25 more posts in this thread. [Missing image file: 266515939_11219f0221.jpg]
Yukio Mishima on the graphic novel:
>"Manga is essential to my physiological health," he wrote in one of a handful of essays praising the genre in 1969. He was a devoted reader of this "terribly vulgar, terribly intelligent [...] language art" since childhood. As an adult, Mishima confided, he vied with his children to get first dibs on their weekly delivery of new issues of their favorite manga.
>"Compared with American comics, Japanese manga are a touch grimmer and darker both in eroticism and cruelty," wrote Mishima. "To make up for it, though, they are avant-garde in nonsense. You will see how I, in search of comics that never exist in America, have entered into this way [of the warrior] through graphic samurai tales."
He did, however, note that he did not care for graphic novels that had a "political" or "educational" bent to them. Instead, he preferred tales with "ghouls and ghosts," "savage samurai," and "wild slapstick."
What /lit/ think?
4 more posts in this thread. [Missing image file: Heart.jpg]
Plastic, nylon, faux fur and chocolate,
Reds, pinks, whites,
Interlaced fingers, palms content and sweating together,
Words on cardstock, sealed up in pastels and glue,
Used to mean something to me.
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"Ladies and gentlemen," said a voice that came from the radio receiver—a man's clear, calm, implacable voice, the kind of voice that had not been heard on the airwaves for years—"Mr. Thompson will not speak to you tonight. His time is up. I have taken it over. You were to hear a report on the world crisis. That is what you are going to hear."
Three gasps of recognition greeted the voice, but nobody had the power to notice them among the sounds of the crowd, which were beyond the stage of cries. One was a gasp of triumph, another—of terror, the third—of
bewilderment. Three persons had recognized the speaker: Dagny, Dr. Stadler, Eddie Willers. Nobody glanced at Eddie Willers; but Dagny and Dr. Stadler glanced at each other. She saw that his face was distorted by as evil a terror as one could ever bear to see; he saw that she knew and that the way she looked at him was as if the speaker had slapped his face.
"For twelve years, you have been asking: Who is John Galt? This is John Galt speaking. I am the man who loves his life. I am the man who does not sacrifice his love or his values. I am the man who has deprived you of victims and thus has destroyed your world, and if you wish to know why you are perishing—you who dread knowledge—I am the man who will now tell you."
The chief engineer was the only one able to move; he ran to a television set and struggled frantically with its dials. But the screen remained empty; the speaker had not chosen to be seen. Only his voice filled the airways of the country—of the world, thought the chief engineer—sounding as if he were speaking here, in this room, not to a group, but to one man; it was not the tone of addressing a meeting, but the tone of addressing a mind.
"You have heard it said that this is an age of moral crisis. You have said it yourself, half in fear, half in hope that the words had no meaning.
72 more posts in this thread. [Missing image file: 1360849401256.jpg]
What do you think of this?
He walked slowly, he opened the door quickly, he looked backwards quickly, someone was approaching him slowly, he starting to walk away quickly but the person behind him began to catch up. Slowly he turned around again and the man behind him was now running slowly, ''QUICKLY*'' he shouted, ''Sorry!'' replied the man ''I can't read the pattern! He hasn't posted it yet!''
11 more posts in this thread. [Missing image file: 001.png]
Would /lit/ read my scifi?
The canopy slowly opened. Allowing a new light to shine on the strange being who slept and
slept and slept in the the vessel in the hole. He opened his eyes gradually as he awoke to the new
light in the glass box in which he slept.
"Where am I?"
He waited for the machine. But it never responded. In fact it was probably dead, or maybe it
was asleep as he had been. It just sat there silently, away in the dark, with it's one unmoving eye.
He had begun to realize he was trapped... in his glass box. He slammed his fists on the glass
simply out of sheer frustration. He knew he could never break the barrier. In the back of of his head
he knew it was in fact, a polymer composite shield, designed to withstand crashes and even direct
small arms fire.