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/lit/ - Literature

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQbBzOvPBpc
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GIVE IT UP FOR DAY FIVE

...AND NOW...

...THE CHEETAHMEN



Relax...

Catalog

File: 1736271130871.jpeg(70.14 KB, 1558x2400, 61yRWyQkxKL.jpeg)

 No.113

Why aren't you reading it?

 No.115

Because Finnegan's Wake is better.

 No.116

Because Finnegan's Wake is better.

 No.117

>>113
>>115
Joyce's letters to his wife transcends all of his prose.

 No.118

because I already graduated from school

 No.120

Funny you should ask that, I've actually begun to read Joyce but I started with Portrait of the Artist first. I've heard Dubliners or The Dead are easier than Portrait, but it's far easier than Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. I know Finnegan's Wake is a nightmare in terms of difficulty, but other than that I'm not sure.

I wanted to challenge myself but didn't want to jump off the deep end I'm actually enjoying it. It has only certain moments can be fairly difficult at certain points, but it's far easier and more fun reading than I expected. Stream of consciousness writing is totally new to me, and it's really fun.

 No.121

>>120
Also sorry for the weird spacing! It's been a long day and I'm pretty tired.

 No.122

>>121
It's legible

 No.126

I prefer the omer book

 No.131

>>118
>he thinks reading literature ends at high school

ngmi

 No.132

>>118
>he thinks reading literature ends at high school

ngmi

 No.133

>>113
It's something fails us. First we feel. Then we fall. And let her rain now if she likes. Gently or strongly as she likes. Anyway let her rain for my time is come. I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights? All me life I have been lived among them but now they are becoming lothed to me. And I am lothing their little warm tricks. And lothing their mean cosy turns. And all the greedy gushes out through their small souls. And all the lazy leaks down over their brash bodies. How small it's all! And me letting onto meself always. And lilting on all the time.

For 'tis they are the stormies. Ho hang! Hang ho! And the clash of our cries till we spring to be free. Auravoles, they says, never heed of your name! But I'm loothing them that’s here and all I lothe. Loonely in me loneness. For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms. I see them rising! Save me from those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. So. Avelaval. My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I'll bear it on me. To remind me of. Lff!

Happy St. Paddy's. I hope you're well, anon.

 No.226

When I was in sixth grade I tried to read this and i was so harsh on myself for not understanding any of it, i was like: "I can't read in a foreign language for shit, I bet english first graders can read this with no problem".
I was so stupid.

 No.227

>>113
Reading it soon (with a v) this year.



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