ITT: Lines that broke you

>Lord, take pity on the Christian who doubts, on the skeptic who would feign belief, on the galley-slave of life who sets out to sea alone, in the darkness, beneath a firmament illuminated no longer by the consoling beacon-fires of the ancient hope!

What you most likely really have is superior light gathering capability. Plenty of people can see well during the day but see poorly in dimly lit environments. They have trouble understanding that you do not strain as they do to see in that environment. Keep reading. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this unless you are actually straining.

>how odd that I can have all this inside me and to you it's just words

In my copy of the Muir translation of The Trial, there are endnotes which compile certain excised portions of the text. Things Kafka was iffy about it which his literary executors were unsure of whether he wanted them included in the “final” draft. Sometimes it’s pages of deleted text, sometimes only a sentence. There is a line at the end, when Joseph K. Is being executed,
>I have something to say. I lift up my hands.
I found that poetic and haunting, as well as the fact that these were words he chose to remove. I read somewhere, perhaps in the endnotes as well, that it seemed an uncharacteristic and particularly job-like line. The desire for a last word, and then the lifting of the hands, so full of meaning. Was it in praise or surrender? Or simple self-defense?

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Not a line but one conversation between the Doc and the priest in Camus Plague hit me pretty hard.

based John Green

>'Dear Lord,' he said. 'let me be like Aron. Don’t make me mean. I don’t want to be. If you will let everybody like me, why, I’ll give you anything in the world, and if I haven’t got it, why, I’ll go for to get it. I don’t want to be mean. I don’t want to be lonely.

What's the pic? I like the art, I usually detest modern but this seems to me as it is effectually symbolic in its truth, as if a dream, something that if it were without it would be as soulless as every other modern piece.

>'i'm cold', Snowden said again, in a frail, childlike voice. 'i'm cold'.

>“Because,” said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and, with his lips pursed as if for a kiss, speaking right into the supervisor’s ear so that he wouldn’t miss anything, “because I couldn’t find a food that tasted good to me. If had found that, believe me, I would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart’s content, like you and everyone else.”

>“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”
How the fuck do parents read this to their kids?

>To W.S
Made me cry.

Steinbeck makes me cry like a bitch
>Tell me about the rabbits, George.
Or the part in The Pearl when the father comes back to the cave victorious and realises he's deflected the gunshot through the baby's head

>Faces, sounds and lights began to move in my mind over the dark screen of the foliage; there was the crackle of flames and screech of shellfire; Darko and The Jokers; an old woman with her broken teeth falling bloodily down her chest; a girl’s severed ear; the last letter in its blue envelope; Hamdu, the Tigers and the final attack; frightened soldiers, the reek of smoke and clatter of a gunship. My war gone by, I miss it so.

This made me feel more than any line in any other book.

>Unless it can be proven to me — to me as I am now, today, with my heart and my beard, and my putrefaction — that in the infinite run it does not matter a jot that a North American girl-child named Dolores Haze had been deprived of her childhood by a maniac, unless this can be proven (and if it can, then life is a joke), I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

>He descended into a gryke in the stone and there he crouched coughing and he coughed for a long time. Then he just knelt in the ashes. He raises his face to the paling day. Are you there? he whispered. Will I see you at the last? Have a neck by which to throttle you? Have you a heart? Damn you eternally have you a soul? Oh God, he whispered. Oh God.

Control+ S for spoilers retard faggot

First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons – but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world – a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring – this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.
Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as dearly as anyone else – but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

~Carson McCullers, "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe"

One of only two books to ever make me cry.

>a cow sez moo

bump

newfriend here, is the book really that good?

Very. And it can be read in 4 hours or less. Better read it in the evening tho because it WILL turn your day into shit.

thank you, i will

not him but name of book?

No Longer Human (Osamu Dazai)

Dude nice, what book?

>Your a wizard, harry

What book is this from?

I agree I read this shit one night during a particularly dark time in my life and not really because of the book, but I spent the rest of the night contemplating suicide

Just as the sun began to strike the plowlands, rising out of the deep calm flow of the Ocean River to climb the vaulting sky, the opposing armies met. And hard as it was to recognize each man, each body, with clear water they washed the clotted blood away and lifted them onto wagons, weeping warm tears. Priam forbade his people to wail aloud. In silence they piled the corpses onto the pyre, their hearts breaking, burned them down to ash and returned to sacred Troy. And just so on the other side Achean men-at-arms piled the corpses on the pyre, their hearts breaking, burned them down to ash and returned to the hollow ships.

Is that seriously John Green because it's unironically good

Classic

>"user loses his virginity" by user

yes

>It is a word, one of just a few words she can read when she sees it. The word hangs on a silver chain. The word is Hope.

it's dfw from the pale king

>truthfagging
for shame

>shitting out the same joke repeatedly, reddit-style
for shame

Very cool

>how odd that I can have all this inside me and to you it's just words
everyone can just google it anyway

>le le leddit

>That was my life then—but was it really life at all, O my God?

Why?

all the more reason for lying to people asking to be spoonfed

IJ

Little Tom is fairly based

The ending of Notes from Underground where the narrator states that the underground man's journal goes on for several hundred more pages, but he didn't think they were worth sharing. It's like the UM's meeting with the whore was the last chance of redemption he'll ever have and now he's just stuck in narcissistic introspection for the rest of his life.

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>"He broke my heart. You merely broke my life."

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I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.

Considerably.

This broke me. At this moment it was completely over for him

“I thought, “I want to die. I want to die more than ever before. There’s no chance now of a recovery. No matter what sort of thing I do, no matter what I do, it’s sure to be a failure, just a final coating applied to my shame. That dream of going on bicycles to see a waterfall framed in summer leaves—it was not for the likes of me. All that can happen now is that one foul, humiliating sin will be piled on another, and my sufferings will become only the more acute. I want to die. I must die. Living itself is the source of sin.”

Dont remind me

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John green is pretty good for a cuck

"We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreplaceably broken"

“Sir,” said he, “if you had seen the miseries of the world, you would know how to value your present state.”
“Now,” said the Prince, “you have given me something to desire. I shall long to see the miseries of the world, since the sight of them is necessary to happiness.”

A lover thinks more often how to reach his mistress than a husband how to protect his wife; a prisoner thinks more often how to escape than a jailer how to lock his cell; thus, whatever the obstacles, lover and prisoner will triumph.

fuck that story makes me rage

>Lines that broke you.

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"Still, just as if they had been poisoned fingernails, their scratching was followed by inflammation, swelling, putrefaction, and corruption. Such was my life! But was it life, O my God?"

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based dfw

Cringe

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Just started reading this and got to that page, incredible stuff

The nightclub conversation on Whatever.