#81
penitent
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i got a couple more stories in from the class and while none of them have glaringly bad writing they're all so fucking dull, high school reminiscences or family dramas set in anywhere usa, tediously autobiographical, why fucking bother
#82
penitent
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one is about a ucla student who wants to be a writer but cant think of anything to write about and brings this up in conversation a bunch of times
#83
[account deactivated]
#84
penitent
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a lot of my writing is autobiographical in that my characters tend to be emotionally detached young men but i put them in different places
#85
[account deactivated]
#86
[account deactivated]
#87
San Francisco
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I don't know if anyone's life can truly be considered boring until they settle down and have kids.
#88
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deadken posted:
one is about a ucla student who wants to be a writer but cant think of anything to write about and brings this up in conversation a bunch of times


ahahah

#89
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deadken posted:
i got a couple more stories in from the class and while none of them have glaringly bad writing they're all so fucking dull, high school reminiscences or family dramas set in anywhere usa, tediously autobiographical, why fucking bother


welcome to american literature

#90
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deadken posted:
i just wrote a 2000 word stream of consciousness from the perspective of the unrepentant thief at golgotha. what the fuck am i doing i have essays to write


lol. write all the weird shit. also if people compare me anhy more to pynchon/dfw im gonna go crazy

#91
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discipline posted:
Ayat el Kursi


so much anxiety and smallness, i guess that's what the prevailing psychology is, i thought the geography was pretty cool, there is too much tension imo between three strands - that is the neurosis of the character, the plain descriptions of the city, and the desire to come out and attack the israelies. i liked the part with teh babie. your sentences are too short imho, butkeep in mind i'm an asshole who likes to fit like 5-10 clauses into each sentence if i feel like i can get away with it. i dont know about anythhing

#92
Mike Nelson here.
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last night my sister asked me if i was still thinking about taking a course because it might be good for me. and i said yeah actually i found one that starts next week i want to take if my parents would pay for it. and she said well you probably shouldn't because they already pay a lot of my bills until my disability comes on. well disability could take 6 months and there is no guarantee i'd be able to get free courses through it so basically i'd have to wait until may at the earliest. this gay earth.
#93
penitent
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Impper posted:

deadken posted:
i just wrote a 2000 word stream of consciousness from the perspective of the unrepentant thief at golgotha. what the fuck am i doing i have essays to write

lol. write all the weird shit. also if people compare me anhy more to pynchon/dfw im gonna go crazy



4realz i thought the whole point of writing was that you could do cool stuff with it & explore shit in a new way you've got this incredible toolkit of words and you can do anything with them literally anything. but the tutor said no scifi no fantasy no romance and it looks like everyone else just thought 'welp i'd better just write about an american college student who remembers a bunch of stuff from his past huh.' oh yeah and there's one about an old man mourning his wife and while its not badly written or anything its so fucking saccharine i want to grab the dude by the shoulders and say Literature Should Be Cold And Hard And Devastating It Should Glitter As Coolly As Diamonds And Cause As Much Destruction You Wanker

#94
penitent
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khamsek i liked ur thing it was kewl
#95
[account deactivated]
#96
penitent
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ive been writing so much lately because my loan hasnt come through and i have literally no money to go out so i've just been writing writing writing. things i have written in the last week:

- book writin machine story i just posted
- zarathustra in a nursing home
- an account of a performance by a rhizomatic orchestra
- stream of consciousness by the unrepentant thief on golgotha

blgueurgh
#97
[account deactivated]
#98
[account deactivated]
#99
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deadken posted:
khamsek i liked ur thing it was kewl



me too!

#100
penitent
Post rating: +
Zarathustra in Basel

The clear streams sing no more in the mountains, and the lush pastures of the plains shudder as articulated lorries rumble along the Autobahn.

Zarathustra is silent in the communal sitting-room of the Pflegeheim. The chilly winds of eternal recurrence have blown the hair from his head, and now only a dank grey fringe hangs limply down the back of his neck. His crown is scabbed and speckled, the sharp blue of his eyes has faded to beige, his lips quiver arhythmically. Only his nose still juts forward accusingly: a faint shadow of the ferociousness with which his eyes once interrogated those he spoke to lingers on in its haughty bend.

Once he had walked in the hills and the deserts, and had loved every thing that he saw. He had exulted in the poetry of the brooks and the mournful whisperings of the swirling sands. He had drunk deeply the cold water of the mountains, he had strode boldly through the dappled forests. He had walked on tightropes and danced on embers, and everywhere he went he would spread his teaching. Zarathustra scorned all morality and weakness, Zarathustra would never look behind him, Zarathustra would always surge on forward, in Zarathustra’s voice could be heard the screech of the eagle that embraces its freedom and the roar of the bear that does not hide from its own power. Except now there are no more rocky landscapes to traverse, and in front of him there leers a void. Once he might have plunged himself gleefully into that chasm. Now, for the first time, Zarathustra is afraid.

Zarathustra stares out the window. Across the street, rows of identical suburban houses behind neatly trimmed lawns. Clustered round them are globular cars, wheelie-bins, milk-bottles, plastic toys. Behind, the grey shape of the Hoffman-La Roche pharmaceutical factory, and in the hazy distance, the outline of the Basler Messeturm. There are mountains out there, somewhere in the distance, high peaks and jagged cliffs, glistening with ice, soaring through cloudless skies, bold and terrifying, the precipitous haunts of hawks and wolves. He can’t see them.

There’s a nurse. Perhaps she has always been there.

- Would you like us to bring you your lunch, Herr Köhler?

- Herr Köhler? I am Zarathustra. I am the imp dancing in the heart of the flames, I am the triumphant roar of the gale, I am the thunder of hooves and the surging of the sea. I am life itself. I drink only the pure light of the heavens. I eat only in the joyful company of my companions.

Only he doesn’t speak. The words roar in Zarathustra’s head, but his throat seizes up, and from his lips only a broken mumbling emerges. Maybe it’s because he almost doesn’t believe it any more.

- I’ll just get that for you, shall I?

Zarathustra never used to look over his shoulder at what he had left behind. Even if he came to the same place twice he would always find it different. Zarathustra never used to be remotely concerned with being or with essence, because he knew that everything around him was always becoming, always reaching out to be something greater. Now Zarathustra is trying to remember. Now Zarathustra is trying to remember who he is. He had been a Persian once, a wanderer, a lofty firebrand. And a Prussian, too, a solitary genius racked by frailties. But there are other faces and other images, his old class at Weiterbildungsschule, his commander during Militärdienst, the brown and avocado tiling of his bungalow – there’s no order to them, no sense. They are not Zarathustra’s memories.

- Here you go.

The nurse is holding a tray in front of him. In one little compartment, doughy-looking potatoes and semi-disintegrated beans. In another some shreds of stringy meat wallow in a puddle of gravy. A plastic cup half-filled with water, and three pills in red and purple capsules. It isn’t food: food must nourish the spirit as much as the body, it must leave a man feeling refreshed and vigorous. This is just matter, sustenance to stave off death for another day. It is smallness and mediocrity. He will not eat it. Zarathustra shakes his head.

- Am I going to have to feed you myself?

Balancing the tray in one hand, the nurse scoops up a forkful of meat and potatoes and brings it towards Zarathustra’s face.

- Open wide.

Zarathustra’s arm jerks out, he strikes the bottom of the tray with the last of his anger. Gravy splatters the nurse’s blouse, water drenches her face, potatoes slide down the front of her skirt. She storms out. Zarathustra isn’t proud of what he’s done, there’s no nobility in striking the small-minded, but he’s relieved that some dying glint of the Will still burns within him. He’s not been defeated, not yet.

The nurse returns, thin-lipped, cold-eyed. Kindness and humanity can only go so far. She tries so hard to help the old man, to keep him warm and safe and fed, but he seems incapable of gratitude. He doesn’t want to be helped. She knows that he’d appreciate the effort she puts in for him if he were in his right mind. She is a caring and selfless woman, even if hers is a thankless job. Two hundred milligrams of thioridazine for Zarathustra.
#101
[account deactivated]
#102
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writing collective wu ming style imho
#103
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deadken posted:
zarathustra.



ahahaha... profane everything, why dontcha... bastard...

#104
penitent
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#105
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a depiction of the writers in this thread :

#106
tardy on these heaters
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deadken posted:

Impper posted:

deadken posted:
i just wrote a 2000 word stream of consciousness from the perspective of the unrepentant thief at golgotha. what the fuck am i doing i have essays to write

lol. write all the weird shit. also if people compare me anhy more to pynchon/dfw im gonna go crazy

4realz i thought the whole point of writing was that you could do cool stuff with it & explore shit in a new way you've got this incredible toolkit of words and you can do anything with them literally anything.



lol

#107
tardy on these heaters
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These passages are from my forthcoming novel

The sole way, it seemed to her often enough when she was working at writing a poem, to use words with meaning, would be to choose words, for themselves, and invest them with her own meaning: not her own, perhaps, but meaning which was implicit in their shape, too frequently nothing to do with dictionary definition. The words which the tradition of her art offered her were by now, in chaos, coerced through the contexts of a million inanities, the printed page everywhere opiate, row upon row of compelling idiocies disposed to induce stupor, coma, necrotic convulsion; and when they reached her hands they were brittle, straining and cracking, sometimes they broke under the burden which her tense will imposed, and she found herself clutching their fragments, attempting again with this shabby equipment her raid on the inarticulate.



He's surrounded by untalented people, as we all are. Originality is a device that untalented people use to impress other untalented people, and protect themselves from talented people...

- Valentine, this is the last time ...

- Most original people are forced to devote all their time to plagiarizing. Their only difficulty is that is they have a spark of wit or wisdom themselves, they're given no credit. The curse of cleverness. Now wait, Brown. Stop. Stop there where you are and relax for a moment. We still have some business to straighten out. He needs to talk or he'll come to pieces, isn't that what you told me before he got here? Well let him talk, he's said some very interesting things. But don't let him talk to himself, that's all he's been doing, that's all he does when he talks to you and you don't listen, he knows you don't. Let him talk, then, but listen to him. He may not say anything clever, but that's just as well. Most people are clever because they don't know how to be honest. He paused.

- Come, my dear fellow. If you don't say anything I shan't be able to use you in this novel, the one in which Brown figures so monumentally since everyone thinks he's honest because he doesn't know how to be clever.



That romantic disease, originality, all around we see originality of incompetent idiots, they could draw nothing, paint nothing, just so the mess they make is original ... Even two hundred years ago who wanted to be original, to be original was to admit that you could not do a thing the right way, so you could only do it your own way. When you paint you do not try to make it better, so you copy masters, only masters, for with each copy of a copy the form degenerates ... you do not invent shapes, you know them, auswendig wissen Sie, by heart ...

Edited by babyfinland ()

#108
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yes, obviously ken is just saying whatever, man
#109
tardy on these heaters
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Impper posted:
yes, obviously ken is just saying whatever, man



shut up and know your place, you retarded pomo worm clone

#110
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lmao
#111
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i'm the opposite of a pomo you weirdo
#112
tardy on these heaters
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Impper posted:
i'm the opposite of a pomo you weirdo



thats so pomo.

#113
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no, it's not
#114
penitent
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babyfinland posted:
These passages are from my forthcoming novel Rape Niggers:



yes what i was getting at was that people should just shit words all over a page to make interesting patterns. congrats bf youre railing against a tendency that literally doesnt exist, well done, mazel tov, youve done it again, a triumph

#115
penitent
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- Come, my dear fellow. If you don't say anything I shan't be able to use you in this novel, the one in which Brown figures so monumentally since everyone thinks he's honest because he doesn't know how to be clever.

a line baby finland actually wrote, with his hands and so on
#116
tardy on these heaters
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#117
[account deactivated]
#118
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gaddis is a bum and a punk Ahhe
#119
[account deactivated]
#120
tardy on these heaters
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so pomo...