Favourite writing ever?

>Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.

Other urls found in this thread:

1movies.tv/film/russkaya-lolita-2007/
en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lolita
en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maurice_Girodias
twitter.com/SFWRedditImages

You know, dear boy, there was an old sinner in the eighteenth century who declared that, if there were no God, he would have to be invented. S'il n'existait pas Dieu, il faudrait l'inventer. And man has actually invented God. And what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it is, so touching, so wise and so great a credit it does to man. As for me, I've long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man. And I won't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject, all derived from European hypotheses; for what's a hypothesis there, is an axiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys but with their teachers too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys themselves. And so I omit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at now? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature, that is what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope, that's it, isn't it? And therefore I tell you that I accept God simply. But you must note this: if God exists and if He really did create the world, then, as we all know, He created it according to the geometry of Euclid and the human mind with the conception of only three dimensions in space. Yet there have been and still are geometricians and philosophers, and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole universe, or to speak more widely the whole of being, was only created in Euclid's geometry; they even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which according to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in infinity. I have come to the conclusion that, since I can't understand even that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly that I have no faculty for settling such questions, I have a Euclidian earthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world? And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Alyosha, especially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions [pg 258] are utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three dimensions. And so I accept God and am glad to, and what's more, I accept His wisdom, His purpose—which are utterly beyond our ken; I believe in the underlying order and the meaning of life; I believe in the eternal harmony in which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the Word to Which the universe is striving, and Which Itself was ‘with God,’ and Which Itself is God and so on, and so on, to infinity. There are all sorts of phrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I?

Yet would you believe it, in the final result I don't accept this world of God's, and, although I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't accept God, you must understand, it's the world created by Him I don't and cannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidian mind of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened with men—but though all that may come to pass, I don't accept it. I won't accept it. Even if parallel lines do meet and I see it myself, I shall see it and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at the root of me, Alyosha; that's my creed. I am in earnest in what I say. I began our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my confession, for that's all you want. You didn't want to hear about God, but only to know what the brother you love lives by. And so I've told you.

>kill niggers

>actual pedophile

that's easy enough as a self-contained bit, but really the whole book is my favorite piece of writing (especially in ignat avsey's translation).

other highlights include:
>alyosha's speech to the boys, at the end
>ivan's conversations with smerdyakov, then the devil
>dmitri's chapter before he gets arrested
>fyodor raving in front of zosima
>the peasant women and zosima
>the entire book on zosima

What are some books about cute feet

Kafka's The Trial has a couple of scenes with a podophilic undertone.

...

I'm drunk please post the passage here

...

You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw -- but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it -- tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest -- if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself -- you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say "Here at last is the thing I was made for". We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.

Why are you guys so obsessed with this book and this passage specifically?
I mean it's pretty and everything, but it's not the only book in the world, you know.

It's kinda freaky tbqhwy guys.

Hey fuck you

...

Get out of that jabroni outfit

Is that C.S. Lewis?

Fuck off with that pseudo shit

he's an artist, an entertainer, pleb

It is Lewis. Please don't mistake his writing abilities for his theology abilities.

>in my bed she's always eighteen

What a hideous froggy foot. Also she looks like my drunkard male roommate from Alabama.

age is just a numeral restriction on the legal surface of the vast and bountiful pleasure-lake

Holy shit OP I'm holding that book in my hands right now. Also where is that webm from

Might be from the 1997 movie.

A penpal once sent me a recording of her reading this excerpt. Hearing somebody else recite it is a lot more appealing and different than reading it in your head. Each syllable from the alliteration sent forth a gallon of blood to the dick.

Also, Lolita was her favorite novel. She literally had over a hundred copies of it in different editions, publishers, and languages.

>Hearing somebody else recite it is a lot more appealing and different than reading it in your head
Learn to read poetry, bozo. Unless the reciter is extremely good at it, which is an art in itself, reading the text yourself is always better.

Also, stop being a pedophile.

I said that in reference to that specific excerpt. I agree with what you said, but that opening paragraph takes a different direction once you hear it from a sweet voice, one that's coming from a woman that you're madly in love with.

Fuck off, you communist faggot

>that opening paragraph takes a different direction once you hear it from a sweet voice, one that's coming from a woman that you're madly in love with.
Understandable, yet the tone of Lolita is so bitter and perverse, and the totality of the book, knowing its ending, offers such a pessimistic view of love, that it wouldn't be my first choice.

Why are all pedos sleazy liberalists? The kiddy diddling would almost be forgivable if it didn't come with the utter vapidness of capitalist ideologues.

>uses a French word

Have I told you that I know French?

1movies.tv/film/russkaya-lolita-2007/

22:45 . Go to it .

Is that from the movie?
Does it have more scenes like this? Asking for a friend

Fixed*

STOP SEXUALIZING MINORS

Why? Are you afraid that you'd take a shot?

Fucking moron.

How could anyone get off to the idea of removing a little girl's clothes and licking her tiny body all over, nibbling her neck and kissing her adorable little nipples? Only a heartless monster would think about her cute girlish mouth and tongue wrapped around a thick cock slick with her saliva, pumping in and out of her mouth until it erupts, the cum more than her little throat can swallow.

The idea of thick viscous semen overflowing, dribbling down her chin over her flat chest, her tiny hands scooping it all up and watching her suck it off her fingertips is just horrible. You're all a bunch of sick perverts, thinking of spreading her smooth slender thighs, cock poised at the entrance to her pure, tight, virginal pussy, and thrusting in deep as a whimper escapes her lips which are slippery with cum, while her small body shudders from having her cherry taken in one quick stroke.

I am disgusted at how you'd get even more excited as you lean over her, listening to her quickening breath, her girlish moans and gasps while you hasten your strokes, her sweet pants warm and moist on your face and her flat chest, shiny with a sheen of fresh sweat, rising and falling rapidly to meet yours.

It is truly nasty how you'd run your hands all over her tiny body while you violate her, feeling her nipples hardening against your tongue as you lick her chest and her neck, savoring the scent of her skin and sweat while she trembles from the stimulation and as she reaches her climax, hearing her cry out softly as she has her first orgasm while that cock is buried impossibly deep inside her, pulsing violently as an intense amount of hot cum spurts forth and floods through her freshly-deflowered pussy for the first time, filling her womb only to spill out of her with a sickening squelch. And as you lie atop her flushed body, she sighs breathlessly and her fingers dig into your back as she feels your cock hardening inside her again.

You're all sick in the head.

>not prolapsing her womb
amateur.

Constant popup ads make it impossible to watch
Convert it to webm and post pls

>this is what pedos actually think intercourse with a child is like
I'd almost have more respect if you were actual sadists; even when LARPing, thinking a little girl with orgasm with penetration is just pathetic.

My sweet little whorish Nora
I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.
You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over me with a whore’s glow in your slumbrous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometime too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your hot drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.
Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

You elderly women are so pathetic

I forget you can post webms on Veeky Forums, they're so little posted here.

I haven't read Lolita, are there feet mentioned in Lolita?

Mishima:

"All ideas, all gods were jointly turning the handle of the gigantic wheel of samsara. The great disk like a spiral nebula was slowly turning, carrying masses of people who, unaware of the effects of samsara, were simply happy, angry, sad, or joyful, quite like those who lived their daily lives totally unaware of the rotation of the earth. It was like a ferris wheel at night all decorated with lights in the amusement park of the gods."


"There were autumn cicadas in the evening groves, and the roar of the subway came through the calls of the birds. A yellow leaf dangled from a spiderweb on a branch far out over the swamp, catching a divine light each time it revolved. It was as if a tiny revolving door were floating in the heavens. We gazed at it in silence. I was asking what world would be opening beyond the dark gold each time it turned. Perhaps, as it revolved in the busy wind, it would give me a glimpse of the bustle in a miniature street beyond, shining through some tiny city in the air."

0/5

Reason 1: Affected prose up the wazoo. Wa. Zoo. Up. On the butt. Her butt was low. Plain low. At night on all fours.
Reason 2: It's the beginning of Nabokov's most famous novel. Choosing it marks you out as a pleb who has likely not read even a third of Nabokov's works, never mind being well-read in general.
Reason 3: It's the most famous Nabokov passage in general. Only a noob reader would choose it as their favorite writing.

>Why are you guys so obsessed with this book and this passage specifically?
Because it's in the beginning of the book. I wouldn't be surprised if a bunch of them never finished the book. Some of them probably didn't even get to Our Glass Lake. These Lolita fanboys are absolute chillruns in the world of literature if not literally chillruns.

get the fuck back to red dit. you type like a stupid cunt.

Guess how I know you're a kid.

Not that I recall

>You can't like it because it's somewhat popular!

Socks are mentioned regularly.

"Expect no further correspondence from me regarding these matters; this is my final episode."

I know it's a meme right now but there's just something about this sentence that I'll always remember.

The first half is particularly stunning but I can't stomach the pedophile culture this book has spawned

...

If the pleb didn't miss the point, he wouldn't be a pleb.

The point was that the pleb only knows the most popular, and that is why he cites it. Some Nabby fanboy who has read his works in their entirety would not pick the opening of Lolita as their favorite passage. It doesn't stand out on its own from a heap of other paragraphs written by Nabokov. It only stands out because it's the opening of Lolita and hence known by everyone. Choosing it implies not being well-read even in terms of the works of this one author. It is such an impersonal choice you can barely call it a choice. It certainly isn't an informed choice.

The sock motif is pretty explicit. Frequently we find her (as I recall) with one sock on, one sock off. Three, perhaps four times over the course of the novel.

Don't you DARE treat that reel-to-reel player like that

My favorite writing was when he tore something inside her.

>The manuscript was turned down, with more or less regret, by Viking, Simon & Schuster, New Directions, Farrar, Straus, and Doubleday.[33] After these refusals and warnings, he finally resorted to publication in France. Via his translator Doussia Ergaz, it reached Maurice Girodias of Olympia Press, "three-quarters of [whose] list was pornographic trash".

en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lolita

>Girodias was born Maurice Kahane in Paris, France ... His father was Jewish

en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maurice_Girodias

If there is some sick shit that subverts society going on, you can be certain there is a jew behind it.

>If there is some sick shit that subverts society going on, you can be certain there is a jew behind it.
Hats off brother Kekistani!

You're not wrong

When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o' clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful."

Everyone agreed that the day was just right for the picnic to Hanging Rock – a shimmering summer morning warm and still, with cicadas shrilling all through breakfast from the loquat trees outside the dining-room windows and bees murmuring above the pansies bordering the drive. Heavy-headed dahlias flamed and drooped in the immaculate flowerbeds, the well-trimmed lawns steamed under the mounting sun. Already the gardener was watering the hydrangeas still shaded by the kitchen wing at the rear of the College. The boarders at Mrs Appleyard’s College for Young Ladies had been up and scanning the bright unclouded sky since six o’clock and were now fluttering about in their holiday muslins like a flock of excited butterflies. Not only was it a Saturday and the long awaited occasion of the annual picnic, but Saint Valentine’s Day, traditionally celebrated on the fourteenth of February by the interchange of elaborate cards and favours. All were madly romantic and strictly anonymous – supposedly the silent tributes of lovesick admirers; although Mr Whitehead the elderly English gardener and Tom the Irish groom were almost the only two males to be so much as smiled at during the term.

The blind man said, "We're drawing a cathedral. Me and him are working on it. Press hard," he said to me. "That's right. That's good," he said. "Sure. You got it, bub. I can tell. You didn't think you could. But you can, can't you? You're cooking with gas now. You know what I'm saying? We're really gonna have us something here in a minute. How's the old arm?" he said. "Put some people in there now. What's a cathedral without people?" ... Then he said, "I think that's it. I think you got it," he said. "Take a look. What do you think?"
But I had my eyes closed. I thought I'd keep them like that way for a little longer. I thought it was something I ought to do. "Well?" he said. "Are you looking?" My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn't feel like I was inside anything. "It's really something," I said

This

Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit..

Thank you for interesting me in this book.