/lit/ - Literature

>>3890224
expert trolling

>>3890202
If you think banning someone for posting nothing more than "ulysses is third rate" then you are obviously the idiot.

>>3890182
Again, I would prefer (strongly prefer) having strict moderation rather than disabling anonymity. But as the former seems impractical, this was another corrective suggestion.

>>3890165
This is not even close to being a decent analogy.

Seriously, just imagine how good this board would be if every bad post just resulted in a ban.

>>3890155
difficulty*

>>3890150
It is a statistical argument, based on the difficult (not the impossibility) of being truly original. And it is applicable to this board because many posters seem keen to talk about very interesting ideas but don't (as far as I can tell) seem interested in really doing the intellectual dirty work to reach conclusions themselves.

>>3890144
They appreciate it because they act without the ability to accept their acts with a quality of permanence, which is what each and every post is, permanent, made and unceasingly real. Anonymity is appreciated by those who don't want to accept how much time they're wasting or how foolish they're being. Or, the small few who as someone previously said strive for an ego-less discussion where each idea is considered independent of its source.

All intelligent thoughts have already been thought; what is necessary is only to try to think them again. -Goethe

Something I think a large portion of the /lit/ community really needs to think about.

>>3890135
Yes, I post on what is actually a very good literature subforum on a great website. It is just not very active.

>>3890114
This is mindless humor and mindless trolling. And if you're not trolling you're literally retarded.

I haven't read Ulysses. What I am using as an example of a prevalent /lit/ problem is that kind of spam, the "DFW is automatically a failed writer because some of his work is pretentious" mindless spam. Not dissenting opinions of Joyce.

Why are you trolling someone who is talking about applying standards to a bad but potentially good forum?

>>3890045
I DO want something different. I want a website where "ulysses is third rate" spam and similar nonsense receives an infraction. I am not against anonymity (or what you're linguistically representing as 'something different') I am against something with potential being horrid, which this board is. If the board were strictly moderated I would not advocate the repealing of anonymity, yet you are attacking me as if I'm a bigot.

The great irony is that if you actually read through my posts (on the lit board) you'd see that your comment was idiotic.

>>3889878
This is ineffective satire, because you missed the (obvious) point.

>>3889871
"in the words of" is not equivalent to "originated the concept of"

bump

>>3889585
Perhaps, but then we can attempt to reform their mental psychoses or at least disable them from participating in the delusive games they come here to play.

>>3889577
Doesn't the use of the phrase "shitposters" make you part of the problem?

It undermines their imagination-hurting quality of insipidity and sloth.

Literature is about creating a world that is, in the words of Don DeLillo, "realer than real".

Referring to the worst posters on here casually and dismissively as "shitposters" is like permitting the bully to steal lets say for example 10% of your lunch money every four weeks. It's passive and acquiescent.

>>3889560
I agree essentially with what you're saying, but this board's moderation is laughably inactive, and it is inarguable that if the majority of /lit/ users started using tripcodes, the board would be much better.

Do you have a better solution? It pains me to see a literature board (arguably with the most potential on the internet) in a state of such repulsive quality. There are very smart and very well-meaning posters on here, and doubtlessly there would be more if the board was strictly moderated, which I'm arguing we need to replace with a general condemnation of non-trip users, insofar as the moderation ceases to exist.

Hey /lit/, here's an idea.

To improve the board, all we need to do is to consider anyone posting without a tripcode as basically a non-entity, thus rendering the posts to which we'll pay attention better, because they will at least be created by and associated with some ineluctable identity.

So in short, if we want to collectively improve the board, we need to start posting with trips.

There are so many people wasting their time on here, probably because they feel like time wasting on /lit/ makes you smarter than if you were time wasting on /b/, and it really is a shame.

Perhaps one reason (aside from other, in my opinion valid reasons) why this board condemns David Foster Wallace is because the majority of this board indulges in the cheap kind of humor that DFW detested.

The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,—
But on the window licks the night.

Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No,— it is not fright...
But hold me... somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.

-Hart Crane

The Mountains—grow unnoticed—
Their Purple figures rise
Without attempt—Exhaustion—
Assistance—or Applause—

In Their Eternal Faces
The Sun—with just delight
Looks long—and last—and golden—
For fellowship—at night—

-Emily Dickinson

I think poetry is never discussed on here because most /lit/ posters are slightly smarter than average

The apple on its bough is her desire,--
Shining suspension, mimic of the sun.
The bough has caught her breath up, and her voice,
Dumbly articulate in the slant and rise
Of branch on branch above her, blurs her eyes.
She is prisoner of the tree and its green fingers.
And so she comes to dream herself the tree,
The wind possessing her, weaving her young veins,
Holding her to the sky and its quick blue,
Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight.
She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope
Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet.

-Hart Crane, "Garden Abstract"

>>3767298
-John Keats


When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

-William Shakespeare (Sonnet 15)

1.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

2.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-William Wordsworth