/lit/ - Literature

>>18896788
I am making a few changes, but I don't expect much to change with the review. L'Academie was a surprise disappointment, and when I do talk about L'Academie, it'll be about how it pales in comparison to Waldun's first book, which in hindsight, was a masterpiece.

Later tonight I'm going to record the first ~20 minutes of audio for the review and then then tomorrow I'm going to use my library's wifi to upload it to youtube and post it here to see to get some feedback.

Somewhere in Melbourne, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, lives a trust-fund kiddie. One of those who has a typewriter and YouTube Play button gathering dust on a shelf. An occasional coffee brewed only from the finest French roasts, rice more often than bread, stir fry on most nights, eggs and abstinence on Saturdays, and sometimes Shark Fin soup as a treat on Sundays-these consumed one-tenth of his allowance. The rest went to used books from musky second-hand bookstores, the finest stationary from Muji, and seldom leafed through hardcover copies of classic literature.

Our young gentlemen is approximately 20 years old, his complexion is soft and delicate, his face round, and is a very early riser and a great lover of aesthetics. Some claim that his family name is Woo or Wa, for in attempts to conceal his identity from the prying (and often sinister) curiosity of the web, his screen name has changed several times in the past couple years, although reliable conjecture seems to indicate that his name is Wu.

And so, let it be said that this aforementioned gentleman spent his times of leisure-which meant most of the year-collecting the finest clothes of vintage prep-school fashion and posing with suitable books in hand (the titles always in prominent display for the camera!) for Instagram and YouTube. Falling into such enthusiasm for the “dark academic” aesthetic and it's projected image of learnedness, he began to peek into some of the books he formerly only adorned. So inspired was he by the prose and daring nature of the beatniks that he forgot almost completely about his formal studies or the management of his allotted funds. In his rash curiosity and folly he went so far as to quit his part time job and pursue a career as a writer.

A fan of the Jazz Age writers featured in Midnight in Paris as well as other celebrated literary figures of the 20th Century, he thought none were as fine as Jack Kerouac. Because the clarity of his prose and complexity of his thought seemed to him more valuable than pearls. In particular when he read the declarations of rebellion: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” And also: “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

With these words and phrases our poor little chink lost his mind.

Somewhere in Melbourne, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, lives a trust-fund kiddie. One of those who has a typewriter and YouTube Play button gathering dust on a shelf. An occasional coffee brewed only from the finest French roasts, rice more often than bread, stir fry on most nights, eggs and abstinence on Saturdays, and sometimes Shark Fin soup as a treat on Sundays-these consumed one-tenth of his allowance. The rest went to used books from musky second-hand bookstores, the finest stationary from Muji, and seldom leafed through hardcover copies of classic literature.

Our young gentlemen is approximately 20 years old, his complexion is soft and delicate, his face round, and is a very early riser and a great lover of aesthetics. Some claim that his family name is Woo or Wa, for in attempts to conceal his identity from the prying (and often sinister) curiosity of the web, his screen name has changed several times in the past couple years, although reliable conjecture seems to indicate that his name is Wu.

And so, let it be said that this aforementioned gentleman spent his times of leisure-which meant most of the year-collecting the finest clothes of vintage prep-school fashion and posing with suitable books in hand (the titles always in prominent display for the camera!) for Instagram and YouTube. Falling into such enthusiasm for the “dark academic” aesthetic and it's projected image of learnedness, he began to peek into some of the books he formerly only adorned. So inspired was he by the prose and daring nature of the beatniks that he forgot almost completely about his formal studies or the management of his allotted funds. In his rash curiosity and folly he went so far as to quit his part time job and pursue a career as a writer.

A fan of the Jazz Age writers featured in Midnight in Paris as well as other celebrated literary figures of the 20th Century, he thought none were as fine as Jack Kerouac. Because the clarity of his prose and complexity of his thought seemed to him more valuable than pearls. In particular when he read the declarations of rebellion: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” And also: “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

With these words and phrases our poor little chink lost his mind.

>>18645375
But that's it for this video. Hope you guys enjoyed it and I will keep updating you people at the community … community post section. Gonna share pieces of the story as I edit through it as I found find some gold in there, I can share it to you people, share with you people, but nevertheless that's it for this video. I shall see you in the next one.

Somewhere in Melbourne, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, lives a trust-fund kiddie. One of those who has a typewriter and YouTube Play button gathering dust on a shelf. An occasional coffee brewed only from the finest French roasts, rice more often than bread, stir fry on most nights, eggs and abstinence on Saturdays, and sometimes Shark Fin soup as a treat on Sundays-these consumed one-tenth of his allowance. The rest went to used books from musky second-hand bookstores, the finest stationary from Muji, and seldom leafed through hardcover copies of classic literature.

Our young gentlemen is approximately 20 years old, his complexion is soft and delicate, his face round, and is a very early riser and a great lover of aesthetics. Some claim that his family name is Woo or Wa, for in attempts to conceal his identity from the prying (and often sinister) curiosity of the web, his screen name has changed several times in the past couple years, although reliable conjecture seems to indicate that his name is Wu.

And so, let it be said that this aforementioned gentleman spent his times of leisure-which meant most of the year-collecting the finest clothes of vintage prep-school fashion and posing with suitable books in hand (the titles always in prominent display for the camera!) for Instagram and YouTube. Falling into such enthusiasm for the “dark academic” aesthetic and it's projected image of learnedness, he began to peek into some of the books he formerly only adorned. So inspired was he by the prose and daring nature of the beatniks that he forgot almost completely about his formal studies or the management of his allotted funds. In his rash curiosity and folly he went so far as to quit his part time job and pursue a career as a writer.

A fan of the Jazz Age writers featured in Midnight in Paris as well as other celebrated literary figures of the 20th Century, he thought none were as fine as Jack Kerouac. Because the clarity of his prose and complexity of his thought seemed to him more valuable than pearls. In particular when he read the declarations of rebellion: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” And also: “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

With these words and phrases our poor little chink lost his mind.