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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature

Thread replies: 18
Thread images: 5
Critic thread

Don't be too harsh on the grammar, I just google translated it to english and corrected all the mistakes I could find.


The true artist is not pretentious nor he boasts of his condition; the artist simply, by his very nature, is. Being totally immersed in his art, the subject must do just as he directed by it. This is, usually, in an instinctive, improvised, but essentially, natural way. The artist should not even take into account what others may think or the impact that his actions might have. The artist simply acts; He expresses what he feels and reacts to it. A true artist, however, does not intend to be instinctive or improvised or anything on purpose. The true artist is not aware of this; the pure spontaneity of art is similar to a code installed by default in the DNA of the artist. The artist can be fully aware of his state of art, but has no control whatsoever of the actions that might be motivated by it. It is indeed a mystery. The artist can be very wise and knowledgeable, which is normally the case, but for him, art will always be a mystery. It is this combination, the mystery of art with the intelligence of the subject, which results in the greatest literary, musical and visual works in the history of mankind. The unknown and mystery, fed by the experiences, memories and desires (the flesh) of the subject, generate all the features that make up the work, while the other wise and knowing half is the one in charge of structuring and attach them to each effectively.

It is by all of this, that in the damp darkness of October, at about two in the morning, the streets of downtown Guatemala City were awakened by a poor artist who ran striding through the puddles and rain. Ignacio came running from La Aurora to the center, the only place he could consider safe at that time. In his race to get to his uncle, Ignacio had managed to arouse three homeless men that were sleeping on the sidewalks, and had earned a couple of insults from some drunks from a canteen. Naturally, Ignacio didn't give a fuck about it at the time. He was drunk in his thought, shocked by what had happened, about how he was going to explain it and what he would do now that it had happened. The only thing he had to worry about, at least for now, was to get safely to his uncle's house, just about seven more blocks far: it was near the Central Park. He had two thousand quetzales in cash in his left pocket, along with some gum, and his phone on the right. He ran as the rain soaked more and more."

Any opinions or suggestions? Post yours to critic them too.
Those are the first lines of the first chapter, by the way.
I like it
Ignoring grammar, you have some good ideas. However, the casual language in the second paragraph feels awkward. Normally I'd want some sort of transitional effort to be put into such a switch, but here it's on the edge of working without one. I dunno.
Las Vegas is perforated by homeless. Or so I was told when I first came across the Prom Club. Midnight on the idolatrous strip:the place where money is given tombs, and people given the boot. The splattering of bile and dung on ocher sidewalks; the blistering lights overhead giving shadow and warmth— that when viewed from the air resemble a monolithic fly lamp attracting leaden flights to its zapping embrace. Yes the city of sin, built on the back of Hoover Dam, he had a whiskey sour for a mouth, and a gouging mosquito gaze that reddened eyes.
Holiday for Shakespeare
Oh William, Oh William, I love you so much,
but you're history now, Bill, unavailable to touch.
The sum total of your life was an eight plus a five
divided by zero by the skeleton and the scythe.

Afflicted by sorrow for a man I've never met.
Desire is a remedy for his fake silhouette.
Does this longing for you mean that I'm guilty of self-projection?
Oh I forgot, you're not here to answer my questions.

With no object of affection how can this need mean so much?
Can we project love onto things that we can't even touch?
If desire is in question you were necessity's answer
to the cause and the effect of this emotional transfer.

Necessity seems formless, something in common with you,
yet when it attaches itself to matter it sticks better than glue.
It takes all your belongings and into a burning hole it pushes
Oh, the fragrant crackle of dried rose bushes

I burnt for you not with you your fire needs no end
Someday I'll join you in the vacuum into which I only stare.
So divorced from your image, I sent alimony checks of love
in heaven-sent envelopes addressed to none of the above.

(She was a martyr of free expression. She kept her letters in a locked compartment because she knew someday the role of Judas would be played out on her deathbed by the New York City Police Department.)
Face Pulls

lets get ascetic like i learned a new word
in myself roll up
outside: fuck the grass
5 days a week
community center
eat my own ass
hypertrophy insulin metabolic window
whey and 3-5 rep ranges

dear dudes under 5'9",
the best ur gonna get is JGL in Don Jon
so stop your bulk
you look like a bowling ball
Sincerely (goOOttttum),
5'6" 170.

im bulkin the fuck up to hype myself
as that new 13 years younger than tao lin
post-vegan post-alt fuck a flanel age of lit
no fuckin way steve roggenbuck can bench bodyweight.
leyner tried this shit but he aint got no characters
bitch i got 6 and theyre all based on different freckles on my dick
fuck, shit spoken word deaf grips
cheaply try-abrasive for that i-aint-no-bitch card hand
what’s your brand?
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went looking through your blog, realized you're a total dick
this is complete garbage. please don't do it again.
Be as critical as you can please. I'm not done with it yet:
“When you are a child, your parents are like gods: you see them as these strong, independent, all-knowing, beings who are there to guide you with a steady hand, or there to punish you with swift fists of retribution when the time comes. There then comes a point, sometime as you grow older, that you realize just how similar you and your parents are. You realize that while they seemed omnipotent, they are often struggling to come to terms with the world, just as you are. Oftentimes, you no longer take everything they say as gospel, and you begin to doubt their advice, for you are now wise to the fact that they are in the same boat as you. So you break off from them; you assert your independence, and you feel like it’s time for you to blaze your own path, in some glorious ascendence into adulthood: you test out your ideas, you make mistakes, although sometimes you grasp blindly for help. It might be rough going, but the feeling is liberating. However, did you ever stop to think about the implications of realizing that your “gods” you turned to as a child, are now false, invalid, impotent? Those omniscient rulers, who you based your actions, your attitudes on; the ones who taught you what moral paths to follow, what to discriminate, what was wrong and right, correct and incorrect, all of these dichotomies that are just forming. Whether or not your makers, your idols and your sculptors have good intentions, who’s to say.... but that is what they are, to you. They shape you, mold you like the caring potter does to the wet clay, as the bat spins endlessly on the potter’s wheel, the sculptor shaping you, it’s your pure being… fighting against the hands, rife with centrifugal force, you spin and spin, concentric shapes abound…”
“Jeremiah”, she interjects.
“What? What are you… what was that?”
“You’re referencing the book of Jeremiah, or at least I think so. Maybe not. Some other parable?”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“You, right then, the clay in the potter’s hand thing… I’m pretty sure you’re referencing the book of Jeremiah.” she says, finishing with a sip of her coffee, feeling proud at her arrival to this conclusion.
He stares for a moment and blinks, recovering, before returning to his self-important monologue:
“Do you understand what I’m getting at? Don’t you think there are some serious ramifications to that unwanted epiphany? Something inside you fractures, a pane of glass too thin to hold the weight; it’s bending, fracture points beginning, the brittle silica and other minerals shifting much too quickly for it to retain its previous shape. Some revelation like that and all of it is fit to shatter at the lightest touch, at the hint of a breeze. Didn’t you ever think of that, about these, these…”
“Was that revelations with a capital-r?”, with a teasing look.
So, uh, what are you trying to achieve with Phuc the postman? Because from where I stand (I was going to start a parenthetical chain here to parody you, but I'm too lazy (or am I? (Yes (as in "Yes, I am") (how ironic am I right now? (I can't even tell myself, actually (I'm not closing all these parentheses, just btw, because I actually am pretty lazy), the text seems overeager to perform for the reader but doesn't acknowledge our probable exhaustion at the horns of its parentheses.
there are a lot of things that I’m not gonna talk about because there’s a 6% chance it’ll end up making some 10th graders lit homework easier in 2050. also, cool authors always leave it a mystery. mort de l'auteur and shit.

also, when you want to close a bunch of parentheses all at once just use a bracket or brace at the end. parentheses mean a lot of things. they blur the line between first and third person (which I like because all fiction is really third person since the author is pretty inextricable from a text). they’re nested like meta-thoughts, which I like. If Tao Lin characters didn’t have any drugs they would think like this. it’s tabbed browsing in prose form. it’s dfw’s footnotes if he (a) wanted to make sure people read them and (b) wasn’t so obsessed with his idea of low-key humble brag sincerity. also, what’s more meta-oscillatory than going back and forth between sincerity and irony as one contracts inwards? what’s contradictory about supposedly contracting as you write with more unabashed flash than anyone since Mark Leyner? the same thing that’s contradictory about being a death of the author post-structuralist and an ad hominem via historical privilege SJW and calling them both postmodern. don’t show me critical theory and Frankfurt School and tell me Social Justice Warrior-ism (which I don’t really have a huge problem with in a vacuum, since yeah life sucks for women and minorities and gays and trans people and I totally get that (but only to the extent to which I can get that)) is academic po-mo. it’s metamodern as fuck.

i’m gonna stop rambling because

if i’m gonna make this coherent i’ll have to write an essay and i don’t feel like it right now
i hear people like their themes implicit these days
i’m on tumblr and don’t want to piss off the handful of followers I have (I’m not big enough to be bold enough to bite the hand that may one day feed me scraps)
to find out more, go help me get my first novel Phuc Stevenson published

Found this shit too
He deflated with a sharp sigh, retreating to his coffee and scone. It was early morning in the cafe, and there was a steady stream of patrons already waiting for their refreshments; they bided their time in lines, exchanging pleasantries or momentary glances with each other while they waited for their caffeine. Snatches of conversation could be heard, a whisper here, a chuckle there; a conversation between two middle-aged women, makeup and hair imperceptibly askew, both obviously weary:
“I’m telling you, it’s not right…”
“He just wants to help, the poor bastard…”
“And I told him no, that I didn’t need his help, any of his handouts. I’d be fine…”
Two college students sitting in the far corner:
“So there I was…”
“Yeah, and?”
“Hold on, jesus hold on, I’m getting there…”
A young neurotic girl who, from the looks of it was running not on caffeine but on pure anxiety instead was being calmed by her disinterested colleague:
“I just can’t handle all of this stress, it’s killing me, I truly believe it.”
“Oh stop, you’ll be fine, there isn’t anything to worry about.”
“I’m telling you, it’s killing me! I don’t know how to continue, I… I must…”
Flitting over to a husband and wife, both heavily overweight discussing local events:
“That’s right, pulmonary embolism. Dead within minutes, as fast as…
“My god, I can’t imagine. She was so young, that’s incredible.”
The sound was oppressive, stifling; it created a pure wall of misconnections and communication that enveloped the surrounding area. The chatter and noise threatened to drown out their conversation at times.
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Black was the knight
Sharp was his sword
The maiden wept
A dragon roared
The knight asked the king
To help him with his quest
The king coldly scoffed
"Surely you jest!"
So the knight found a wizard
A wizened old man
To help slay the dragon
So they hatched a plan
The knight hallowed off
With his weapon enchanted
He rescued the maiden
And her wish was granted
They returned to the kingdom
The crowds giddy with laughter
And that all lived
Happily ever after
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Galloped* fucking phone
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Can someone rate the OP please?
Fuck off op
Hello Not-Pynchon, we meet again.
I like it, and would read it. What is it about?
Thread replies: 18
Thread images: 5
Thread DB ID: 72253

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