What's a passage that made you say "based" out loud?

What's a passage that made you say "based" out loud?

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the first three paragraphs of Infinite Jest

There's nothing special except the slightly detailed discription

>slightly
>"My posture is consciously congruent"

>Every select man strives instinctively for a citadel and a privacy, where he is FREE from the crowd, the many, the majority— where he may forget ‘men who are the rule,’ as their exception;— exclusive only of the case in which he is pushed straight to such men by a still stronger instinct, as a discerner in the great and exceptional sense. Whoever, in intercourse with men, does not occasionally glisten in all the green and grey colours of distress, owing to disgust, satiety, sympathy, gloominess, and solitariness, is assuredly not a man of elevated tastes; supposing, however, that he does not voluntarily take all this burden and disgust upon himself, that he persistently avoids it, and remains, as I said, quietly and proudly hidden in his citadel, one thing is then certain: he was not made, he was not predestined for knowledge. For as such, he would one day have to say to himself: ‘The devil take my good taste! but ‘the rule’ is more interesting than the exception—than myself, the exception!’ And he would go DOWN, and above all, he would go ‘inside.’ The long and serious study of the AVERAGE man—and consequently much disguise, self-overcoming, familiarity, and bad intercourse (all intercourse is bad intercourse except with one’s equals):—that constitutes a necessary part of the life-history of every philosopher; perhaps the most disagreeable, odious, and disappointing part.

>various are the roads of man. He who follows and compares them will see strange figures emerge, figures which seem to belong to that great cipher which we discern written everywhere, in wings, in eggshells, clouds and snow, in crystals and in stone formations, on ice-covered waters, on the inside and outside of mountains, of plants, beasts and men, in the lights of heaven, on scored disks of pitch or glass or in iron filings around a magnet, and in strange conjunctures of chance

>"wheeeeeet!"
>not "BRRRAAAAAPPP"

>There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers, and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.

what is so great about that, it's kind of cringy to be honest

>“What do you believe?
I believe that the last and the first suffer equally. Pari passu.
Equally?
It is not alone in the dark of death that all souls are one soul.
Of what would you repent?
Nothing.
Nothing?
One thing. I spoke with bitterness about my life and I said that I would take my own part against the slander of oblivion and against the monstrous facelessness of it and that I would stand a stone in the very void where all would read my name. Of that vanity I recant all.”

>But it so happened, that those boats, without seeing Pip, suddenly spying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and Stubb's boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent upon his fish, that Pip's ringed horizon began to expand around him miserably. By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him; but from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such, at least, they said he was. The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God's foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So man's insanity is heaven's sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God.
absolute banger

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t probably sounds strange now, but in the seventies nobody really cared how big their dick was. When I was a teenager I had every conceivable hang-up about my body except that. I don’t know who started it—queers, probably, though you find it a lot in American detective novels, but there’s no mention of it in Sartre. Whatever, in the showers at the gym I realized I had a really small dick. I measured it when I got home—it was twelve centimeters, maybe thirteen or fourteen if you measured right to the base. I’d found something new to worry about, something I couldn’t do anything about; it was a basic and permanent handicap. It was around then that I started hating blacks. There weren’t many of them in the school—most of them went to the technical high school, Lycée Pierre-de-Coubertin, where the eminent Defrance did his philosophical striptease and propounded his pro-youth ass-kissing. I only had one, in my première A class, a big, stocky guy who called himself Ben. He always wore a baseball cap and Nikes; I was convinced he had a huge dick. All the girls threw themselves at this big baboon and here I was trying to teach them about Mallarmé—what the fuck was the point? This is the way Western civilization would end, I thought bitterly, people worshiping in front of big dicks, like hamadryas baboons.

b-but, user, that's totally the point, it's *meant* to be cringy!

not very sincere desu

This guy gets me.

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i think about this sentence everyday.

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>My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

>I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as “Claudius the Idiot,” or “That Claudius,” or “Claudius the Stammerer,” or “Clau-Clau-Claudius” or at best as “Poor Uncle Claudius,” am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the “golden predicament” from which I have never since become disentangled.

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When Socrates said he was not afraid of death in "Apology" because he cant be afraid of something he does not know and THAT is the only thing he claims to be wise in

Basically anything by Keats

the more based one is the ending joke

When stoner fucked his wife even though she did not want to

based

The author's note at the end of Fahrenheit 451 where Bradbury expresses his displeasure with proto-SJWs saying he doesn't have enough black or female characters

>When these great lenders of blood-money, like the Rothschilds, have loaned vast sums in this way, for purposes of murder, to an emperor or a king, they sell out the bonds taken by them, in small amounts, to anybody, and everybody, who are disposed to buy them at satisfactory prices, to hold as investments. They (the Rothschilds) thus soon get back their money, with great profits; and are now ready to lend money in the same way again to any other robber and murderer, called an emperor or a king, who, they think, is likely to be successful in his robberies and murders, and able to pay a good price for the money necessary to carry them on.

>This business of lending blood-money is one of the most thoroughly sordid, cold-blooded and criminal that was ever carried on, to any considerable extent, amongst human beings. It is like lending money to slave-traders, or to common robbers and pirates, to be repaid out of their plunder. And the men who loan money to governments, so called, for the purpose of enabling the latter to rob, enslave, and murder their people, ar among the greatest villains that the world has ever seen. And they as much deserve to be hunted and killed (if they cannot otherwise be got rid of) as any slave-traders, robbers, or pirates that ever lived.

This is from Lysander Spooner, American anarchist, abolitionist (while also a CSA apologist), mail entrepreneur, and overall badass.

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bleak and ligotti-pilled

>No truer than the miracles of Mohammed
>If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very common propensity with those of that nation

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This is also one of the main quotes I took away from the Apology.

Sometimes when libtards talk about reparations my dad snaps out of being a boomer for just long enough to say something I agree with and I have to mentally avoid saying it. Also whenever literally anyone says goodnight to me I have to repress the urge to reply "Goodnight, fren."

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I felt that way the last night a girl showed interest in me. Couple of years now.

When I see senior citizens IRL I say "der boomer..." in my head and chuckle. Also the other day I drove by an Indian man and said "ok pajeet, do the needful" and chuckled to myself again

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>In earlier centuries, the common man did not attend the Cultural drama ... When democratic conditions proceed to their extreme, the result is that even the leaders are common men ... In earlier centuries there was no suggestion anywhere that the masses of the population had a part to play. When this idea does triumph, it turns out that the only roll these masses can play is the passive one of unwieldy building material for the articulate part of the population
>Life is a long holiday whose main problem is devising new and more stupid pleasures

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that wasn't the point, the point was that you said it was only slightly descriptive
absolutely not the point, please kill yourself

Is there anything more insufferable than psudeo-lisp?

I wasn't talking about your point, you dumb fuck. I was talking about the DFW's reason for the cringey description.

but butterfly, none of the S's were replaced with TH's, what makes you say the author has a lisp?

odds are he didn't know it was cringey, considering his usual writing style, so you're still wrong anyway

not psuedo lisp you retard, use some imagination in that dimwit trans skull and realize its implementing his philosophy as it is rather than through direct words. I don't like land either...

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>Thus it is obvious that the mutual contact of the West and the Jew had an opposite signification for the two organisms. To the Jew, it was a source of strength, and informing; to the West it was a drain of strength, and deforming. The Jew was within the West, but the West was not within him. Persecution strengthens, if it stops short of extermination. The quotation which stands at the beginning of this work is as true for the West as it was for the Jew in the early days [the quotation is: ‘what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger’] … the persecutions gave him a mission, the mission of revenge and destruction
The hero we needed, not the one we deserved.

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> Her adorable profile, parted lips, warm hair were
some three inches from my bared eyetooth; and I felt the heat of her limbs
through her rough tomboy clothes. All at once I knew I could kiss her throat
or the wick of her mouth with perfect impunity. I knew she would let me do
so, and even close her eyes as Hollywood teaches. A double vanilla with hot
fudge--hardly more unusual than that.

I don't frequently utter "based", I'm very wary of freely letting out "based"s in normal life, certainly when it comes to books I wouldn't blurt out "based" just after reading a passage. any "based"s would rather come out as a thoughtful judgement on the entire idea or chapter after a short reflection on it.
"cringe" on the other hand is constantly in rotation. the world that we live in provides almost constant material to which the contemptuous, disdainful "cringe" barely under the breath is the only fitting response

Read my post again and reconsider whether or not I was being wholly sincere.

my point still stands upon rereading every post. please clarify if you think there has been a discrepancy

You don't have to understand, as long as you don't misunderstand too much. Anyway, my post was a satirisation of the posters who have in the past defended the opening of IJ as purposefully showcasing the autism of the MC.

Is this what passes for continental philosophy? Null-terminated line feed vomit? Is this what people in the academy have to pretend is meaningful?

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I've never said "based" in real life. NEVER.

'TWAS NOT while England's sword unsheathed
Put half a world to flight,
Nor while their new-built cities breathed
Secure behind her might;
Not while she poured from Pole to Line
Treasure and ships and men--
These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
They did not quit her then!

Not till their foes were driven forth
By England o'er the main--
Not till the Frenchman from the North
Had gone with shattered Spain;
Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
No hostile flag unrolled,
Did they remember what they owed
To Freedom--and were bold!'

Fucking traitors.

>saying "based" out loud
Holy fuck, hearing someone like that would make me cringe so fucking hard

Indeed

Every page of Gravity’s Rainbow

cringe

What on earth is going on there

Those are queefs, Mr. Joyce.

>Poe Dameron
Is this Onions Wars?

cringe

every time achilleus speaks

not sure how to pronounce it

Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin?

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yes

I've never read this passage, but is it houellebecq?