/lit/ - Literature

>>17040327
Stem major here biotech. Have plenty of sex. Interested in literature but a degree in it seems like waste and stupid. Wishing the best of luck to all of you who are aiming for the top.

>>15103159
The Greeks started with him.

>>12813383
>babby's first metacognition
just keep doing it or else you'll devolve into a normie

>Beginning of a novel I'm working on

It was on a windy morning in March, just after the final orgiastic exhalation of Carnival, that we bore the Maestro’s sepulcher up the bald mountainside to be buried beneath the Adriatic sky. The sun, raucous, beat down upon our dusty backs like a mad timpanist, and the coruscant sea galleries of blue and turquoise gleefully beamed it back into our eyes. We stumbled blindly, blinking against the light, investigating the pebbled earth for some anchor to keep us out of the broad expanses of the sky. It was akin to an opera house after the last patron has departed—the floor strewn with champagne glasses and forgotten hats. The house lights illuminate a sloughed-off shell that had once been a womb, that had once held a world within it, that had blazed magical. One notes the drab draperies, the staid upholstery, the moldering carpets, the gauche sea maidens and gargoyles whose flimsy gilding is already peeling. In the same way was our island reduced to a desert baking in the sun, encrusted with grubby olive trees and naked vines where in ancient times a monk might have fled to perch upon a pillar.

Aglio, Olio, and myself—the last of the Maestro’s disciples—carried the load up the mountain. The village priest, Umberto, straining in his black vestments and walrus mustaches, followed some distance behind, swinging his psalter and mumbling benedictions while struggling vainly to keep a hold of his breath. We had embarked at dawn, but did not arrive at the cemetery until well after noon. It was a desolate place, cracked and windswept. The gravestones were scrubbed by the winds and illegible. We had worked up a sweat from our labor, but a bitter wind suddenly whipped down from the north that made us shiver in our greatcoats. As the priest began the ceremony, the horizon greyed with clouds, and rain fell on San Domino in the distance.

Few words were said. No tears fell. There were no ululations, no heartfelt orations, no wailing women or stone-faced men, no rusty trumpeters or ill-tuned drums, no tear-smudged grandmothers to greet us with heaping bowls of pudding and wine. The ceremony done, we turned the stony earth over the casket of raw timbers and lay some carnations at the foot of the marker that read:

HERE LIES THE ILLUSTRIOUS MAESTRO OF THE ISLE OF SAN TEODORO, REKNOWN THROUGHOUT THE WORLD AS A FABULOUS MASTER OF DISGUISE, WHOSE NAME IS UNKNOWN

Then, we went down to the village.