Exercise: We try to make a simple sentence increasingly florid and compounded with tangential ideas until it reaches...

Ever were two things distinct in fact the same, confounding the essence of each and every thing, a principle which, In regards to what is called life, and under the dictates of one Dickens or Huxley or other, Linnaeus thwarted entirely in, for example, the classification of the various species of the family canidae, some quantity of ice ages being all that actually separates the common dog, canis lupus familiar, from it's rather more vigorous and less temperamental cousin vulpes vulpes, the fox, from one another, it may be remarked that in this particular sense was an analogous, if rather inverted, event observed, occurring the 27th of February 2019 in my backyard, when one of each such creatures shared exactly the same horizon and suddenly diverged, the wilder cousin ascending in an arc over his stultified cousin, who in continence of drooping eyes and hound-hanging ears betrayed every moment of the preceding 10,000 years of his ancestral domestication, sitting as he did belly-down in the grass, scarcely noticing the haste of arc about his drooling snout, the latter thus the more dormant and higher of the two thus situated beneath the apex of the former, more vigorous and lower, and in this trading of evolutionary position for inverse altitude consists the aforementioned inversion of analogy, though in semi-circle fashion reflecting that such distinctions are indeed symmetrical, and that all distinctions form and vanish in the propagation of time, as if much fuss had been made about a very simple thing that might have been said in far fewer words, and all theories and observations of so-called clever men, or all of men taken as a whole, thus reduced to sentences of children's grammar intended only for the completion of tasks handed down by stubborn and tyrannical masters before ending at last in the great silence of a period, the paws upon the grass, and the return to sleep after a momentary stirring of some fat pooch or other unaware of what has happened, oblivious to the fantastic circus of events preceding the nodding of a head, possessing no expectation and with nothing to fret of in the brown haze of its blindness for it lays unaware that not only sight but also seer come to cease, the distance between points coming at last to nothing.

do one level more, let's turn it into a complete short story

>such distinctions are indeed symmetrical, and that all distinctions form and vanish in the propagation of time,
unironically i like this line

Can you start namefagging so I can know to read your posts?

Ever were two things distinct in fact the same, confounding the essence of each and every thing, a principle which, in regards to what is called life, and under the dictates of one Dickens or Huxley or other, Linnaeus thwarted entirely in, for example, the classification of the various species of the family canidae, some quantity of ice ages being all that actually separates the common dog, canis lupus familiar, from it's rather more vigorous and less temperamental cousin vulpes vulpes, the fox, it may be remarked that in this particular sense was an analogous (though inverted) event observed, occurring the 27th of February 2019 in my backyard, when one of each such creatures shared exactly the same horizon and suddenly diverged, the wilder cousin ascending in an arc over his stultified cousin, who in continence of drooping eyes and hound-hanging ears betrayed every moment of the preceding 10,000 years of his ancestral domestication, sitting as he did belly-down in the grass, scarcely noticing the haste of arc about his drooling snout, the latter thus the more dormant and higher of the two thus situated beneath the apex of the former, more vigorous and lower, and in this trading of evolutionary position for inverse altitude consists the aforementioned inversion of analogy, though in semi-circle fashion reflecting that such distinctions are indeed symmetrical, and that all distinctions form and vanish in the propagation of time, as if much fuss had been made about a very simple thing that might have been said in far fewer words, and all theories and observations of so-called clever men, or all of men taken as a whole, thus reduced to sentences of children's grammar intended only for the completion of tasks handed down by stubborn and tyrannical masters before ending at last in the great silence of a period, the paws upon the grass, and the return to sleep after a momentary stirring of some fat pooch or other unaware of what has happened, oblivious to the fantastic circus of events preceding the nodding of a head, possessing no expectation and with nothing to fret of in the brown haze of its blindness for it lays unaware that not only sight but also seer come to cease, the distance between points coming at last to nothing, a remark which ultimately reveals itself to me in the simplest and most complex of things which occur, that my own life, of no more note than the laying of a dog, began nearly three decades ago, enough time for 4 or 5 generations of fox or hound, and comprised mostly of sitting about lazily while things scarcely noticed and entirely unobtainable lept over my drooling head, for not one star did I possess save Venus, which I thought the brightest though was not told it could not be seen in the season of my youth from beyond the mountain ranges which have reduced the world of man to some two or three thousand townspeople of my boyhood, one of which I thought should lift me by her vixen smoothness-of-tail to heights...

...hitherto only imagined in the dreams of boyish afternoons spent watching the world leap overhead as I rolled about in the confines of a yard whose deed my father's namementioned, though he had long since left us to wonder of him, a rambling man of early inheritance who took possession of our home and my mother, and whose wild leaping gave rise to me and my sister, a brown headed girl two years my junior who knew my father until she was four, and the old man who was then still young, told us stories of hunting foxes in Indian land that were descended from our grandfather, whose bones rose up from clay and hung briefly over the earth, clanking like mallets as he made some music chasing Indian girls whose fathers stared up at his tall frame with suspicion, by then too old and defeated to protest, scarcely knowing what their 13th daughter brought about the squalor of their sagging homes and wishing merely that she, and my grandfather, would just go away and leave him to the late hour of his sleep, as they did, fleeing to the city of New York where Anna Little Bear McGee, and her brown headed children flew over the heads of awestruck kids and their sad, tired, working-men fathers in the circus, the old Cowboy who hunted foxes and wolves leaping about with the red blood of his Indian bride and made anew in the occupation of traveling showman and trapeze artist, we were told who feared nothing, least of all to hang high above, but we were never told of when he came back down to the ground, of the wildness in him which made for boozing and begging and later breaking of family, and my father in the lost years drifting about the grass of Iowa and Kansas, and dreaming of wild things flown through the sky which might point the way at last to freedom from the pain bred in the hotel rooms of his later life, surprised at last by the great uncle he had never heard of, at whose death he suddenly became rich , and full of hope buying gold rings for the nearest poor young girl, my mother, and in 6 years time falling fast, spending everything but the brick and mortar of my home and fleeing like Grandpa to the city for the aspiration of having those he considered sleeping stare up at him in wonder...

...and he, long gone, to some place high above like Venus I imagined, beyond the hills and mountains I could not see past, leaving me so quickly, a timid boy who thus became an angry small man, ripping up grass from the yard as if it were my Father's hair, and my mother with white tipped long hair calling me back inside, to some primordial origin which she and I have shared in the blood of our veins, away from the falling of the sun and the strange brown creatures lingering in the last of its lights who spy us in the shadows as if to size us up for eating, though we are fenced-in and they are fenced-out, brethren perhaps hating us for being bearers of the hoe, the hammer and the fox-trap, sons of Adam who have the land to do as they will, but weeds and vines to contend with, and holes to found in fences, man and beast once as much the same as fox and hound, my mother wise to call me in to safe walls, but even these could not keep me safe from Eve, who in my 18th year beckoned me to eat of fruit from which there was no going back, and cast me out with swords from the paradise of my distant father, never to return, Eve teaching me much in the casting or an apple over my head, and a second square into my hands, whose sweetness betrayed no ounce of the knowledge therein contained, and I beholden to scanning the evening skies for the rise and fall of Venus, suddenly unaware to her passing, flying overhead and leaving me in her wind, her shadow and the smell of her leaving as quickly present as the glance of her light, and me full flustered in the gusting dark, trying in desperation to recover a moment lost forever in her passing, at last knowing who my father was and so I too set to rambling, and one night slept in a field in eastern Montana, in the cool wind of October, beneath the stars I longed to see in full as a boy, and she came flying in the sky, not white but brown, a fast creature of the plains, perhaps a rabbit, which pounced over my very heart as my thoughts dissolves to dreaming in the lazy bliss of warm wrapped blankets cooled on the autumnal wind that has carved bad lands for ten million years, and awoken suddenly to the small legs over my eyes, for a second blocking all the light of stars, and in a flash I was not the son of my father, nor an ex lover of Eve, but man set in the clay and undisturbed, with the glory of the star filled sky drowned out by a blot of brown, and then I knew everything at last and could have slept in that spot forever, and had my skin slow-blown away in the next winter's snows, and my bones tanned and bleached in the Spring rain and subsequent sun, who has ever moved over me when I had looked stupidly in the garden for some Eve or other to dream of, preoccupied with fancy of my own light when the great father was ever calling to me in the arcing of the sky...

G-go on, Mr. Pynchon...

THE MADMAN

>tfw when Thomas Pynchon replies to your thread

*it's
Otherwise, it's great and better than that other bloated nonsense.

audiobook version:

Vocaroo.com/i/s0rfintQROty

>my thoughts dissolves to dreaming in the lazy bliss of warm wrapped blankets cooled on the autumnal wind that has carved bad lands for ten million years, and awoken suddenly to the small legs over my eyes, for a second blocking all the light of stars, and in a flash I was not the son of my father, nor an ex lover of Eve, but man set in the clay and undisturbed, with the glory of the star filled sky drowned out by a blot of brown, and then I knew everything at last and could have slept in that spot forever, and had my skin slow-blown away in the next winter's snows, and my bones tanned and bleached in the Spring rain and subsequent sun, who has ever moved over me when I had looked stupidly in the garden for some Eve or other to dream of, preoccupied with fancy of my own light when the great father was ever calling to me in the arcing of the sky
Bro how the fuck you get so good at writing, and how can I?

What famous author is visiting lit on a Wednesday night?

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Gentlemen, we are in the presence of a true master

>and she came flying in the sky, not white but brown, a fast creature of the plains, perhaps a rabbit, which pounced over my very heart as my thoughts dissolves to dreaming in the lazy bliss of warm wrapped blankets

Fucking hell it's still "the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog"

Yes
YES

Don't know what's going on here buddy, but it was stimulating my thoughts. Thanks

There is still hope for this board.

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Hi Tom

That is the famous American novelist Thomas R. Pynchon. He is very talented and has been doing this for a while.

Madre de Dios... ¡El Pyncheador...está aquí! Está sucediendo...

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Kek. Good post

beautiful. absolutely beautiful.

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This is actually good. This is actually pretty fucking amazing.

Is this how you wrote Gravity’s Rainbow, Tom?

... Bruh ...

Bumping so that this thread doesn't die. More of us need to see Pynchon through his prosaic radiance.

Hey, I run a zine press out of a big Montreal university. I'd be interested in publishing some of your stuff, perhaps even from this. Shoot me an email at
ezramalafaia(at)gmail(you know)com

If you're a lurker and you think you're as good as this guy, don't be shy, email me too.

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yowza.
wtf??? there are actually talented people on this board?

You would think so, but no one seems to notice the thread.

In any case, there are probably a lot of talented writers on here: genius is a lot more widespread than people think. The issue is that most of the geniuses we have here lack the commensurate drive for self-promotion and success. This is why mediocre writers make it, and this is also why the talented poster in this thread will never be remembered: they won't take the shot. Even when they have an opportunity served to them on a silver platter. Worst part: every time you pass on an opportunity, you reinforce opportunity-passing as a habit. Then the earth closes up your mouth.

don't want to rob anyone of their shine, but
you guys are making way too much an ado about a shitpost

We don't deserve this talent. This is the power one can achieve by not spending each day fapping to shit on Yea Forums and instead dedicating one's life solely to the pursuit of writing. It's honestly the best unfinished work I have ever read... for now. Please great user, we need the conclusion that we don't deserve.

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The fact that it’s a throwaway shitpost makes it more impressive

Was the fox justified in his actions?

it's two pages of free form, my dude
it's quite funny in places, and there are several acute turns of phrase. kind of a fuaion of faulkner, mccarthy, and pepperidge farm remembers from family guy. again, clever, but with practice made habit, this is achievable by anyone.

Shut up faggot. I'm sure since you are so confident to proclaim such a thing, you are already at his level? Oh wait, you can't even spell fusion right. Leave it to fucking losers here to minimize everything.

i am shitposting from my phone but would you like me to dazzle you with an affected grandiloquence?

Why don’t you give it a shot then? It’s just shitposting user, no big deal. If you’re as good as that other guy I’ll be entertained reading your stuff, and it will be a little writing practice for you.

i would merely be inviting censure and mockery in bad faith, regardless of the writing's quality.
better you to get off the site for awhile and focus on your own work

I agree with that.
People are just seeking for something to like here. But viewed that way, it's probably good, then.

Not the guy you're talking to.

All you see in that poster's writing is antiquated prose, or grandiloquence. Is this what I am to infer from your posts? From what you've posted, your writing is in no way as interesting or good as his. I can't tell if it's because you can't see all the things his is doing, or because you actually think whatever you're attempting is equivalent in quality, but in any case, I have some bad news.

I'll make you a promise: if you do write a shiptost of medium length with the intent of showing that you can match the previous poster's writing, I will evaluate it with as much objectivity as I can. I know that other user wants to shit on you, but I have no horse in this race other than the desire to read more good shit. Please give it a shot. My guess is you won't be able to. Not because 'u succ boi', but because PPoster is actually very fucking good relative to the quality of writing found on this board.

As good as this is, fuck you. This was supposed to be a group effort. Now nobody is going to be able to outdo this. I hope you're happy Pynch.

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why would you force such an extreme perspective on me, as in 'all i see is' x, or y, or z? bad habit, too common. follow the whole chain of posts and at least a little bit of nuance of opinion is distinguishable.
i'll turn this around on you.
tell me what it is you see in that writing, what you think that fellow was up to, and what he has accomplished, and i'll beggar off.

Why the fuck you have to come in here and cut someone down? What’s the point? It’s good writing. Yes, it is a shitpost. Yes it’s kind of ridiculous. The original premise of this thread itself was ridiculous, but that guy wrote that shit in less than an hour, and it was pretty damn impressive. Why you gotta be a little bitch and nitpick?

why do you have to waste such baller trips with your whingeing?

The nigger stole my bike

because he's speaking the truth. Digits have always anointed the truth.

>this is achievable by anyone
You greatly overestimate me.

The slippery nigger stole my brand-new bicycle.

teh quik brovvn wolfox jumpered inonto lazydog

actually yes that would be pretty badass if you could reach the same breadth.

>I know that other user wants to shit on you
Fuck you, assuming I'm just here to shit on people. I don't undervalue things to satisfy my self-importance. Go ahead and be "objective" though.

>strange brown creatures lingering in the last of its lights who spy us in the shadows as if to size us up for eating, though we are fenced-in and they are fenced-out, brethren perhaps hating us for being bearers of the hoe, the hammer and the fox-trap, sons of Adam who have the land to do as they will, but weeds and vines to contend with, and holes to found in fences, man and beast once as much the same as fox and hound, my mother wise to call me in to safe walls
what is being referred to in this section?

I can't draw.

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YIPPEE! A zippy-zappy brown-as-down-in-my-pantaloons buffoon was hippity-hoppying around! BOING BOINg BOING. It's quick stripes rippedy-rooed right across the back of the back of the fox. A tale of brown, you guys smell that? A black dot for a nose, moist with juices, YUM YUM! Paws outstretched, locked into position, ATTENTION! YES, READING TO MOVE, BETA FORWARD. The hind legs clammered *pfoom* retracting then enflating up up UP! The ears flying behind, gusting and masting, the sail boat headed fox floated over the frumpity dumpity dog drowning in it's own blues. Face frowned and blue. Blue head. It's blue, yippidee do!. Zippo zap, the lazy dog is lazy, oh yeah!

I did phrase it as a question: ''Is this what I am to infer in your posts?''

The full posting chain reveals that you also find it clever/funny/having acute turns of phrase, which is fine, but none of those things obtain in your attempts at matchin git, though affected grandiloquence does. See where I'm coming from? I'll grant that the question can easily be read as rhetorical.
You know full well that it's terribly difficult, if only because of the time required, to explain in detail what a good, complex piece of writing is doing. Besides, I don't mind shirking your request because I don't want you to 'beggar off' [sic]. What I want, and what, at this point, I would hope you'd be honest enough to attempt, is to see your own writing, so that we may compare it with that poster's writing and thereby further think on whether your statement that '...with practice made habit, this is achievable by anyone' should be lent credence. Unless you haven't made practice habit? Let's hope this isn't where we're heading.

Great work

People are giving pynch too much credit. A pseud like that would've written something closer to

>The user doth protest too much

Posting in historically significant thread. My initials are JPB.

meant to say

8/10

imagine reading all this

beggar off, an unintended portmanteau of two phrases i'm sure you can identify on your own. mea felix culpa.
i have not committed any serious time to writing with any regularity since i was a junior in college. when was i a junior in college? i was born in '88, so a route of discovery might reveal itself by that fact.
i promise to stick around and waste more time with you if you fulfill my request.

please tell me you're a girl

Bugger off sure, but what's the other phrase? English isn't my first language, and I don't know of a composite phrase involving 'beggar'.
I also believe a portmanteau has to be a single word. (Not even trying to be a dick, just FYI)

I think it would be valuable for me to try and fulfill your request, but I literally do not have the time for it. I have to leave work and zip home. I'm the zine editor from above, which is (surprise) why I'm waiting to see how you write. Shoot me an email and I'll try and flesh out what I think PPoster's writing is doing well when I have the time to sit down. Or don't, I'm not here to wring wrists. Though I'd appreciate it.

amazing

Is this what Pynchon's writing's like? Because if so I need to start reading his work, that was amazing. Either we have Thomas fucking Pynchon on our board or there is an unknown shitposter on Yea Forums with the seeds of literary genius in him

It's a shame that this is getting overshadowed by Tommy because this is great as well

I wrote that but my personal favorite is this one

^This happened^
>Brevity ftw

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Honestly if we're going with whole stories now here's my shitty attempt.

In my younger days, I loved reading about etymology and dialect. One Burns Night, far too old to be doing it for the first time, I decided to read Burns. Of course, we knew one of his poems, indirectly, from highschool. We all read Great American Novels and pretended to understand them. Everyone’s favourite, and only, Burns reference was the best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft agley. How clever we were, to know what Steinbeck did, to share that understanding with great men, to be told through the ages to call Lenny an embodiment of fatalism on our midterms.

So I found the original, the poem about a Mouse, partly from guilt that I told the English teacher I’d read it (and despite already having my A). Talking to her about the poem, about what I read about it on someone’s livejournal, made her smile. I would have killed half the class to see her smiling if it hadn’t, to see the way laughter shook her blouse, to imagine for a second she was actually impressed. She loved language too, and so did her friends. She once suggested I read Poe. Her ex-boyfriend read the poems, apparently, memorised The Raven, loved the language in it. The only part of that discussion I cared about was she was single.

She complained how he’d never done his chores, never helped out around the house, never lifted a finger to help. I couldn’t cook, could barely clean. The one time I did laundry was to cover up how far I’d gone with my girlfriend, and I got her stocking caught between the drum and the housing. The machine screamed in pain and I thought I’d broken it. She helped me make repairs before anyone came home. All the same I knew I wasn’t an idle bastard like him, I would treat Ms. Hackett right, I would do all those things he wouldn’t.

At any rate, it turned out there really was something beautiful in Burns. I sat there, reading, looking at online translations, and realised they were all wrong. The mouse’s home was destroyed by the weather, that was right. Wikipedia said “Bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen” was “bleak December's winds coming, Both bitter and piercing!” but I knew better.

I knew snell meant fast, it was like Old English, was like German. I took German to impress someone who I forgot later because they preferred Yeats to Housman. Keen, sharp, perhaps witty, I could see where that was going but in light of the snell it meant slashing, biting at most. No piercing, no dreadful interpolation needed.

The other interpretation, reading that “keen” like an intellect, made me think of the wind as a predator, as like some wolf or hunting down the mouse. I’d seen our adopted greyhounds, still blitzkrieg fast at five or six, kill their share of rabbits. So why not a mouse?
I’d stolen some brandy from the cabinet, my parents were out. My father hardly kept track of his spirits. He noticed empty glasses, not empty bottles. My face flushed as I realised I had an idea of my own, something to make Ms. Hackett flash her teeth at me, a way to get near her for five or ten minutes after class. I couldn’t fuck this up. Maybe some other animal was more plausible? A fox? Did foxes eat mice?

I passed out some time after one, and started to dream. I was the wind, a gray, vulpine kind of wind full of snow. In my energy I leapt over an idle, frozen corpse, an unworthy one, and I blew right into the little mousehole, got into every little nook and cranny, shook it half to pieces and turned it white.

I wrote .

Who knows what good writing is anyway? I am flattered, but get shit on a lot in critique threads and so forth. I dont listen to you guys when you say I suck, so I shouldn't listen to you when you say I'm good. Had I posted it with the trip it probably would have gone unread or gotten negative feedback.

It was written by tying together a series of ideas taken from some little poems I wrote in the previous few months, and observations collected on a road trip last summer, with a deliberate attempt to tie in peripheral thoughts and trying to make parallels to the quick brown fox sentence wherever possible.

I would guess my strongest prose influence is probably Cormac McCarthy, but who knows.

It's fun to get into the zone and ramble off lines like this, I think one just needs a strong sense of the pulse of language thumping through their head and some mildly interesting thoughts to flesh it out with.

ayy vindicated ()

It kinda sounds like Gravity’s Rainbow, idk about his other stuff

I honestly don’t believe you, post evidence.

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fox jump dog

Genesis, particularly from the perspective of a book called "The Ecology of Eden" which postulates that man being cast out from the garden refers to the moment in evolutionary history where humans stopped being animals and became something else.

Since it opens with a few obnoxious remarks about the fox and the dog being evolutionary cousins, I thought we might expand this idea to humans and all creatures being cousins. Plus some overtones about mothers being protectors.

Nice. Good for you then I’ll have to pay attention to your posts now

Shut up retard. Someone who is so DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION to use a trip on An ANONYMOUS IMAGE BOARD would NEVER "just decide to remove his trip" to post something that you APPARENTLY put that much of your OWN SELF INTO.

Shut up retard. Someone who posts something that they APPARENTLY put that much of their OWN SELF INTO would SURELY "just decide to remove his trip" to not be shat on for being so DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION to use a trip on An ANONYMOUS IMAGE BOARD

some favorite parts:
>before ending at last in the great silence of a period
>whose wild leaping gave rise to me and my sister,
>timid boy who thus became an angry small man,

Why, may I ask, would you even lie about something like this? Did you believe I wouldn't return to this thread? Quite an embarrassment...

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Tell me what’s going on here... This sent my noggin joggin.

LOOOOOL
fucking fag.

shopping skills need some polish mate

oh shit you're right.
the (you)s are fucked up.
i take back this post:

Overward jumping sepia sketch hark -- way away he be, hark! Glory be to the motion, furtive and fertile, strength of god in the beast! Southward contradiction; beast burdened bumbling, blunder fourfold: lazy, tired, useless, weak -- upwards heaven and below hell, and middle fraught with naught. Curving so. Gentle thing, it was, but now gone away it was nothing, and so it be.

The (You)s are fine and your attempt to discredit with your samefaggotry is as pathetic as it is desperate.

k shitty shop-fag.

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(You)
(You)
yeah okay guy

Sorry to break your spirits men, but this isn't "shopped".

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sorry i forgot this part

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I'm confused about how that proves anything.
It's only proof that youre the guy who posted the fraudery...

you keep fucking up dude
work in a higher res

oh shiiiiiiiii

We can both post the (yous) but only I know every reference in the text, such as the vague autobiographical appropriation of Perry from Capote's In Cold Blood (who had an Indian mother and whose parents were traveling entertainers).

...I can also show the proof of who I was, though in the course of happenings afflicted never once saw the story in full view, nor shall I know on the day of my death, if lingering sickly in sweat damp sheets the weakness of the body failing, and having therefore a sense of the impending, no saccharine memories to drink of in weary smiles but instead confused, perhaps more than ever, all thoughts confounded by the boredom of hours, punctuated by terrible and beautiful invasions of wonders came as if from another world, things given and taken as easily as breath, for we had love and then you vanished as if taken by jealous gods who wanted your company in ascension, and the fading of sorrows still felt decades later, when the golden branches of trees speak of you, under-lit by the setting sun and surrounded by the ringing of a church bell, the short lived peace of a walk then broken like evening silence, some owl hooting with evil reasons known only to Nature in her sea of groans, and tomorrow the endless toil and the petty tasks to do, always needed doing and were never done, always a place to go where I was not, always dreading the days before me and still longing for what they might at last bring, and still with no sense of destination might could hold as if keystone the two opposing sides, Boredom and Meaning, I was pressed between, a brown stone between gray and green, blah blah blah

It is proof that there is nothing wrong with my proof. I did this by showing you replies to my post claiming the dishonesty of

I am just using the snipping tool. How else do you take screenshots on the computer?

Aw fuck you win. Congratulations.

i don't think that's what's going on there...

how old are you anti-lit?

holy shit dude it's really not that good

hey my ban was lifted. tight, thanks fags.

someone's jealous.

I just turned 28

Nice imitation. You speak of references, but my mind forms like a pair deluding themselves in this sun-spattered atrium where they had found temporary refuge from the murderous fields of capitalist endeavor, no artifact within miles of there younger than a thousand years, marble hands in flowing gestures conversing among themselves as if having only just emerged from their realm of calcium gravity into this trellised repose. . . . The table between them offering fontina, risotto with white truffles, veal and mushroom stew . . . bottles of Prosecco waiting in beds of chipped ice packed down from the Alps. Girls in striped headscarves and flowing skirts hovered thoughtfully just offstage. Other customers had been discreetly seated out of earshot.

Yeah I agree it's not great stuff, I've certainly run across much better writing here on Yea Forums. I think I have a knack for prose but I have a hard time controlling it, it's certainly "overwrought" and would get pretty annoying to read after a while. I think I have a good mind capable of making fairly interesting ideas. Definitely need to read more. I don't have any ambition of publishing this sort of stuff, Im not a fool, if I ever write professionally it will be in a kind of essay format, most likely academic.

But, it fits the bill perfectly for what this thread had asked.

I wonder if my ban was lifted too...:(

This is noticeably not as good as the original passage. It has a hundredth of the quantity of interesting ideas the original had, but diluted into filling up volume at a similar rate. It's more reflective of what a writer could do in a short period of time as a hastily interjected shitpost. The original benefitted from having some preexisting stock of clever notions to draw from that was already partially formulated, as the user indicated (who himself never claimed to be a genius). Posters who speak along these lines are basically correct in saying that this is easily achievable with some force of effort.

This is not even funny as a shitpost intended to cause confusion as a joke. The voice is so noticeably different that you're not going to fool anyone, and the writing is also pretty shit and devoid of cleverness in general. Sorry

>this is easily achievable with some force of effort.
such a bullshit "brilliant but lazy" excuse.
jelly pseud.

Oh fug thanks mods.
Shut up I liked it. Anons flaming are homos who have yet to post anything better.

>This is noticeably not as good as the original passage. It has a hundredth of the quantity of interesting ideas the original had, but diluted into filling up volume at a similar rate.

I'm also about a hundredth as drunk as I was when I wrote the other posts top kek.

'Easily' achieveable is the wrong choice of words, since it makes it sound like the piece is bad, which it isn't, or that only a trite amount of work is needed to create something like it (it's not). I should have said "eventually". Also, calling people pseuds is not a real argument.

>This is not even funny as a shitpost intended to cause confusion as a joke. The voice is so noticeably different that you're not going to fool anyone, and the writing is also pretty shit and devoid of cleverness in general. Sorry
It is literally taken straight out of a pynchon book idiot.

>eventually
that's like saying "maybe".
good job pseud.

So it was posted by a dumb LARPer acting out the role of meme-pynchon as he furtively browses Yea Forums to steal the art of other people? That's not exactly disproving my point about it being an unfunny shitpost.

>LARPER who furtively browses Yea Forums to steal the art of other people
this is projection. His intention was to point out your hypocrisy.
He's showing that he's superior to Pynchon and you recognized it yourself, moron.

No, I mean it is LITERALLY EXACTLY taken out from a pynchon book, and you just criticized the writing as being shit and devoid of cleverness.

there will certainly never be a great writer out of Yea Forums due to the simple fact that bitter talentless NEETs would immediately conspire against him out of spite and jealousy. I see it happen all the time.
I'm also okay with this however.

Which one? I don't remember this in V. or Lot 49, I'm currently reading Gravity's Rainbow and didn't remember anything like that but I'm only ~180 pages in.

That's extremely true. Many posters here are so afraid of the possibility of encountering someone better than them that they invest a lot of effort into finding ways to view everyone as inferior.

I have caught myself doing the same thing, because if you can't even be the best poster in a critique thread on a Korean paper folding forum, then there is no hope at all of ever being as good as you dream of.

Which is, incidentally, why many of us do not try to put our dreams to the test, because we are afraid of failing and would prefer to hold on to them as uncomfirmed possibilities rather than obtaining a level less than we wished.

Between that rended air of space and time that used distance to display the moment of a type-writers test, where a soot-layered building shackled in bircks and baked into the afternoon sun as a toilsome job was being written out into the world, where each letter ahd to be checked and every typeface that ever was, is, and was going to be must be created, wound, worked, and crimped and primped into the proper texture and context of this world that spun around in the sphere of words from which it was written, and in that city of writing and time that tested every combination of words and woe, a pathway of beauty built out from a church door that was titled "Infinity" and walked into the land of time, to douse the world in the ink of its unfading type, and in that meandering, where a scent of everglades and honeycombs played, the sound of subways vibrated the air and shook the bricks, causing the buildings to clatter as if own stilts that refused to topple, as the infinite mode of the infinite song walked the same path that the eric, the fool, and the gambler, with his 7 gauge boots, and leather guns, that sung the sound of whistling and whistled an unbelievable song, the cleric that swung his decanted mist and his...

The fox
He jumps over the lazy dog
yes
YES
The quick brown Fox jumped

garbed robe of iraddiant white that broke the night and its bitter inky obscurity asunder, for in that realm of the city a single visage of truth was making its way, stealing the words from the dictionary and ordering them in their stay, each more perfect than the last, until the tale of God was all that had been typed to rest, and in this tale of infinite walking, much like Adam and Eve's ruverrunning, can the first sound be found, that sounds just like the last, the door that opens in the first from the horrid torrents of lies to blast close, and in this moment, this suspended globule of a sentence that dropped and dewed with all of the good that mankind had saught to render into this merciless world, there was a bit of forgotten time, that the gambler, the typist, and the cleric had all struggled to remember, like each of their fathers and mothers, that rutted with the stars forgetting their lights, they saught out love under the cover of city life and unable to find it in any place, had to look within themselves, in the most hideous lf a place, where we swore that we had stolen away, into an arched attic, and put into that little nook, that enormous cranny, the words of God that stole from that first distance, that first leap, and suspended truth, beauty, and light for a moment so that time could not it rend, but merely sit and wonder as time passes, and before it spells the end of us and our ken...

the gambler took out his seven gauge leather life and tore out his pages amd cards, the cleric sunk the bible and took off his garb, and the typist broke his wretched fingers for with the combination of truth and fate he could no longer conspire, the city would shut down the church and the massive darkness of obscurity and its empire would sink the city's tower that he had occupied into the ocean, its relic buried and a tombstone all of society was that will ever have been, so he set back his tattered fingers onto the words once more, and singing the song his mother taught him, from which he had teased out infinity and all of his friends, from which he had known the only succor of the world and the world his only amicable form, he sobbed and looked at the naked gambler and then naked priest, tears streaming their eyes as neither God nor chance had gifted the author with genius, so he looked to merely complete the alphabet and, puncturing the skin of fingers with his cracked bones, typed with spatters of blood under the sooted lights of could, should, and would, "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog."

no s, 0/10

The only things I ever did in life was jump over that damned dog and exploit the mythos created by another man's pen.

The fox
He jumps over the lazy dog
quick
BROWN
the fox has jumped

Can't agree with this more - I found critique threads to be tons of beginners and very few interesting posts with rampant negativity. Anything beyong the prosaic that even seems verbose will automatically be contrived as pretentious, typical lit smut, and purple prose. Additionally, no matter how valid antilit's claims are, there is no societal mechanism for rewarding proper behavior (i.e. through reputation), and gamifying the system to do so (i.e. upvotes) is equally toxic. So we're in an awkward in between where online reputation rewards the base and saccharine, whereas anonymity is totally agnostic towards and breeds base and negative behavior (such as antisemitism, racist remarks, and misogyny). For writing, especially our supposed breed, it's nearly impossible to be useful unless you somehow give contact information to someone else - but you'd never do that because you'd get trolled because of, again, no punishment for antisocial behavior. It's a tough situation, but Yea Forums is still the only place that regularly discusses high brow literature at any pace, so I have to lurk. If anyone, in this "historic" thread, wants to start a writing group that's fruitful, in some way, respond and I'll make an email.

I posted these purple prose:

Shut the fuck up.

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This might have been the best proof I could've asked for

for what it's worth, i'm the guy that started all the shitting on you, and i quite liked the writing. i certainly think you should continue practicing, but i don't think you really need my encouragement.
i am mostly annoyed by the tendency on here--and i assume its the younger guys doing it--to pile on encomium over anything with even a whiff of originality, so long as the context is 'meme-worthy'. i think its a sign of pathology, a kind of herd mentality, as if merely commenting on a piece is enough to contribute to that piece's merit. borrowing shine, basically. but it only works if they go in on it together.

>as if merely commenting on a piece is enough to contribute to that piece's merit. borrowing shine, basically.
this does not logically follow from this:
>pile on encomium over anything with even a whiff of originality, so long as the context is 'meme-worthy'.
and even if it did, it's not a bad thing, and you're only complaining because it doesn't happen to you.

Exactly what this user said.
>Cringed and bluepilled

i don't think you understand what logical entailment means.
and i post anonymously, just like you

Yikes

the inverse of the principle is also usually operative, and we can see the beginning of an example here

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sorry yeah, i realized that was kind of retarded.
But basically what I mean to say was that it's a huge assumption youre making to support your ego.

i don't think it's an assumption at all, it's swarm tactics
just look at this:

because youre actually being retarded.
people don't like you.

>Being this new
>Getting baited this easily.

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Holy shit I think he's gonna cry, bros.

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i don't care if people don't like me, my ego isn't tied up with anything i write or do on here

i don't know what this is but I'm getting in on it

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nice disclaimer, coward.

i'm still here, man, talking with ya
ain't goin' nowhere
not even behind a proxy, you could probably track me to my home pc if you were so inclined

>implies he's a physical threat in real life
>his ego isn't tied up
lol this fucking fag

You're absolutely right. As a shameless collector of (you)s, replying within the first 5 or 10 posts is critical. If the first reply is "omg you are a pseudo brainlet" then others tend to be negative.

There was meme magic in the enthusiasm for those posts, for sure. I have written similar things that either got ignored or negative responses.

Nobody gives a shit about you. The hacker known as Yea Forums is not going to track you down you colossal niggerfaggot.

i'm not threatening you, man, but you do keep replying to me
and we're both still anonymous

you're alright, man
i don't think 'hackers' really hang out on Yea Forums anymore, if they ever did

Tripfags are gay too. Why don't you two just exchange emails and get the fuck outta here instead of being butt-buddies out in the open?

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your ego is clearly tied up.
This whole thing was all about your ego, dummy.
if you get mad when people like things more than you do, you're literally that one meme with the kid screeching "stop liking things I don't like!"
I just dislike people like you.

>unironically being an anime fag on an anime image sharing board
Yea Forums was never a good idea
again, you're the one that keeps replying to me
i've already explained the reasons for what i've said and done
take it or go diddle yourself
or keep hanging out here, talking shit, who cares

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>i've already explained the reasons for what i've said and done
no you didn't, you just lied is all.

yeah, i mean, you *would* know, right?

Everything you're doing and have done so far is only adding evidence to the case that youre mad and over-reacting. You yourself admitted you didn't dislike it. Your whole reaction stems from the fact that youre mad that people liked it more than you did, your ego is tied up no matter how you look at it (be it stupidity, pride, jealousy whatever)

I also don't understand what you mean by the sarcasm in this post, you know next nothing about me other than that I intensely dislike you for being an angry spiteful fraud.

This is actually good. Do you write short stories? I'd like to read one if it's written like this, but not memed of course.

at some point in these exchanges, i find, the other poster always reaches this point where they start parodying themselves without realizing it.
it's my favorite part, a great anticipation.
anyway, now that i've been satisfied i don't have much interest in continuing this--whatever you want to call it.
night!

lol what?
nice diversion.
coward move.

T..tommy? H..hey.

i went to sleep and now this thread has turner into something very different.
what happened?

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This thread has not turned into something different so much as it has reached a more complete version of its expression.
In the beginning OP tasks dear readers with an exercise. The quickest among us gave it our shot. Our leap.
Perhaps through the day we observe the addition of the other hemisphere. The lazy critics. They idly wait for life to pass over them so they can trap the final word within the stale confines of benign criticism.
Crabs in a bucket user. Participate, leap the bucket whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Against the day

Sabotage is the nature of this website. Anyone who was tricked by that was dumb enough to be tricked like that, especially since you can just search the first sentence and find where I took it from.

What's your favourite book, anti-lit?

I like this better than Tommy P's, even though it's a hundredth of its size.

put me in the screencap

Go fuck yourself.

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if that is really you that wrote that, I commend you on your talent, and ask what books do I read to write like you?

In terms of prose and not characters/plot/ideas, I'd say Blood Meridean, Portrait of the Artist and also Walker Percy's "The Moviegoer."

I also like Hart Crane a lot and have some of him committed to memory.

I'm not pretending to be anything like these writers, just guessing where my influences are.

Also, unironically the Bible. Song of Songs, the Psalms, the poem sections of the OT and Isaiah, are all fantastic parts in the KJV.

No, I generally do not write like that. I've mostly got a ribbing in critique threads where I shared my actual writing. I was riffing on Alexander Mccall Smith there. You're basically asking for a Wes Anderson movie in book form.

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