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Greetings /lit/. I don't post much here. The purpose of this thread would be to get some sensible advice. Yes, I know.
>asking for advice on /lit/
Anyways, I was once an avid reader. I used to devour books and books endlessly. It was, as DFW may put it, my raison d'être. I was content, satisfied. No other art could give me the amount of pleasure literature did. The immersion.
The thing is that, with time, I think I've grown tired of books. But perhaps that's not the correct approach. Ever since I started with depression, reading was just not the same for me. Besides, I developed an internet addiction. I am able to feel the scent of ADHD. For instance, I tried luck with The history of sexuality (Michel Foucault) recenly and I couldn't manage to read it more than a few pages. Everytime I get together enough willpower to sit down with a book in my hands, I instantly want to go back to the computer. It is painful. Picture this: a sort of thing that was once there but now isn't anymore. A void. A lack of identity.
And I thought that since many of you are readers you could help me out. Are there tired bookfags here? Do you know any way to get back the joy of reading? Alternatively, is there any way I can fill the void that has been left to me?
Also, excuse me for my poor language. I used to express myself more lucidly before. But it's been too long since I last wrote something. Thanks in advance.
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I have to pick a classic book to read for English Literature class.
BUT, it can be any classic deemed valuable to society, one that will be revered for time to come. (Proven by 2 credible sources that analyze the book. This shouldn't be an issue for me, I know /lit/ has got some good reads in mind)
Since the choice is mine, I've decided to go after a modern classic. Something written in the 1970s or later.
I'm currently thinking of reading Life of Pi, but before doing that I wanted to ask your opinion. Is it good?
What would you recommend?
Descriptive writing practice.
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"Cut me, Ling-ling..cut me" Toot mustered from behind her chunky, grey, saliva-covered lips as she lay utterly exhausted on the steely, jelly-stained chair in the ring corner. Her tremendously large thighs lay slumped over it's cold metal seat, sweat gushing down her pasty-white drumsticks. The fat within her fat-folds gurgled and sloshed as she heaved her tremendous weight around, as she struggled to catch her breath.
Ling-ling took the small, sharpened piece of metal in his hands, and without question, tore a large gaping slice across her right thigh, exposing a layer of darken gelatinous goo and ushering forth a spurt of blackened blood.
Toot exhaled an orgasmic sigh of relief, for it was only during this moments of intense physical pain, could she forget her eternally dismal life, void completely of love, male companionship and any form non self-administered sexual gratification.
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I've never tried to write anything before, and would really appreciate some feedback on this opening. Even a y/n would you read on? would be great, but specific critique would be much more helpful.
There was an odd delay between feeling his jaw break, and hearing it crack. The hand reached out and grasped Sergei’s chin with an unmerciful grip, making slow circular movements so that the bones ground dully against each other.
“The digits, Sergei”
The fist struck again. Sergei tried to cry out, but his left molars were now at the centre of his mouth and he could only muster a low groan. The interrogation had been relentless, and Sergei Yuditsky was a broken man.
Also, if this isn't the place to look for feedback, where is?