findley’s Kilty Band, as later, in Ohio, he bugled for the Legion. I cannot breathe. It is too quiet. Then the scream, the groan—which was it? I listened as I listened in the tunnel. No mistaking...a groan, a scream, a moan below me somewhere down the empty steps lit by their own laziness for safety, the rails precipitous, walls slick, paths of crushed rock trailing through the trees, a speech by the mayor about America, polite applause amid the cannon crackers, and the young girls with their asses on casters, boy-bottomed, bodies I was mostly indifferent to, and unringing red bells in the ice cream, bells the flavor of strawberry, the size on slot machines, I carefully spooned around, I liberated, freeing them forever from vanilla, and young girls with cherry bombs between the tines of their thighs, and in their fists small flags fluttering down the steps to the floor below me, the building a riddle of worm halls, and the young girls with their crisp dresses dragging, and packs of dogs we scattered with grenades, girls flaunting their naked clothing—how silent the skin is, the flesh is, growing—popcorn, banners, parades below me, someone is groaning, is unmistakably pained, and I listen to the oratory, I strain toward the sound, and with firecrackers send tin cans booming from the muzzle of my pipe-long mortar, I tilt the halls toward heaven like a battery of barrels: pow! pow! pow! remember the glow and the smell of punk? the satisfying fizzle of the fuse? the stunned air after? there is no question but those

noises changed the color of the sky, shook it so it rained. My grandfather met the trains. The station smelled of creosote and timbers, and the rails were radiant all summer. On the bed of his truck he hauled away huge crates made of fragrant soft cream-colored fuzzy wood as nude as you were as you calmly lay across the spread awaiting me and yet were moist and ready when I reached you; so I’ve seen some paintings of a beauty so supreme they drew the fingers to the pigments, not to touch their surface, but to sink inside them, and had Christ walked within the water I’d believe, nor is there any better symbol for the single longing of my life than the penetration which your body begged and I supplied that single summer, and afterward remember how I trembled...trembled...for I knew...I knew I could go on no longer, could not continue, could not...could not like a pond its water hold these feelings as the light was held by the pines in our window, their arms around the Aether—for me, for Newton—proof...proof there was another medium through which, at any time, if we were physical enough to be a spirit, we could feel, could enter, Lou-like, free as a strawberry bell from vanilla forever. And on that night of breaking glass in Germany, when the windows of the Jews were being smashed, when I was caught up in the excitement, infected by the frenzy too, by the joyous running through the streets, until my arm was lifted and I hurled a brick myself, I thought of the flash of my grandfather’s ax, shattering the shingles of that poor Czech’s roof, although my brick sailed through a jagged hole, I hope, and fell somewhere in the store without a sound—in fact with so much silence that, despite the hubbub in the neighborhood, I heard no groaning, heard no screams from any of my other selves as, after the girls with their heavenly haunches had stirred me, or that woman on wheels had, after all that labor on my work had worn me out, I heard them just below me in the building. I sat on the edge of the bed...yes, trembling, you remember. My belly sagged pathetically, and the rag rug rested my stupid feet. I remember. And I’ve thin arms despite my weight. How could I believe in happiness? How could I, who loved you physically, believe in your love? Those perfect hands enclosing my imperfect penis, those slender fingers, pale tapered nails; they had to be the tools of a professional, a bawd; those moist eyes and parted lips were lies. Lou, weren’t you supposed to be a bed tent, too? where I could hide as I hide in Herschel? How could I believe that if I squeezed it evenly our new-laid love, like the egg, would demonstrate its strength? with thighs which widened when I sat like soft tires? No. It was simply too good to be, as the old saw says. Happiness has no friend in time, in history; it has no friend in me. Some prisoners cannot bear release, Lou; they’ve lived too long in climates of concrete; they know that happiness is just a priest who

reads us words of consolation while we walk up the steps to the hangman. Yet we’d be suicides without that low intoning, without silly things like flowers, sentimental handclasps, helpless babies, the bodies which charm us. We are used to these, we demand them, as we expect foolery from a clown or deception from a magician. Would the condemned man know he was going if they came with whips? if they left behind, in the office of the executioner, the grave faces of the witnesses, the pleasantries of prayers, the dark dress, the black book, beads? and so the Jews, who knew they were destined for death—death could scarcely have surprised them—could not believe in their own murders when managed in this manner, for such ceremony as they had come to count on was removed; it was so open, more matter-of-fact than even brutal, so fearless, honest, unemotional—so sincere—like spraying for mosquitoes; it so clearly transcended all excuse, it did away with reasons. On that splendid disdain for subterfuge, they flew—the Nazis (O hear me, Herschel!); they rose as gods from the graves of their middle-class lives; anointed, they left their little businesses behind, the normal world with all its petty laws, for sainthood. These laws, these rules, these lies which lips at least for centuries had served—they did not need them; they were so self-contained, so internally secure, they were above even the ancient hypocrisies of heaven; and they lived in the realm of the spirit, of der Heilige Geist, as they’d been taught by their religions and philosophies; what were bodies? meat and bones to be disposed of: new grinders and new ovens, new gases and mass graves (as large as lakes, as long as rivers), a raw material calling for a new technology, new plants .and processes, a fresh imagination, fresh inventions; what were bodies compared to principles, and what were principles compared to destiny, the Reich’s mill, and history’s aim? More theoretical, therefore, than most men, they did not dream, they saw, foresaw; they left the dreaming to the Jews, who did—they dreamed—like drummers marching at a cannon. The one-thousand-year Reich was a State to be constructed, just like happiness, out of time, like the millennium of the Marxist. No angels from on high or demons from below with fiery swords or flaming forks came to balk them. Nature punishes gluttony, not avarice or hate. To Nature it’s most important that you get a good night’s sleep. No. Only further murders—theirs—prevented them from murdering further, as we flew bombers to Japan and powdered them to peace...god willing. I am sloppy, pudgy, like someone who has stuffed himself with sweets—a child, preserved in ice, the years blue-streaked and gleaming coldly. Thus when I heard the groans below me (screams, groans, which?), I quickly left my office and the building, fluttered like a moth down the stairwell, so slippery with light, and drove out of their hearing in my Dodge.

anon, you want to fuck the library? I think you might be a bibliophile

I'm pretty sure you can contact the library to request a book if they don't have it

>>25550403
lmao

>>25550401
Fuck off, StarCraft's mechanics are based.

>>25550403
Not OP but I have masturbated in the library bathroom more times than I can remember. There's nothing wrong with that.

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>>25545970

>>25545970
Once and Future King.

>>25550409
fell for kingslop award

>>25550409
>giant cowboy
Hmm, Gulliver's Travels but cowboy is probably not a bad idea.

He was a woman, with a sexy smelling cleavage. They don't tell you that in the history books, haha

if you don't take yourself seriously neither will I

>>25549650
This is an old joke. My uncle told it to me, a family of tomatoes are walking home and the son is dallying so the father keeps telling him to catch up. When he keeps being bratty the father smushes him and says, "I said KETCHUP"

>>25549650
Are you retards filming me as well? I thought of this damned ketchup joke like 1 hour before seeing this thread

>>25549650
Does not remotely scan.

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>>25550258
>it's real

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>>25550273

>>25550335
Bloody bastard bitch show bob and vagene to all the saars who post hi and nice.

>>25550335
Ana............. I love you............. Pls call me 912222703455

>>25550335
The internet is a very very scary place

>>25549588
Dunning Kruger moment.

>>25539833
>The ending where God makes it up to Job buy getting him new stuff completey undoes the point of the book
Mirrors the restoration after the end times

>>25549706
the family were NPC's all along?

I see the last few chapters of Job no different to chapter 11 of the bhagavad gita where krisha reveals his universal form. Gods the infinite, all-pervading cosmos encompassing all creation, time, and destruction. Job is willing to endure to the very end and suffer all things after experiencing god in that way. just like a warrior prince must endure killing his own family members on the battlefield.
In a way, the restoration of Jobs previous life at the end is completely off and it wouldnt surprise me if some diaspora jew in babylon got the retarded idea to add in centuries later due to a lack or piety or whatever.

>>25550369
>the restoration of Jobs previous life at the end is completely off
It's not though, the whole point is the absurdity of it, not edgy nihilism.