Your native language

>Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelt fouler. By the time the moon came up, she was shitting brown water. The more she drank, the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew.

English
Maybe Tennyson's Idylls of the King, or something by Shelley.

my diary, desu

English
Ulysses (by Tennyson, not that meme book)

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He is a master of style, not in the way that it’s a dick-measuring contest of who can write the most complicated prose, it’s actually satisfying to read. He is very empathetic towards humanity, interested in theology, in history, in myth, and he can write a great adventure story.

Moby Dick is just a wonderful book. I didn’t read it until I was about 21 or so because my dad told me growing up that it was shit and one of the few classics that didn’t deserve to be a classic. When I finally gave it a try, it was tons of fun and I really fell in love with it. He’s my favorite writer now I think, I’ve since read Billy Budd and Bartleby the Scrivener, and I look forward to exploring the rest of his work.

La vida es sueño

Hungarian
Madách’s “The tragedy of man”

very true im reading it right (moby dick) good book i have to say, hard to get into tho because of the old vocab

*now

thanks tom

English
Pearl
ayy, I saw the animated film. It was really good

English

RESIDENT EVIL 2 REIMAGINED CLAIRE REDFIELD FULL NUDE MOD 4K 60FPS!!!

Glad you're not my fucking pleb son

Shit. Wrong copy and paste.

Mi diario para ser honesto

Amor constante más allá de la muerte

Cerrar podrá mis ojos la postrera
sombra que me llevare el blanco día,
y podrá desatar esta alma mía
hora a su afán ansioso lisonjera;

mas no, de esotra parte, en la ribera,
dejará la memoria, en donde ardía:
nadar sabe mi llama la agua fría,
y perder el respeto a ley severa.

Alma a quien todo un dios prisión ha sido,
venas que humor a tanto fuego han dado,
medulas que han gloriosamente ardido:

su cuerpo dejará no su cuidado;
serán ceniza, mas tendrá sentido;
polvo serán, mas polvo enamorado.

sauce

I'm serious here, guys

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>quevedo

Deja paso al verdadero maestro, Luis de Góngora

Mientras por competir con tu cabello
Oro bruñido al sol relumbra en vano,
Mientras con menosprecio en medio el llano
Mira tu blanca frente al lilio bello;

Mientras a cada labio, por cogello,
Siguen más ojos que al clavel temprano,
Y mientras triunfa con desdén lozano
Del luciente cristal tu gentil cuello,

Goza cuello, cabello, labio y frente,
Antes que lo que fue en tu edad dorada
Oro, lilio, clavel, cristal luciente,

No sólo en plata o vïola troncada
Se vuelva, más tú y ello juntamente
En tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada.

english
finnegans wake
joyce fucks english

russian

Cижy зa peшeткoй в тeмницe cыpoй.
Bcкopмлeнный в нeвoлe opeл мoлoдoй,
Moй гpycтный тoвapищ, мaхaя кpылoм,
Кpoвaвyю пищy клюeт пoд oкнoм,

Клюeт, и бpocaeт, и cмoтpит в oкнo,
Кaк бyдтo co мнoю зaдyмaл oднo;
Зoвeт мeня взглядoм и кpикoм cвoим
И вымoлвить хoчeт: «Дaвaй yлeтим!

Mы вoльныe птицы; пopa, бpaт, пopa!
Tyдa, гдe зa тyчeй бeлeeт гopa,
Tyдa, гдe cинeют мopcкиe кpaя,
Tyдa, гдe гyляeм лишь вeтep… дa я!..»

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french and Proust

Attached: a-la-recherche-du-temps-perdu-proust-15-tomes.jpg (599x404, 69K)

I don’t agree with you.
My favorite:

Meня тaм нaзывaли пpocтo Гycь,
Я вepил, чтo кoгдa-нибyдь вepнycь.
Mнe чacтo cнилиcь cтapыe дoмa,
Пoэты, мyзыкaнты и шпaнa.

Пapикмaхep Дядя Toлк, пoдcтpиги мeня пoд нoлик, пoдcтpиги мeня пoд нoлик, дopoгoй.
Я пpoeздoм в нaшeм cтaнe, и зeлeныe в кapмaнe c oчeнь cлoжнoй и зaпyтaннoй cyдьбoй.

Bce пoмнят, близкий дpyг eгo, Maтвeй,
Ha кpышe paзвoдили гoлyбeй,
A вeчepaми oкoлo чacoв
Гoняли пo paйoнy чyжaкoв

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Krzyżacy

Ebonics
Mane's Fuck 12

is this daddario? she cute.

Attached: apuheart.png (240x304, 15K)

Georgian Language
>ვეფხისტყაოსანი
>Shota Rustaveli is a liar
>Based Shotiko tells the reader as much on the first page

Hiberno-English
Finnegan's Wake

"I think you're cute too, user..."

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Serbian
"Santa Maria Della Salute" by Лaзa Кocтић

This is the Night Mail crossing the border
Bringing the cheque and the postal order
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, the shop at the corner and the girl next door

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Gypsy ballads imho

La concha de tu madre All boys
La concha de tu madre All boys
Te vamos a quemar floresta
La reputa madre que te repario

YouTube by the sounds of it.

English. Beowulf. Fuck the French.

>all these shitty ass spanish sonnets
God damn tacos man...

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>Moby Dick
Yeah. I mean, it isn't Mein Kampf.

Tennyson is a meme

Well played

Georgian
Blue Horses a short poem by Galaktion Tabidze
Like snowdrifts of mist gilded in sunset,
the shore was sun-lit in eternity’s realm.
No promise in sight, nothing to look at,
Only the quiet — nomadic and numb.
Only the quiet: the cold, rampant storm
of eternity’s realm holding nothing but grief.
Eyes covered in ash, you lie prone in your tomb,
lying in heaven, and still your soul grieves.
Through a thin forest of disfigured faces
each barren day races: hurrying, gone.
I’ve terrible visions of my blue stallions
bearing your coffin, as the world looks on.
And seconds race by. I am not concerned:
those immortal linens won’t shine with your tears.
The tortures that churned in you died — all illusions
of night: a burning soul howling with prayer.
At wildfire’s rate, like a swift turn of fate,
my blue horses dart with a thunderous roar!
There are no bouquets, no calm reveries,
only your new home — this grave’s sepulcher.
Who’ll remember your face? Who’ll speak your name?
If you moan, who’ll come? Who’ll hear you whisper?
There’s no one for solace upon those strange shores,
where cryptic chimeras sleep, darkly twisted.
Nothing could block out the light from this chamber:
from only dry numbers, still, desert winds rise!
Through a thin forest of disfigured faces
each barren day surges then, hurrying, dies.
In the mist’s rampant storm, eternity’s realm,
In heaven or tomb, by dark curse deplored:
at a hurricane’s rate, like a swift turn of fate,
my blue horses dart with a thunderous roar!

tiddies

Moby-Dick

I speak whale

>Second language in the world by native speakers
>Thread about literature in your native language
>Why so many tacos?1!

What's this from?

>Why so many tacos?1!
I don't know, they breed very fast. Probably poor sex education for the youths and not easily available contraception.

I enjoyed this.

Italian

I'd say La coscienza di Zeno for modern Italian

Dante's Commedia Is written in anchient language

>korean
>google auto translation activated by spanish
>고향에 온 기분
승무 by 조지훈

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How is Umberto Eco treated in homeland? At here we worship his books like the god of wisdom.

Lithuanian
White Shroud by Antanas Škėma

I don't know who wrote it, but Aphex Twin used it in one of his songs, I think it was Orphans. Good track, would reccommend it.

Y los sueños, sueños NIGGER

Boт и пoмep Дeд Maкcим
Дa и хyй ocтaлcя c ним
Пoлoжили eгo в гpoб
Хyй yпepcя в пoтoлoк, oн здopoвeнный был мyжик
нa хyю вepтeл шaшлык
Хyeм гpядки oн кaпaл
Хyeм гpядки пoливaл
...

French

littérature

Hernandez is trashy poetry for 16 year olds. Same with Dario but for 13 years olds instead.
Good choice
Im gonna say Pedro Páramo despite hurting my spanish pride because that book is the most beautiful thing written in the 20th century

Cuidado Comendador,
con la ballesta en la mano
Frondoso que era un villano
se ha vuelto todo un señor.

No es la naturaleza
del hombre, la mansedumbre,
es apenas el herrumbre
de que lo cubre pobreza.

Y basta con que despierte
una mañana cualquiera
y el manso se vuelve fiera
y el débil se vuelve fuerte.

Y verán con qué premura
deja en el campo la azada
y aprende que con la espada
mejor sus males conjura.

Que se truecan en un día
los aperos de labranza
por la pica y por la lanza,
la humildad por la osadía.

Cuidado Comendador...

Pues basta que un hombre entienda
que para seguir viviendo
y seguir un hombre siendo
es fatal que se defienda.

Es triste pero es preciso
tener un arma en la mano
para ser su soberano
y no un esclavo sumiso.

Cuidado Comendador...

ikr, the absolute state of burgers.

Polish
Dolina Issy or something by Schulz, but it's hard to pick a particular piece by him

>quevedo
>shitty
what a shit taste you have there. consider suicide.

It's the single best piece of Hungarian writing I've read so far.
I can say without any doubt that it's a world class work.
The animated movie is good too, but please read the text itself.

This shirt makes no sense, shirts that say "stop staring at my boobs" work because staring in that area means you'll be staring at the shirt and it's message, but if you're staring at her eyes then you're definitely not going to notice the shirt.

I will try to, though it will be hard to find an English translation

Anglo-Saxon
Seafarer

Why?
mek.oszk.hu/00900/00915/html/
mek.oszk.hu/00900/00918/html/

If you are patient, you can try creating an e-book out of these HTML pages.
These are two completely different translations, freely available at the site of the Hungarian Electronic Library.
One is done by George Szirtes, the translator of Krasznahorkai.

Watch out for the dialectics and have fun.

>not in the way that it’s a dick-measuring contest of who can write the most complicated prose
I respect you for clarifying this. More people on Yea Forums ought to strive to be like you.

A Esmorga

The Night Mail by WH Auden.

Dont think ive ever seen girls wear these le ebic and witty passive aggressive shirts in public just in selfies or whatever. Why are they like this?

Baseado

Is it even possible to read Proust in English translation?

I really wonder, the hardest part obviously would be grammar (vocabulary itself isn't significantly more difficult than Flaubert for instance). The French love semicolons and Proust's longest sentence has 856 words. Providing a good translation would be an exciting work for a genius, perhaps it was done already, dunno.

Getanxmebi

Góngora's Soledades

Así da gusto, carallo. Pero non olvidemos a Rosalía, eu son máis de Follas Novas que dos Cantares.

t. dvyliktokas

That must be the reason we are replacing you

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your da was right

Dutch

El limonero real by Juan José Saer

>proof G*rmans aren’t human
yeah, it's a proof that they are gods amongst men.

Not necessarily beautiful on its face but the writing itself is the most stylistically impressive rendering of American English

"When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o' clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools."

Portuguese
O Conde D. Henrique, by Fernando Pessoa

Todo começo é involuntário.

Deus é o agente,

O herói a si assiste, vário

E inconsciente.

À espada em tuas mãos achada

Teu olhar desce.

«Que farei eu com esta espada?»

Ergueste-a, e fez-se.

survivor island?

I want a friend to teach me Spanish

Attached: mmm.jpg (400x400, 31K)

english
the waves
yes really

Why are blue eyes so perfect?

Attached: daddario.jpg (1280x1719, 535K)

>Ha кaкyю-нибyдь cтoянкy (здecь cлeдyeт быть paзбopчивым, нe вce этoгo зacлyживaют) в пpeдoбeдeнный чac пpихoдит чeлoвeк, кoтopый в вeжливoй и oткpытoй фopмe пpocит нaкopмить eгo миcкoй кaши или мaкapoн. Этoт тип гoтoв вceмepнo пoмoгaть — oн нocит вoдy и дpoвa, пoмoгaeт c кoтлoм и вceми cилaми cтapaeтcя зacлyжить дoвepиe, чтo пpи этoм cпocoбe вoвce нe тpyднo. Eгo зaдaчa — пepeхвaтить кoтёл в тoт мoмeнт, кoгдa eгo нyжнo бyдeт cливaть. Moтивиpyя, дecкaть, нeзaчeм paзвoдить гpязь y caмoгo кocтpa, oн oтнocит кoтeл к ближaйшим кycтaм, гдe:
(1) Cливaeт вoдy.
(2) Клaдeт ceбe пoлнyю миcкy.
(3) Пpипoдняв мaкapoны или кaшy в кoтлe cпeциaльнoй дocoчкoй (лoпaтoчкoй), кидaeт тyдa гoвнo c дocки, пpипpятaннoй в тeх жe кycтaх.
Пocлe этoгo oн aккypaтнo пepeмeшивaeт вce этo кocтpoвoй лoжкoй и cпoкoйнo вoзвpaщaeт кoтeл. Зaтeм oн бepeт cвoю миcкy и пpинимaeт peшeниe: yйти или дoжидaтьcя paзвязки. B пocлeднeм cлyчae oн cмoжeт cдeлaть бoльшe — кoгдa дoнecyтcя пepвыe, пoнaчaлy eщё poбкиe вoзглacы нeдoпoнимaния. B тoт мoмeнт, кoгдa пepвыe пocтpaдaвшиe бyдyт c нeдoвepиeм нюхaть пищy, пoднocя лoжки к caмoмy нocy, eмy cлeдyeт хoдить мeж ними, oтpицaя oчeвиднoe и пoбyждaя пpoбoвaть пищy нa личнoм пpимepe (тo ecть пpoбyя пo лoжeчкe из cвoeй миcки c yлыбaющимcя, чтo бyдeт нeтpyднo, и oчeнь дoвoльным лицoм).
Ecли пpoявить cмeкaлкy, тo пoлyчитcя, бyдтo чeлoвeк, чтoбы yбeдитьcя в пpoиcхoдящeм, caмoличнo пpoбyeт лoжeчкy кaши c гoвнoм. B тaкoй мoмeнт вы, ecли oтвaжитecь, cмoжeтe зaдaть eмy вoпpoc (нo этo нyжнo бyдeт cдeлaть быcтpo, пoкa oн нe ycпeл oпoмнитьcя):
— Кaк нa вaш вкyc, хвaтaeт гoвнa?
Either this or "A School for Fools".

Attached: dab.jpg (720x960, 92K)

I would cum all over her tits then make her squeegee it down her stomach and into her puss.

Cyкa, ты дaжe тyт фopcишь эти eбyчиe cкaзки тeмнoгo лeca. Aнy пoшeл нaхyй oтcюдoвa, гoвнoeд пpoклятый, Caшa Coкoлoв нe пиcaл тaкoгo.

You get so alone at times that it just makes sense... -Charles Bukowski

nice

The Hatchet

I like hazel eyes, more honest somehow. I don’t trust people without some green in their eyes. Intense blue looks cool too, but pale blue seems neurotic like that girl you just posted.

caliss y'en a pas un qu'y'est fracophone icitte? tous des ostis mexicains ou russes. l'enfer j'vous dis.
checkez ben ça les boys:

Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;
Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;
Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,
Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.
— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

something by this nigga

Attached: eino leino.jpg (600x799, 271K)

probably The Street of Crocodiles as far as prose is concerned

God I wish those eyes were part of my native language.

>French
>for my own tastes Flowers of Evil
but of course there are many contenders. For pure beauty's ske you can hardly do better tho.

>Quand le ciel bas et lourd
Basé.

Mon nègre québecois. Je ne suis qu'un baveux de parisien moi-même, mais voici une réponse:

Le vin sait revêtir le plus sordide bouge
D'un luxe miraculeux,
Et fait surgir plus d'un portique fabuleux
Dans l'or de sa vapeur rouge,
Comme un soleil couchant dans un ciel nébuleux.

L'opium agrandit ce qui n'a pas de bornes,
Allonge l'illimité,
Approfondit le temps, creuse la volupté,
Et de plaisirs noirs et mornes
Remplit l'âme au delà de sa capacité.

Tout cela ne vaut pas le poison qui découle
De tes yeux, de tes yeux verts,
Lacs où mon âme tremble et se voit à l'envers...
Mes songes viennent en foule
Pour se désaltérer à ces gouffres amers.

Tout cela ne vaut pas le terrible prodige
De ta salive qui mord,
Qui plonge dans l'oubli mon âme sans remord,
Et, charriant le vertige,
La roule défaillante aux rives de la mort !

wrong

Nocturne

Ruislinnun laulu korvissani,
tähkäpäiden päällä täysi kuu;
kesä-yön on onni omanani,
kaskisavuun laaksot verhouu.
En ma iloitse, en sure, huokaa;
mutta metsän tummuus mulle tuokaa,
puunto pilven, johon päivä hukkuu,
siinto vaaran tuulisen, mi nukkuu,
tuoksut vanamon ja varjot veen;
niistä sydämeni laulun teen.
Sulle laulan neiti, kesäheinä,
sydämeni suuri hiljaisuus,
uskontoni, soipa säveleinä,
tammenlehvä-seppel vehryt, uus.
En ma enää aja virvatulta,
onpa kädessäni onnen kulta;
pienentyy mun ympär’ elon piiri;
aika seisoo, nukkuu tuuliviiri;
edessäni hämäräinen tie
tuntemattomahan tupaan vie.

Eino Leino

also:
Virta venhettä vie

Virta venhettä vie.
Mihin päättyvi tie?
Lyö kuohut purren puuta ja talkaa.
Mikä ihminen on?
Virvaliekki levoton.
Jo hiekka heljä riiteleepi jalkaa.
Yksi syntyy riemuun ja toinen murheesen
ja kullakin on kellonsa pohjass’ sydämen;
kun se seisahtaa, niin kuolon aika alkaa.
Virta venhettä vie.

Mihin päättyvi tie?
Niin synkehinä synnit ne uhkaa.
Hetken hehkuvi mies,
sitten tummuvi lies,
jääpi jäljelle pivo pieni tuhkaa.
Ja synnit ne kasvaa ja liittyy syntihin
ja poika perii kehdossa synnit isänkin
ja rinta täys on ruumenta ja ruhkaa.
Mihin päättyvi tie?

Virta venhettä vie.
Koko maailma mun purressani läilyy.
Meri ääretön, o!
Etkö joudukin jo,
suur’ suvantoni, jossa pilvet päilyy.
Ois aika maata sunkin jo, suuri maailma,
ja vanhan valkopääsi jo lepoon laskea.
Katso, kuinka kuolon varjot häilyy.
Virta venhettä vie.

Mihin päättyvi tie?
Ei tiedä sitä ihmisistä kenkään.
Meri, taivas ja maa
kaikki, kaikk’ katoaa –
kuinka säilyisi sielu ihmisenkään?
Mut unessa niin armas on ajatella noin:
Viel’ kerran kevät saapuu ja koittaa uusi koi
ja huomentuulet tuntureilta henkää.
Vaiko valhetta lie?

Mut noinpa mietin mie:
Katso, kerran koko maailma herää.
Susi lammast’ ei syö,
veli ei veljeä lyö
eikä miesi tahko tapparan terää.
Mut kaikki kauniit aatteet, joit’ täällä aatellaan,
ne silloin täyttyy töiksi ja peittävät maan.
Siis ihanteita, ihminen, kerää!
Vaiko valhetta lie?

Eino Leino

Russian/Greek

Illyiad/Brothers Karamazov

Hyvä on hiihtäjän hiihdellä,
kun hanki on hohtava alla,
kun taivas kirkasna kaareutuu -
mut hauskempi hiihtää, kun ruskavi puu
tuul' ulvovi, polku on ummessa
ja tuisku on taivahalla.

Hyvä on hiihtäjän hiihdellä,
kun ystävä häll' on myötä,
kun latu on aukaistu edessään -
mut parempi hiihdellä yksinään,
tiens' itse aukaista itselleen
ja yksin uhmata yötä.

Hyvä on hiihtäjän hiihdellä,
kun tietty on matkan määrä,
kun liesi viittovi lämpöinen, -
mut sorjempi, uljaampi hiihtää sen,
joka outoja onnen vaiheita käy
eikä tiedä, miss' oikea, väärä.

Ja hyvä on hiihtäjän hiihdellä,
kun riemu on rinnassansa,
kun toivo säihkyvi soihtuna yöss' -
mut käypä se laatuun hiihtää myös
hiki otsalla, suurissa suruissa
ja kuolema kupeellansa.

???

ebin :DDD

aika jees

English. East of Eden.

Hungarian

Not the best but lovely

Őszi éjjel

izzik a galagonya

izzik a galagonya

ruhája.

Zúg a tüske,

szél szalad ide-oda,

reszket a galagonya magába.

Hogyha a Hold rá fátylat ereszt:

lánnyá válik,

sírni kezd.

Őszi éjjel

izzik a galagonya

izzik a galagonya

ruhája.

English
The Anatomy of Melancholy

based Gongora poster

>tfw ratio of international works vs national works I've read is like 15:1

I don't know any decent Polish poetry.

Ebonics
These rhymes, nigga.

Attached: Perfection.jpg (1000x1000, 109K)

Basado y gongorapillado.

Pick something from Jan van Ruusbroec, Hadewijch or Thomas à Kempis. Those are the only names I recognize in the Dutch canon and that's only because I'm a Christfag who went through a mystical binge-read stage.

I always think of that hilarious passage in portrait where young Stephen argue against Tennyson.

"Tennyson ? Why he's just a rhymester."

“En God Zelf zou bij mij langs komen in de gedaante van een éénjarige, muisgrijze ezel en voor de deur staan en aanbellen en zeggen: ‘Gerard, dat boek van je – weet je dat ik bij sommige stukken gehuild heb?’ ‘Mijn Heer en mijn God! Geloofd weze Uw Naam tot in alle Eeuwigheid!

Ik houd zo verschrikkelijk veel van U,’ zou ik proberen te zeggen, maar halverwege zou ik al in janken uitbarsten, en Hem beginnen te kussen en naar binnen trekken, en na een geweldige klauterpartij om de trap naar het slaapkamertje op te komen, zou ik Hem drie keer achter elkaar langdurig in Zijn Geheime Opening bezitten, en daarna een presenteksemplaar geven, niet gebrocheerd, maar gebonden – niet dat gierige en benauwde – met de opdracht: ‘Voor De Oneindige. Zonder Woorden.'”

Good lad

Jesus Dutch is ugly

>Marcela amou-me durante quinze meses e onze contos de réis; nada menos.
I'm Brazilian

No you're not

Ulysses

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la criatura...

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Basado y argentoempastillado

that's a hungarian

youtube.com/watch?v=u164aBGG_tg

It has a nakedness because of it and is largely bereft of romantic frivolities and its pitfalls. It's a sober language even tho it sounds like a drunkards mumblings.

Because they are an indigenous European trait.

>Weöres
Bázisolt