>wake up at 5 AM
>work until 4 PM
>try to read
>too tired to focus, end up shitposting and fucking around on the internet instead
>only read on the weekends
How do I fix this?
Become and aristocrat and acquire a lot of free time to do the things you love, like reading.
I'm not kidding. As long as you're a wage salve you wont have the time nor the energy to focus to read.
Does anyone have a link for The Knife Man: Blood, Body Snatching, and the Birth of Modern Surgery by Wendy Moore?
I Need it for my anatomy dissection course and there is no way i am paying my blood-sucking university any more money!
Could you give me a quick guide how to use this to download with utorrent?
And no, i applied this year, but my undergrad department had a dissection course so i am very lucky to get into that one.
I don't get it.
Was Visceral Realism supposed to be a passionate but ultimately empty movement, or was there supposed to be some kind of genius to works of Ceasera and Ulises and Belano?
And Sion too. I don't get it.
What are some good psychological thriller themed books where 2 or more characters are constantly trying to outwit each other?
>wash hands to keep books from getting dirty
>saturated fingertips warp pages
>Read in the shallow end of the pool
>know the dangers but so cool and nice, and im tall enough that I can kneel on the bottom whilst doing this
>Sometimes on concrete sometimes just crabwalking around
>Never drop any of my books
>first library book I do this with, it just slips through my fingers
Was lolita ever in love with Humbert? Or was it just an innocent crush? was Humbert just bullshitting us?
Discuss. Also general Lolita discussion/opinions because I have just finished reading it for the second time.
Very plausible, almost certain imo. Psychologically speaking, Lolita had no father figure growing up and it stands to reason that a sudden male influence in her life would be very attractive to a young girl.
At the same time, the extent to which Lolita actually liked Humbert was undoubtedly exaggerated.
I just finished reading it for the first time and thought it was amazing.
As for your question, no, Lolita was never in love with Humbert. At first, yeah, she had a slight crush, like all little girls have once, but she never loved him, neither as a father nor as a lover, and I'm pretty sure that ever since she found out about her mother she hated him.
Humbert was just so self-centered and deluded by crazy ass love that he couldn't realize he was making life hell for that child.
I loved the...
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Goodreads Thread with a twist, post your age and how long you browse 4 chan.
Why does everybody assume that K. was innocent?
Who assumes he was innocent? Noone in the book, surely. Not even K.
Are you suggesting the readers do? Only those who reduce Kafka's entire oeuvre to bureaucratic satire would come up with something so daft.
I think it's quite clear K. is guilty.
How can I learn to read poetry? It seems like an impossible task, especially the allusion-heavy stuff. Now you'll tell me "you don't need to get every allusion to appreciate the poem!", and in a sense you are right, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing out on something.
Fantastic essay on Nietzsche:
> The philosopher John Searle once told me that reading Nietzsche was like drinking cognac -- a sip was good, but you didn't want to drink the whole bottle.
> Nietzsche had come to stand for something absolute and pure, like gilded Byzantium or Ahab's whale; he represented what I imagined I might have been. He had become a permanent horizon.
> What was great in Nietzsche was not, I began to see, his holiness, maybe not even his wisdom. It was his courage.
> We go to literary shrines to touch things. We run our fingers along the writing table, we furtively step over the red velvet rope and finger the water jug by the edge of the bed. Yet to feel the pedestal is to call the very idea of the pedestal into question. Which is why there is something comic in all pilgrimages: while Don Quixote holds loftily forth, Sancho Panza steals the ashtray.
> I could not pity Nietzsche. It was a betrayal of everything he had believed. He had railed against pity. Compassion was for the hearth-huddlers, the followers, those who lacked the strength to turn themselves into ''dancing stars.'' The last temptation of the higher man, Nietzsche had taught, was pity; on its far side was a roaring, Dionysian, inhuman laughter.
> But my heart won the war. Maybe it was resignation -- the final acceptance that I was not going to forge myself into a new shape. Maybe it was weariness with a doctrine, with all doctrines, that sounded delirious but that couldn't be used. Whatever it was, I stopped fighting. Yes, part of Nietzsche would always stand far above the tree line, and I would treasure that iciness. But I had to walk on the paths where I could go.
Last one hit limit. Now it's official! Any type of writing is welcome. Pastebins, google drives, anything. Rate, give advice and critique to have people do the same with your writing.
heres an easy format for beginners to use.
One day, somehow, someway, there appeared a stain
But it was no smear, it was a splatter of red paint of the dark shade
That shade of red found after the slice of a sharp blade
And it cut deep and brought shame everyday
People claim time alleviates all pain but how can it soothe this rotten stain
Later the pre-existing paint fades away and turns a shade of grey
That shade of grey found after a loved one passes away
That shade grey found when love is just a hopeless aspiration
That shade of grey found after a...
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Their split whispers float into the night like ember. Outlines of tangled hair strangled with bands, the teeth behind the kisses. The car lurches, a trauma subsides into their bellies and they laugh with their heads cocked. The trees pass alike in the shortly illuminated dark and a nameless song plays on the radio. Absent is the dust from summer, bringing forth commodious air. It’s winter and it’s cold, always cold.
Is liberal democracy doomed?
I'm really in a need of a laugh. Rain outside, fucked up achilles, can't run, and I think i'm catching cabins fever. Thinking of rereading Hichhikers again, it's pretty much the only thing that really made me laugh, besides few passages from Fear and Loathing in Vegas. Prachett made me chuckle occasionally, and nothing else even came close.
So, is it just me, or are books just really lousy when it comes to comedy?
What books should i read if i wanted to explore my angst-filled childhood? I'm talking about feelings like not being good enough, feeling 'behind' in regards to girlfriends and such, feeling an overwhelming burden of responsibility from your parents and so forth.
Any other anons know what I'm talking about? I'm referring to the prepubescent age if you are in doubt.
> pic is my grandfather and my uncle