aerdil posted:
does anyone want to open an opium den with me and just fuckin burn out
yeah ok
That wasn't, strictly speaking, true. Harry'd had one small volume published, five years ago. The Unbearable Dawn. It had received poor reviews and even poorer sales. Junkie poetry was unanimously considered to be old hat, and in any case Harry had always been too cowardly to actually use the needle. He'd crushed up OxyContin and snorted it, and once or twice sucked up tar fumes through a tinfoil tube, but it had always been more about the taboo of the deed than the drug itself. The real junkies had all thought of him as a bit of a poseur, it had been pretty obvious. For money Harry worked at a vanity press, correcting the spelling and grammar of flimsy romances written by paunchy spinsters in sweatpants and rape-filled fantasy epics from gangly acned autists. It didn't bring in much. Enough for him to drown out the worst of his disdain.
semicolon imo
Veronique wasn’t looking at me; she was rolling a cigarette, a look of perfect absorption on her face, the filter poking from the corner of her mouth. The paper was spread out on a book in her lap. The table between us was still damp with that morning’s rain.
“You don’t like my photography?”
“No. I don’t like it.”
“That’s the first thing you could think of?”
“So what if it is? You have this way of taking photographs. You line up the camera with the object. You make sure it stands out against the background. You fiddle about with the shutter speed and the aperture for a bit. Then you open the shutter. I don’t like it.” She started crumbling tobacco into the paper.
“That’s how you’re supposed to take photos,” I said.
“Supposed to, supposed to. I don’t care about supposed to! Everything you take has all these straight lines and symmetry. There’s nothing of you in it. You see something and you reproduce it exactly. It’s technically very good. But you turn it into a science. It’s not art.” She tucked the edge of the paper under the filter, licked along the top, and rolled it up in a single fluid motion. She could roll better than any machine: her cigarette was perfectly cylindrical, the tobacco evenly distributed, its surface mathematically smooth. There was a half-smoked cigarette still giving off faint wisps of smoke in the ashtray. She didn’t seem to notice it as she lit hers.
“What else?” I said.
Veronique took a long, hungry draw. “You read too much fiction,” she said. “It’s indulgent.”
“It’s important.”
“It’s indulgent. What was that line you had? The untransfigured suffering of man. How is that not indulgent? You just like to wallow in your own disaffection.”
She set down her cigarette on the ashtray to take a sip of wine.
“I don’t like your line on the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan,” she said. “It’s revisionist.” She started to roll another cigarette.
“Taraki asked them-”
“I know Taraki asked for intervention!” she said. “It doesn’t matter. The people of Afghanistan didn’t. They knew the Soviet Union was just another imperialist power by then.” Again she brought her half-rolled cigarette up to her lips, brushed them against one edge, and rolled it up. “I don’t like the fact that when you want to meet up we do, but when I want to meet up you’re sometimes busy,” she said, lighting it. “I cancel my plans for you. It’s an expression of male privilege.”
“You enable it,” I said.
She leant her cigarette against the ashtray to knock softly on the table. “I know. You should criticise me for it.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You should. What else? I don’t like the fact that you hardly ever drink. And you only ever smoke when you’re drinking.”
“Why not? Drinking and smoking isn’t productive.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re right. I just don’t like it. It’s puritan, isn’t it?” She started to roll another cigarette. “I don’t like the fact that you grow a beard for a couple of days and then shave it off. I don’t like it when we’re in bed and you don’t let me know when you’re about to come. I don’t like the way you treat everything we do like a hobby. As if it’s not important.”
Veronique finished rolling her cigarette. For the first time she seemed to notice the neat little row of neat half-smoked cigarettes on the ashtray. She smiled. “OK,” she said, softly. “You do me now.”
deadken posted:
youre right. after i read beckett's trilogy i went a bit crazy with the commas, puttin them everywhere, building all these absurd run-on sentences, i dont know why, something about them just appealed to me. mimesis lol
its perfectly normal to internalize the masters. you go through a phase of pathetic mimickry but you just have to do it and then once you get it out of your system you have a little bit of that magic left inside you
babyfinland posted:deadken posted:
youre right. after i read beckett's trilogy i went a bit crazy with the commas, puttin them everywhere, building all these absurd run-on sentences, i dont know why, something about them just appealed to me. mimesis lolits perfectly normal to internalize the masters. you go through a phase of pathetic mimickry but you just have to do it and then once you get it out of your system you have a little bit of that magic left inside you
yeah hopefully..... in terms of content i think i've always done me own thing, my mimickry is mostly stylistic.... like after i read all that celine i was putting ellipses everywhere (i still do in my posts for some reason), i was writing with a whole bunch of dashes after joyce, etc, etc
deadken posted:babyfinland posted:deadken posted:
youre right. after i read beckett's trilogy i went a bit crazy with the commas, puttin them everywhere, building all these absurd run-on sentences, i dont know why, something about them just appealed to me. mimesis lolits perfectly normal to internalize the masters. you go through a phase of pathetic mimickry but you just have to do it and then once you get it out of your system you have a little bit of that magic left inside you
yeah hopefully..... in terms of content i think i've always done me own thing, my mimickry is mostly stylistic.... like after i read all that celine i was putting ellipses everywhere (i still do in my posts for some reason), i was writing with a whole bunch of dashes after joyce, etc, etc
yeah youre finding your voice. you see a reflection of some latent aspect of your own voice in the masters and so you try to fish it out. its good, dont feel embarassed about it. i wrote like thomas pynchon for like a year and i still sort of feel like i do sometimes but i dont think its noticable as that kind of mimickry anymore
deadken posted:
post some of your pynchonpastiche
i dont think i have any of my writing on this laptop
gyrofry posted:
why do people like gardening idgi
here maybe this will help http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/heidegger-aesthetics/
deadken posted:babyfinland posted:deadken posted:
youre right. after i read beckett's trilogy i went a bit crazy with the commas, puttin them everywhere, building all these absurd run-on sentences, i dont know why, something about them just appealed to me. mimesis lolits perfectly normal to internalize the masters. you go through a phase of pathetic mimickry but you just have to do it and then once you get it out of your system you have a little bit of that magic left inside you
yeah hopefully..... in terms of content i think i've always done me own thing, my mimickry is mostly stylistic.... like after i read all that celine i was putting ellipses everywhere (i still do in my posts for some reason), i was writing with a whole bunch of dashes after joyce, etc, etc
this is pretty standard fare i think. i know i still litter semicolons and dashes everywhere and i'd used neither before reading The Old Masters.
i'm also a master of the ellipses . . . hehe. so my grammar is basically a frankenstein's monster at this point. it's fuckin awesome. the only thing i don't really use are run-on sentences even though i've littered even those everywhere in my first book
jools posted:
i write like John Christy
hEll yea
aerdil posted:
haha you fuckin people... i write like j.k. rowling
same, but Stephenie Meyer
tpaine posted:
my writing has been described as grudlesworthian in a superficial way by none other than the london review of books
i googled grundlesworthian and theres no wikipedia entry. make one? lf project tinkzorg style?
jools posted:
London Review of Blokes
please tell me there's a gay night at some north london club called this.
like those "best tits" competitions they do up norf but with McCaine type dudes rather than Sharon and Esta from a Grimsby fish factory.
Edit: I knew I wrote this post before. There are two threads about frats.
deadken posted:
i joined a frat lol. i was at the frat house and the dude gave me a pledge card and was like, do you want to join the frat, and i was like, lol, ok
i think ur supposed to go to a bunch of parties to pick the frat or something, not just join lol
animedad posted:deadken posted:
i joined a frat lol. i was at the frat house and the dude gave me a pledge card and was like, do you want to join the frat, and i was like, lol, oki think ur supposed to go to a bunch of parties to pick the frat or something, not just join lol
yeah we did that. they cant have big parties b/c its rush week or w/e but they hand some clandestine ones..... frat parties, you know, not as druggy or hedonistic as in the uk but Not Bad
EmanuelaOrlandi posted:
i think the further west you go the more retarded a frat get . . . like on the east coast they're on some skull and bones shit . . . by the time you get to arizona state they're all smoking weed and getting wasted at 2 pm in the common area . . . by the time you get to the west coast they're letting people like dead ken join and shit
lol