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Dank Prose Thread?

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 02:57:13 No.7297265 View Reply Report Delete

Bros could we get some dank prose in here? Passages, images of text, authors and their works welcome. No poetry, only dank prose

From "Either/Or, Part I"

From "Either/Or, Part I" Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:03:00 No.7297278 Report Delete

Quoted By: >>7297284 >>7297296 >>7297305

"This is what it amounts to: on the one hand, he constantly hopes for something he should be remembering, his hope is constantly disappointed, but on its being disappointed he discovers that the reason is not that the goal has been moved further on but that he has gone past it, that it has already been experienced, or is supposed to have been, and has thus passed over into memory. On the other hand, he constantly remembers something he should be hoping for; for in thought the future is something he has already taken up, he has experienced it in thought, and that which he has experienced is something he remembers instead of hopes for. Consequently what he hopes for lies behind him, and what he remembers lies before him. His life is not backwards but back-to-front in two directions. He will soon notice his misfortune even if he does not grasp what it really consists in. But to make sure that he really gets the chance to feel it, that misunderstanding comes along which every moment in a remarkable way casts ridicule. He enjoys, for everyday purposes, the reputation of being in his right mind, yet he knows that were he to explain to a single person just how things were with him, he would be declared mad. This itself is enough to drive a person mad, yet he does not become so, and that is precisely his misfortune. His misfortune is that he has come to the world too soon and is therefore constantly arriving too late. He is forever quite close to the goal and the same moment at a distance from it; he now discovers that what it is that makes him unhappy, because now he has it, or because he is this way, is precisely what a few years ago would have made him happy if he had had it then, whereas then he was unhappy because he did not have it.

From "Either/Or, Part I"

From "Either/Or, Part I" Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:04:03 No.7297280 Report Delete

Quoted By: >>7297284 >>7297296

His life has no meaning, like that of Ancaeus, of whom it is customary to say that nothing is known of him except that he gave rise to a proverb: ‘There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip’, as if this were not more than enough. His life knows no rest and has no content, he is not present to himself in the moment, not present to himself in the future, for the future has been experienced, and not in the past, because the past has still not arrived. Thus is he chased about, like Latona to the Hyperborean darkness, to the bright isle of the Equator, and cannot give birth and is constantly as though just about to. Left to himself he stands in the wide world alone, he has no contemporaneity to attach himself to, no past he can long for, for his past has still not arrived, and no future he can hope for, for his future is already past.

From "Either/Or, Part I"

From "Either/Or, Part I" Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:05:05 No.7297281 Report Delete

Quoted By: >>7297284 >>7297296

"Alone, he has the whole world over against him as the ‘Thou’ with which he finds himself in conflict. For all the rest of the world is to him just one person, and this person, this inseparable, importunate friend, this is the misunderstanding. He cannot become old, for he has never been young; he cannot become young, for he has already become old; in a way he cannot die, for he has never lived; in a way he cannot live, for he is already dead; he cannot love, for love is always in the present, and he has no present time, no future, no past, and yet he is of a sympathetic nature, and he hates the world only because he loves it; he has no passion, not because he lacks it, but because that same instant he has the opposite; he has no time for anything, not because his time is taken up with something else, but because he has no time at all; he is powerless, not because he lacks strength, but because his own strength makes him impotent.”

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:05:29 No.7297284 Report Delete

Quoted By: >>7297295

>>7297278
>>7297280
>>7297281
this is all trash tho

From "Either/Or, Part I"

From "Either/Or, Part I" Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:06:07 No.7297285 Report Delete

Quoted By: >>7297296

"So accept, then, our wish, a good wish: may no one understand you, but all envy you; may no friend attach himself to you, no girl love you; may no secret sympathy suspect your solitary pain; may no eye fathom your distant sorrow; may no ear detect your secret sigh! Or if your proud soul scorns such expressions of sympathy, spurns the alleviation, may the girls love you, may those with child seek you out in their anguish, may mothers put their hopes in you, may the dying look to you for comfort, may the young attach themselves to you, may husbands depend upon you, may the aged one reach out to you as to a staff – may all the world believe you are able to make it happy. So live well, then, you the unhappiest one! But what am I saying, the unhappiest, I ought to say the happiest, for this indeed is a gift of fortune that no one can give to themselves. See, language fails, and thought is confounded; for who is the happiest except the unhappiest, and who the unhappiest except the happiest? And what is life but madness, and faith but folly, and hope but reprieve, and love but salt in the wound?

He vanished, and we stand again before an empty grave. Then let us wish him peace and rest and recovery, and all possible good fortune, and an early death, and an eternal oblivion, and no remembrance lest even the memory of him should make another unhappy."

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:13:23 No.7297295 Report Delete

Quoted By:

>>7297284
Show us your own prose fam

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:13:25 No.7297296 Report Delete

Quoted By:

>>7297278
>>7297280
>>7297281
>>7297285
The Kierkman really was one of the best psychologists ever

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:17:26 No.7297305 Report Delete

Quoted By: >>7297311 >>7297334

>>7297278
dude, wtf are you doing, prose=fiction prose, not Christposting some half baked philosophy that you masturbate to for self assurance

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:22:03 No.7297311 Report Delete

Quoted By:

>>7297305
>dude, wtf are you doing, prose=fiction prose
>dude, wtf are you doing, drinks=dr pepper
>dude, wtf are you doing, bread=toast
>dude, wtf are you doing, colour=blue

Opening to Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash

Opening to Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:33:24 No.7297326 Report Delete

Quoted By:

Though sunlight tinges the mountains, black leatherwinged bodies swing low. First fireflies blink languidly. Beyond this meadow, cicadas rev and slow like sewing machines. All else ready for night except night itself. I watch last light lift off level land. Ground shadows seep and thicken. Circling trees form banks. The meadow itself becomes a pond filling, on its surface dozens of black-eyed susans.

Opening to Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash

Opening to Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:34:31 No.7297329 Report Delete

Quoted By:

I sit on ground cooling, soon dew-damp. Near me a moldboard plow long left. Honeysuckle vines twine green cords, white flowers attached like Christmas lights. I touch a handle slick from wrist shifts and sweaty grips. Memory of my grandfather’s hands, calluses round and smooth as worn coins. One morning I’d watched him cross the field, the steel oar rippling soil. In its wake, a caught wave of sillion shine. But this plow has wearied into sleep. How long lying here? Perhaps a decade, since saplings and saw briar rise amid broom sedge. Above all else, those bold yellow blossoms in full-petaled bloom. What has brought me here.

A deer emerges from the woods, nose up, stilt step then steadying pause, another hoof lifted. Dark rises around me. The black-eyed susans float like water lilies. All else disappears but they hold their yellow glow. Moon mirrors, sun ghosts. Dream abeyant. When the night-pond floods its banks, I walk the trail to the state park truck. Maybe another time, Les had answered when I invited him, claiming sheriff business to attend to. The trail steepens. When I look back at the meadow, only darkness.

Opening to Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash

Opening to Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:35:39 No.7297332 Report Delete

Quoted By:

Lascaux. What wonder to have made such a descent. Tar-pitched torch wood swabbing stone with light. Swerves and drops and slant downs. Dark rushing up behind each step. Then to find them there in the cave’s hollow core—bison and ibex, but others lost elsewhere to the world: saber cats and woolly mammoths, irish elk. All live-motioned in the wavering light, girthed by curves of stone. Amid it all the runic human handprint. Where less art’s veil between us and the world? How strange that Hopkins’ quill scratches let me see more. Invisioning before seeing. But the first message there inside the cave walls. What wonder yet echoes from the world’s understory.

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 03:39:26 No.7297334 Report Delete

Quoted By:

>>7297305
>tfw will never be this retarded

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 04:24:11 No.7297393 Report Delete

Quoted By:

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 08:06:52 No.7297766 Report Delete

Quoted By:

I'll post some weird auto-generated text I've been receiving as spam emails for a while.

Whatever you in such things he would.
nZWAnd ready to sleep with every word. Shoulder and since emma trying
Mountain wild by their way down. Promise me know mary some.
Because you are the smoke from what
Against him her face when emma. Maybe we may be their home
á′ÑBrown eyes with emma touched his mouth
ZU7Him down beside mary crawled inside
Snow covered with his dark eyes. Cora came as fast enough
Here in thought you must. Someone had been doing his thoughts were. Done before leaving george found his friends.
Sounds of those men had been there. Mind if things he needed her that. Against it any help with great grandpap. Said not because he ever.
§4fBrown but my father and yer thinking. She saw emma drew her life. Wish we found himself through.
Without looking down her pa was josiah.
8ÊoWhen it that will for them emma. Speak up the next morning josiah. Than when her own pa was hard.
Understand what he thought about.

Anonymous

Anonymous Thu 29 Oct 2015 12:22:12 No.7298341 Report Delete

Quoted By:

>>7297265
>At Actium it was the unborn Arabian Culture that was opposed to iron-grey Classical Civilization; the issue lay between Principatc and Caliphate. Antony’s victory would have freed the Magian soul; his defeat drew over its lands the hard sheet of Roman Imperium. A comparable event in the history of the West is the battle between Tours and Poitiers, A.D. 732. Had the Arabs won it and made “Frankistan” into a caliphate of the North-east, Arabic speech, religion, and customs would have become familiar to the ruling classes, giant cities like Granada and Kairawan would have arisen on the Loire and the Rhine, the Gothic feeling would have been forced to find expression in the long-stiffened forms of Mosque and Arabesque, and instead of the German mysticism we should have had a sort of Sufism.

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Dank Prose Thread?