ITT: moments in books that gave you these bad boys

Reading my own diary.

literally every page on the book of disquiet

When Porfiry Petrovich randomly started discussing the murder with Raskolnikov when he was at the police station about some completely unrelated matter

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when he was talking about dying among strangers in confessions of a mask, the part about how fathers are the worst thing ever in a sailor who fell from grace with the sea, couple of pages in the golden pavilion, where he speaks to kashiwagi for the first time and mizo gets btfo, basically every couple of pages of a dostojevsky book, last it was in white nights when he starts talking to the girl as a 26 year old khhv.. white fang did some nice things.

"O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi
E le colonne e i simulacri e l'erme
Torri degli avi nostri,
Ma la gloria non vedo,
Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond'eran carchi
I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme,
Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri.
Oimè quante ferite,
Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio,
Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo
E al mondo: dite dite;
Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo è peggio,
Che di catene ha carche ambe le braccia;
Sì che sparte le chiome e senza velo
Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata,
Nascondendo la faccia
Tra le ginocchia, e piange.
Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia,
Le genti a vincer nata
E nella fausta sorte e nella ria."

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Stephen King's The Man in the Black Suit

Clarisse's death from Fahrenheit 451

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Hell sermon in Portrait
Ending of The Dead
Damn Joyce had soul

Vronsky leaving to fight the Turks in Montenegro. a guy with nothing more to live for deciding to sacrifice himself for the glory of the nation

In A Farewell to Arms when the protagonist jumps into the river to escape the carabinieri

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War & Peace, the scene in which the wounded Andrei sees Anatole and the descriptions and monologues that follow.

The Brothers Karamazov in many scenes, the Zosima scenes and “Rebellion” and “The Grand Inquisitor” as well as many scenes with Dimitri.

Leonardi sarà pure morto vergine ma era un chad nello spirito

>when Athena pretends to be Hector's brother and he realized he's been duped, accepts his death and decides to go out fighting
Absolutely based

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the passage in Moby Dick where Pip is cast overboard, that ends with
>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.
The ending of Lolita
The last 50 odd pages of Blood Meridian
The entirety of Ulysses by Tennyson
This part of Job:
>Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me
and my diary desu

Ivan talking to the Devil in his nightmare and The Grand Inquisitor.
Marmeladov telling his story to Raskolnikov
Svidrigailov's dream right before he offs himself
Raskolnikov looking at freedom on the last page of C&P.

Little solace comes
to those who grieve
when thoughts keep drifting
as walls keep shifting
and this great blue world of ours
seems a house of leaves

moments before the wind.

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes—he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying—he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person—he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword—he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love—he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void— he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds—he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni—he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face—and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's

"But only look at that Sultan who cares so lovingly for his people. Is he not pure unselfishness itself, and does he not hourly sacrifice himself for his people? Oh, yes, for "HIS people." Just try it; show yourself not as his, but as your own; for breaking away from his egoism you will take a trip to jail. The Sultan has set his cause on nothing but himself; he is to himself all in all, he is to himself the only one, and tolerates nobody who would dare not to be one of "his people."

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this.

>when Diomedes stroke down Ares

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Stirner was able to elegantly put into words an idea I had about ideas being similar to spirits, demons and ghosts and then go on to develop it at length. That not only made my hair stand on end but made me visibly erect.

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The only good Italian poet since Tasso
In fact, those are the only excellent lines written in Italy in centuries, and the poem declines from then on

War and Peace when Kutuzov lies on his back and rises to be told that he has saved Russia
Or when Andrew is on the battlefield
From modern fiction, Joe Abercrombie’s First Law when Adua touches the demon realm and Bayaz doesn’t even realise

>he laughs
>but not for long

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>tips fedora

is this what passes for a counterargument among theists these days?

>asking for counterarguments to ad homs

"The twins were too young to know that these were only history’s henchmen. Sent to square the books and collect the dues from those who broke its laws. Impelled by feelings that were primal yet paradoxically wholly impersonal. Feelings of contempt born of inchoate, unacknowledged fear—civilization’s fear of nature, men’s fear of women, power’s fear of powerlessness. Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue nor deify." -God of Small Things

When Mary shows Nicholas her diary in War & Peace, and the ending of Little, Big when everything comes together and the final significance of all the characters is realized and made clear. Those are just recent ones that I can remember but they're both incredibly beautiful, although one is much more small and incidental than the other.

"The negro had been knocked out, and a moment’s examination shewed us that he would permanently remain so. He was a loathsome, gorilla-like thing, with abnormally long arms which I could not help calling fore legs, and a face that conjured up thoughts of unspeakable Congo secrets and tom-tom poundings under an eerie moon. The body must have looked even worse in life—but the world holds many ugly things."

I think Lovecraft being a racist makes his horror stories a better read.

When Ahab almost agrees to turn the ship around and head back for Nantucket to reunite with his family on insistence from Starbuck

The end of The Dead

The interrogation scene with Porfiry before Nikolai confessed was some of the most intense shit ever. I was almost sweating by the time it was over.

>the chapter in W&P where Bolkonsky is shown to grow more and more distant from the people taking care of him and then dies
>the candlelight metaphor in Anna Karenina’s death
>when Sensei finds K dead in Kokoro
>the interrogation scene in C&P
>when they kill Shatov in Demons
>Hans Castorp being enchanted by music when there’s nothing left for him at the hotel in The Magic Mountain
>the Katherine Driscoll chapter and the ‘To W.S’ in Stoner

also worth mentioning though not a book is the entirety of Au Hasard Balthazar

>I think Lovecraft being a racist makes his horror stories a better read.
It's very disappointing to see good readers become dissuaded by it, it adds such an otherwise unexplored dimension to his work. It's like the troglodytes and blemmyes of Herodotus but "real."

The start of Autumn was signalled by a genuine chill in the not-yet-cold-air, by a fading of whatever colours had remained unfaded, by the appearance of a hint of shadow and absence that had not been there before in the tone of landscapes and the blurred aspect of things. Nothing was dying yet, but everything, as if with a smile as yet unsmiled, looked longingly back at life.
Then, at last, the real autumn arrived: the air was cooled by winds; the leaves spoke in dry tones even before they had withered and died; the whole earth took on the colour and impalpable form of a treacherous marshland. What had been a last faint smile faded with a weary drooping of eyelids, in gestures of indifference. And so everything that feels, or that we imagine as having feelings, clasped its own farewell close to its breast. The sound of a gust of wind in a hallway floated across our awareness of something else. One longed, in order truly to feel life, to be a patient convalescing from an illness.
But, coming as they did in the midst of this clear autumn, the first winter rains almost disrespectfully washed away these half tints. Amidst the occasional exclamatory bursts of rain, high winds unleashed distracted words of anonymous protest, sad, almost angry sounds of soulless despair, whistling around whatever was motionless, tugging at whatever was fixed and dragging with them anything movable.
And at last, in cold and greyness, autumn ended. It was a wintry autumn that came now, a dust finally become mud, but it brought with it what is good about the winter cold, with the harsh summer over, the spring to come and the autumn finally giving way to winter. And in the sky above, where the dull colours had lost all memory of heat or sadness, everything was set for night and an indefinite period of meditation.
That was how I saw it without recourse to thinking. I write it down today because I remember it. The autumn I have is the autumn I lost.