#satirical literature

[beloved-of-john]

"Indeed, the safest road to Hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts"

The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis

[madame-helen]

[athinellis]

The tragedy in 1984 is that they do not actually kill the protagonist in the end but they kill him as an individual. And the final step to do so is not by destroying something directly related to himself but by destroying his feelings for another person. The final step to destroy a human being is to destroy their love.

[achillesisnotcomingdown]

A classics fan calling a character (Ody, Achilles...) "babygirl" and such : Fun. Perpetuate the art of satire comedy.

A fan of modern media (Epic, Hades, tsoa...) doing the same : Embarrasing. Clearly dont grasp the depth of the texts and treats it as some funny fiction.

[francisfuckingabernathy]

Every time anyone says "Oh, god, how you can get into The Secret History? The characters are so awful." I can barely contain the exasperated rage pummeling my body because they literally hit the nail on the head. THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT OF THE BOOK.

[kanyniablue]

"Darling!" Archer said—and suddenly the same black abyss yawned before him and he felt himself sinking into it, deeper and deeper, while his voice rambled on smoothly and cheerfully

--Edith Wharton; The Age of Innocence

[reverie-quotes]

If you don't believe it, go down to your local karaoke bar on a busy night. Wait until the third hour, when the drunk frat boys and gastropub waitresses with headshots are all done with Backstreet Boys and Alicia Keys and locate the slightly older Asian businessman standing patiently in line for his turn, his face warmly rouged on Crown or Japanese lager, and when he steps up and starts slaying "Country Roads," try not to laugh, or wink knowingly or clap a little too hard, because by the time he gets to "West Virginia, mountain mama," you're going to be singing along, and by the time he's done, you might understand why a seventy-seven-year-old guy from a tiny island in the Taiwan Strait who's been in a foreign country for two-thirds of his life can nail a song, note perfect, about wanting to go home.

— Charles Yu, Interior Chinatown

[skill7spark04]

[wronghands1]

[maybesomebodysomeday]

Not to brag but i have 50 followers on my Tumblr Blog, what's she have? *scoffs*

[tritemagicalsatire]

Always in the writing scene when the author themselves are drunk from the euphoria of having their words imprinted on a paper or screen. But the need of having their draft scanned over and over again for the final product is the real struggle here. The struggle to put one's words into something comprehensible, even to themselves FIRST, as its first audience of an intellectual freakshow—

Ah... The rules of the grammarian culture without sacrificing the childlike playing of random alphabet blabbering. And one's personal standard of literary utopia is waving, all after the random soliloquies whispering in one's mind as if they are asleep while writing/typing the words needed for the wordscapes recipe of an individual aspiration for having their illusions to be something material, and yet, ethereal.

The somnolent escape in the paper kingdom of mindless thoughts in order to have a mindful release to the letter collective! 😅🤣

—M.

[madame-helen]

[burningvelvet]

On November 8th 1820, Claire Clairmont wrote some satirical stories in her journal about Lord Byron and Percy Shelley—they were written as ideas for caricatures (the Regency era term for what we would now call editorial cartoons or comic strips):

Wednesday, November 8th.

Caricature for Albé. He, sitting writing poetry, the words “Oh! faithless Woman” round the room, hearts are strewed, inscribed, “We died for love of you.” Another—he catching a lady by her waist, his face turned towards her, his other hand extended holding a club stick in the act of giving a blow to a man who is escaping. From his mouth,

“The maid I love, the man I hate

I'll kiss her lips and break his Pate.”

Three more to be called Lord Byron's Morning, Noon and Night. The first: he looking at the sky, a sun brightly shining—saying: "Come, I feel quite bold and cheerful—there is no God.”

The second towards evening, a grey tint spread over the face of Nature, the sun behind a cloud—a shower of rain falling—a dinner table in the distance covered with a profusion of dishes, he (with a Wallup) says—“What a change I feel in me after dinner; where we see design we suppose a designer; I'll be a Deist—I am a Deist."

The third—evening—candles just lighted, all dark without the windows (a cup of green tea on the table): and trees agitated much by wind beating against the panes, also thunder and lightning. He says

"God bless me, suppose there should be a God—it is as well to stand in his good graces. I'll say my prayers to-night, and write to Murray to put in a touch concerning the blowing of the last Trump."

Pistols are on the table, also daggers—bullets—Turkish scymitars . . .

Another to be called “Lord Byron's receipt for writing pathetic History.” He sitting drinking spirits, playing with his white mustachios. His mistress, the Fornaria, opposite him drinking coffee. Fumes coming from her mouth, over which is written "garlich;" these, curling, direct themselves towards his English footman who is just then entering the room and he is knocked backward. Lord B. is writing, he says.

"Imprimis, to be a great pathetic poet. First prepare a small colony, then dispatch the Mother, by worrying and cruelty, to her grave; afterwards to neglect and ill-treat the children—to have as many and as dirty mistresses as can be found; from their embraces to catch horrible diseases, thus a tolerable quantity of discontent and remorse being prepared, give it vent on paper, and to remember particularly to rail against learned women. This is my infallible receipt by which I have made so much money."

The last his death. He dead extended on his bed, covered all but his breast, which many wigged doctors are cutting open to find out (as one may be saying) what was the extraordinary disease of which this great man died—His heart laid bare, they find an immense capital “I” grown on its surface—and which has begun to pierce the breast—They are all astonishment. One says, “a new disease.” Another. “I never had a case of this kind before.” A third what medicines would have been proper, the fourth holding up his finger (A desert island.)

Caricature for poor dear S. He looking very sweet and smiling. A little Jesus Christ playing about the room. He says:

“Then grasping a small knife and looking mild

I will quietly murder that little child.”

Another. Himself and God Almighty. He says:

"If you please God Almighty, I had rather be damned with Plato and Lord Bacon than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus." God Almighty: “It shall be as you please, pray don't stand upon ceremony."

Shelley's three aversions: God Almighty, Lord Chancellor, and didactic Poetry . . .

Sources: The Journals of Claire Clairmont edited by Marion Kingston Stocking, Harvard, 1968, Archive.org. “The Lord Byron / John Polidori relationship and the foundation of the early nineteenth-century literary vampire” by Matthew Beresford, University of Hertfordshire June 2019. Byron: A Biography by Marchand, Vol. II, 1957.

[latin-literature-tourney]

Latin Literature Tournament - Round 1

Propaganda under the cut!

Persius Propaganda:

When it comes to satire, he's way more earnest and genuine than Juvenal, who reads like a Fox and Friends special

Discusses Stoic themes in a way that makes for a really important point of comparison for Seneca

Lucan loved him

Catullus Propaganda:

When I was teaching Latin, one of my 8th grad students said of Catullus "He's the worst man who ever lived. I love him."

The only Roman writer to talk about clit envy

Fucking loved Sappho, so you know he has good taste

[flowersforfrancis]

Becoming a character in a dark academia novel - A beginners guide:

Show off your love for literature, fine art or mythology. Make sure everyone knows you’ve read Plato. And Shakespeare. And Homer. Basically, Quote an old white dude who’s probably dead at least once a day.

Make sure to be seen running through your school. Develop an aesthetic run. Maybe do this with a group of equally experienced friends.

Please don’t own anything plastic or overly bright. (this is definitely for the environment). 

Have a set of fucked up morals. But make sure to prepare yourself with some smart sounding excuse that essentially intimidates people and deters them from asking questions.

Murder someone or be murdered. Either one. (I’d say it’s your choice, but if you’re being murdered, well, it’s probably not).

Develop an addiction- I’d recommend something like red wine, or cigarettes. Or both. (But you didn’t hear it from me).

Embrace the angst, the insanity, the insomnia and the general dislike for others.

Don’t worry about being friendly; coldness is encouraged.

Learn several old languages that most people don’t actually speak. If this truly isn’t possible: resort to French.  

Please, for the love of [insert old white dude here], be dramatic.

If you aren’t rich then either embrace it as an aesthetic. Or just lie.

Either get a small, cluttered apartment, or a giant fucking mansion.

Be smart.

Listen to classical music.

In terms of love you have a few choices: fall In love with someone but then kill them. Be queer and deny it. Be queer and fall for heterosexuals (or at least people who think they are). - basically please never get a happy ending with someone you actually love.

Exist only during winter and autumn. I suppose you may spend some time in spring. But only make brief appearances in summer. If you’re seen during summer, make sure you’re at a lake, or on a lawn, or in a sunlit library, maybe a sailboat?

Read.

Get some collared shirts.

If you get glasses they better be obscure.

Make sure people see you drunk. Maybe knock on a classmates door whilst drunk.

If you aren’t six feet under, remember to be mature and regretful years after your time at your elitist school.

Oh yeah, receive an elite education. (Or hang out in public libraries a lot?? Idk).

Avoid healthy relationships. Or maybe form an inseparable bond with someone. Honestly this can still be unhealthy. Probably will be.

Never have a good relationship with your family. They must be either dead, uninterested in you, far away, or just plain shitty.

[tilbageidanmark]