This guy is better than Proust yet no one talks about him
???
>>24683022Where to start with bro?
>>24683022>This guy is better than Proust yet no one talks about himhe's making the rounds in all alt lit and nyrb adjacent channels. there is even a new edition out that does that horrible thing of putting the first paragraph as the cover
>>24683031The plains is a great place to start but everything after it is on that level. Inland might be his masterpiece.
Cause pic rel mogs him in every capacity.
>>24683022I read Inland and hated it.
>>24683100>industry plant>>24683102Casul
>>24683022>This guy is better than ProustIs this seriously how you're going to "sell him"? How about you actually say something of substance? Then we might read him and decide for ourselves.
>>24683115It was like a generic Borges story stretched out to 140 pages
Penal colony sheepfucker is absolutely MOGGED by a real writer like Cartarescu (PBUH)
i just finished reading the big collected short stories collection and i swear he's the most autistic author i've ever read outside of the internet. definitely interesting though. i like the really precise thorough interrogation of his mind realm and ideas about what is fiction and how you remember stuff etc
>>24683120It's not "selling". He genuinely is.>>24683121It's the novel Borges never wrote which is precisely why it's great. It's worthy of him.
Looks like gypsy shills are seething again at the mere mention of Murnane kek. You guys are so bad that carTARshitcu's PR campaign flopped completely and now no one gives a fuck about him.
>>24683122asides from them both writing fiction somewhat derived from their real life, I don't really see that much similarity between them. they're both great authors who write extremely different types of work
>>24683129Yeah. Stone quarry is a story none of the postmodern metafictionists will ever be able to write. I read that hack Barth's collection about funhouses. Terrible. Barth readers should pick up Murnane and see how metafiction is done properly by a writer of actual talent.
>>24683136Kek, like clockwork
>better than Proustcertainly not in french lolall these "international" novelists should find other writers to ape, because nobody is winning that game
>>24683134>It's not "selling". He genuinely is.It is "selling" because we're unfamiliar with him and you want us to read him. So go ahead and explain what makes him great. Comparisons like that (with Proust) do justice to no one.
>>24683022Abominably mid, Cunt Updike. It's insane he was published at all.
>>24683314Will I like him if I like Updike?
>>24683311You're a baby. Read more. Murnane is better than Proust and it's common knowledge on the board since 2023
>>24683523I read a lot. Why are you so defensive? I already asked you twice to explain why this author is great without resorting to pointless hyperbolic statements like in your original post. Are you incapable of doing that? Then maybe it's you who should read more. Or does this actually have nothing to do with literature and it's just for you to brag about your "superior literary taste" or something? For the third time: what's great about this author and why should one read them?
>>24683619Not reading all that
>>24683102dom tchh da tschh dom tchh da tschh dom tchh da tschh
>>24683622You don't actually read entire books, do you?
This thread has convinced me to not read Murnane
>>24683636This always happens on this board. /lit/fags post about some random authors and instead of engaging with curious anons, they sperg out and turn people away from the thing they're supposedly passionate about. It's not really about literature, but an intellectually dishonest dick-measuring contest.
>>24683643If you cared about reading new writers you would pick up a book instead of pestering others. You're gonna pirate it anyway, better get to it.
>This guy is better than Proust not saying much
>>24684418>If you cared about reading new writers you would pick up a bookI read every day and am currently in the middle of a 600-page Russian novel. I constantly read authors I haven't before.>pestering othersLol, YOU made this thread. You're the one pestering us with an author nobody has heard of.If this thread isn't about you telling me what the fuck is so great about this author and selling them to me, what the fuck is the point then? I'd genuinely love to hear your justification for its existence because your thread is garbage. It's not about literature, it's just some weird "this random guy is better than [great author], I am so smart" pseud nonsense. At least explain why he's better than Proust (an author you haven't read), you dumbfuck.I'm looking forward to your next nonsensical, irrelevant, time-wasting post that'll ignore all my points and not answer any questions.
>>24684738Not reading all that
>>24683022Haha >Joyce >
Murnanebros.... is it over for us?....
>>24684929Why?
>>24684943We've been absolutely BTFO'd by the Frog Defence Force. No one is going to read Gerald now after this embarrassing display
>>24683022>better than Proust.yeah. him and 99.99% of all other authors.
>Not reading all that
>>24683022Sorry OP, I don't believe you plus you've embarrassed yourself ITT, therefore I will continue not talking about him.
>>24684989Nice selfie
>murnane anon is backlol.
>An excerpt from InlandAnd from the fig-tree learn a parable: when the branch thereof is now tender, and the leaves come forth, you know the summer is nigh. So likewise you, when you shall see all these things, know that it is nigh, even at the doors.Even the gospel was more than one gospel. The reading for the last Sunday after Pentecost began with the abomination of desolation and with a warning to the reader. For three quarters of its length, the gospel for that last Sunday of the year continued to warn. Near the end came the clouds and the four winds, and then the last pause before the ultimate turmoil. And in that last pause, startlingly under the terrible sky, the fig-tree appeared, with its leaves coming forth.More clearly than anything I read or heard in my childhood, that last pause near the end of the last gospel of the year told me that every thing would always be more than one thing. The last pause told me that every thing would always contain another thing, which would contain still another thing or which would seem, absurdly at first sight, to contain the thing that had seemed to contain it.Five years after I had heard the last gospel of the ecclesiastical year in the parish church of Saint Mark, Fawkner, I listened for the first time in my life to a piece of what I called classical music. Near the end of that music I heard a pause. The solemn themes of the music paused for a moment. Just before the clouds had drifted over all the sky and just before the four winds whistled and the last struggle began, I heard the pause of the summer that seemed nigh.I have heard that pause many times since in pieces of music. I have heard the pause while I read the next-to-last page in many a book. The larger, the solemn themes are about to go into battle for the last time. By now, of course, the solemn themes are not themes but men and women, and when they pause for the last time they look over their shoulders.They look back towards some district where they lived as children or where they once fell in love. Perhaps they see the green lawn or even the branch with green leaves that they saw in their native district. For a moment a simple theme is the only theme heard; the greenness appears in place of the greyness.For an absurd moment within that moment, the listener or the reader dares to suppose that this after all is the last theme; this and not the other is the end; the green has outlasted the grey; the grey has been covered over at last by the green.But this is only a moment within a moment. The clouds resume their drifting; the four winds whistle. The solemn themes turn to meet the storm.
>>24685108Not reading all that
>>24685142Use this
>>24685108>anotherAt every hour of the day, in one country or another, a man looks up from peering at plants with names such as ironweed or wolfberry. The man is the only person inside the circle of the horizon. He stares across the veldt or the steppes or the pampas and prepares to think of himself as quite alone. But he cannot think of himself and the grass around his knees and the clouds over his head and nothing more. He thinks of himself talking or writing to a young woman. He thinks of himself telling the young woman that he thinks of her whenever he finds himself alone in grasslands. He thinks of himself telling the young woman that he thinks of her telling him she thinks of a man such as himself whenever she sits at her desk and thinks of the grasslands of the world.
>A million windowsIf, in the further reaches of some or another remote corridor in an immense house of two or, perhaps, three storeys, and behind some or another door that remains mostly closed but in sight of a window overlooking some or another tract of far-reaching landscape of mostly level grassy countryside with low hills or a line of trees in the distance, a certain man at his desk, on some or another day of sunshine with scattered clouds, were to spurn the predictable words and phrases of the many writers of fiction who have reported of this or that male character that he once fell in love with this or that female character, and if that same man, after striving as neither I, the author of this sentence, nor even the most discerning reader of the sentence, have or has striven nor will ever strive, in late afternoon, and at about the time when the rays of the declining sun might have caused the pane in the window of his room to seem to a traveller on a distant road like a spot of golden oil, had found in his heart, or wherever such things are to be found, the words best fitted to suggest what he seemed to have felt long before, on a certain hot afternoon, in a distant inland city, and whether he had simply kept those words in mind or whether he had actually written them, either as notes for a work of fiction that he might one day write or as part of an actual work of fiction, then I do not doubt that the words would have been to the effect that a certain boy, a mere child, while he watched unobserved a certain girl, a mere child, whose name he did not know and who had almost certainly never had sight of him, wished for the means to inform her that he was worthy of trust.
>Nice selfie
>>24685108>Proust at homeNo thanks
>>24685318More like>Proust but better
Is anyone delusional enough to think that soijack posters care about reading?
Is anyone delusional enough to think that not reading all that posters care about reading?
>Is anyone delusional enough to think that soijack posters care about reading?
>>24685320I longingly wait for the day where anyone shows me one contemporary literary writer with a soul who doesn't just babble endlessly in their best modernist impression
>>24685325>>24685341See>>24685203
The Plains unironically changed my outlook on life and turned me into a taoist, haven't read much of his other works though, tried to pick up a million windows and to be honest felt like a slog
>>24685507see >>24685203
>>24685507>>24685628see>>24683636
