Post times in literature that give you vulture flesh

first thing that came to mind. pleb author but honestly? honestly???

"As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep; slowly, and then all at once."

The death of the Bad Priest in V. gave me chills. The whole part with the children pulling off all the priest's artificial limbs and then Fausto going over to her.

>I gave her what I remembered of the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. I could not hear her confession: her teeth were gone and she must have been past speech. But in those cries - so unlike human or even animal sound they might have been only the wind blowing past any dead reed - I detected a sincere hatred for all her sins which must have been countless; a profound sorrow at having hurt God by sinning; a fear of losing Him which was worse than the fear of death.

...to wound the autumnal city.
So howled out for the world to give him a name.
The in-dark answered with wind.

Those opening lines will probably stick with me forever.

what the fuck is that chicken leg?

>not goosebumps
wew lad

I for one appreciate your honesty, user. It is a beautiful line I guess

>No one has mentioned Andalusian girls yet

What the fuck

The Death of Ivan Ilyich: When his son grabs his hand and kisses it

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: When Stephen sees his own personal vision of hell. Lots of other points throughout the last 2/3s of the book.

An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth.
No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them.
He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety.
Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust.
His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.

Crime and Punishment: When Raskolnikov asks his mother to pray for him even though she knows he doesn't believe.

The entire section of V. that describes Esther's nose job in detail. Reading that was like taking a drug for me. It made me feel great...one could almost say EUPHORIC!

the ebonics chaper in IJ

nice one senpai

Reading Borges and I.

>I am not sure which one of us it is that is writing this page.

Everytime.

From Ulysses? The weakest chapter, lad.

is it genre?

Dhalgren's one of those novels that can be considered science fiction but really it's more than that. Really I only think people consider it science fiction because it's so surrealist.

Every time I read my diary, desu

lucky 888 nigga. borges fuckin pwns and it sucks that he never wrote a novel

wtf i love god now

>not duckpimples

yes

>Not chicken skin

"Hemp gripped in the teeth of the steel snake, ready to be lit, ready to descend, sun to black-powder sea, and destroy the infant, egg of light into egg of darkness, within its first minute of amazed vision, of wet down stirred cool by these southeast trades... Each hour he sighted down the barrel. It was then, if ever, he might have seen how the weapon made an axis potent as Earth's own between himself and this victim, still one, inside the egg, with the ancestral chain, not to be broken out for more than its blink of world's light. There they were, the silent egg and the crazy Dutchman, and the hookgun that linked them forever, framed, brilliantly motionless as any Vermeer."

"I could not speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing looking into the heart of light, the silence"

>We saw a cloudwall hung many miles to the east and hawks floating in the unforced motion that makes you think they've been up there, the same two birds since bible times. There were stones tumbled in a field, great bronze rocks with carved flanks. I felt my wife at my side. We saw dust blowing off the dark hills and a pair of abandoned cars flopped in forage grass, convertibles with shredded tops. Everything was ominous and shining, tense with the beauty of things that are normally unseen, even the cars gone to canker and rust.

My favorite part of Portrait is the moment he sits on the beach and as he comes to the conclusion that he wants to be a writer, the narration picks that up, and he describes what he sees more and more poetically as his emotion picks up and he makes his decision. Literal goosebumps every time.

read gene wolfe.

his shit isn't totally borgesian but it's as close as we'll ever get in long form.

Yeah, I think this is the climax of Portrait, so to speak

Borges is great for goosebumps. I think the one that got me the most was when he describes all that he sees in the Aleph and goes "And I saw you" (or something similar).

>Trust in the fictive process, in the occult interweaving of text and event must be unwavering and absolute. This is the magic place, the mad place at the spark gap between word and world.

I had chills running up and down my body almost entirely throughout the Odyssey.

>Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

Relate with Araby too much desu senpai

Mrs. Dalloway, in the final scene about Rezia and Septimus, when his PTSD and Alzheimer's(?) subside for a moment and they spend a short time in their home in rare lucidity and and Rezia is finally happy, but then the doctor shows up and Septimus' condition comes back and my fucking heart jumps up my throat because spoiler reasons.

don't forget about the drizzle hurricane one lol

Yep and it was written by an edgelord pedophile.

There was one enemy left, two if you counted god

To whom the great Creatour thus reply'd.
O Son, in whom my Soul hath chief delight,
Son of my bosom, Son who art alone
My word, my wisdom, and effectual might,
All hast thou spok'n as my thoughts are, all
As my Eternal purpose hath decreed:
Man shall not quite be lost, but sav'd who will,
Yet not of will in him, but grace in me
Freely voutsaft; once more I will renew
His lapsed powers, though forfeit and enthrall'd
By sin to foul exorbitant desires;
Upheld by me, yet once more he shall stand
On even ground against his mortal foe,
By me upheld, that he may know how frail
His fall'n condition is, and to me ow
All his deliv'rance, and to none but me.
Some I have chosen of peculiar grace
Elect above the rest; so is my will:
The rest shall hear me call, and oft be warnd
Thir sinful state, and to appease betimes
Th' incensed Deitie while offerd grace
Invites; for I will cleer thir senses dark,
What may suffice, and soft'n stonie hearts
To pray, repent, and bring obedience due.
To Prayer, repentance, and obedience due,
Though but endevord with sincere intent,
Mine ear shall not be slow, mine eye not shut.
And I will place within them as a guide
My Umpire Conscience, whom if they will hear,
Light after light well us'd they shall attain,
And to the end persisting, safe arrive.
This my long sufferance and my day of grace
They who neglect and scorn, shall never taste;
But hard be hard'nd, blind be blinded more,
That they may stumble on, and deeper fall;
And none but such from mercy I exclude.

> quoth the raven , nevermore

> And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all".

Metro 2033 made me both happy and sad as fuck at the same time. Best ending I've ever seen, finished the plot perfectly.

>No, John. You are the demons

>not pigeonlumps

>not ravencysts

I think everyone does... Joyce was a wizard

>not duckwrinkles

Then Rollanz feels that he has lost his sight,
Climbs to his feet, uses what strength he might;
In all his face the colour is grown white.
In front of him a great brown boulder lies;
Whereon ten blows with grief and rage he strikes;
The steel cries out, but does not break outright;
And the count says: "Saint Mary, be my guide
Good Durendal, unlucky is your plight!
I've need of you no more; spent is my pride!
We in the field have won so many fights,
Combating through so many regions wide
That Charles holds, whose beard is hoary white!
Be you not his that turns from any in flight!
A good vassal has held you this long time;
Never shall France the Free behold his like."

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear or cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.

>not lil-skin-boners

Nice dinotomas fag.

...

Oh my good they are called goosebumps OP

Goosebumps

not "vulture flesh" what the fuck

I had to set the book down and pace around the room in the middle of that. Fucked me up famalam. Too humpy lumpy clippy snippy for me.

I want to be with you.
>You can't.
Please.
>You can't. You have to carry the fire.

it might be normie, but in house of leaves, after an entire book's worth of obtuse stuff, getting to the journals left by zampano was fucking devastating. specifically this:

“I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of sum’thing has always been and always will be you.

I miss you.”

Shook me to the core when i read it

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

&c.

come to think of it, lots of parts of that book were just so chilling to me. i think out of context, a lot of it would have been less affecting or impressive. but given the expanse of what surrounded each little poem, it just made everything so much more poignant

Such a great scene. For me, it was the very end of the book, when Peter finally recognizes that he's still in love with Clarissa. His feelings had been clear to the reader throughout the novel, but after 200 pages of discursive, abstract stream of consciousness writing, it ends with such simplicity and directness. That's not to say I didn't love the writing throughout -- I did -- but the sudden contrast was very impactful. My eyes got a little misty.

The Vorrh by Catling

With each step I seem to climb out of the past, lift away from the flat gravity of waiting. From now on, memories will only flow forwards and await my arrival, the way it happens in dreams, where they give continuity and momentum. In the same way, the arrows went before to sense the void, taste its colour, and name its happenstance.She had written my understanding of this high in the continual pathway. What waited in my dreams to resume its path will be explained to me between the flights of arrows. My walking between them will unravel the knowledge, while my feet erase the path of all arrivals.

>The view is endlessly fulfilling. It is like the answer to a lifetime of questions and vague cravings. It satisfies every childlike curiosity, every muted desire, whatever there is in him of the scientist, the poet, the primitive seer, the watcher of fire and shooting stars, whatever obsessions eat at the night side of his mind, whatever sweet and dreamy yearning he has ever felt for nameless places far away, whatever earth sense he possesses, the neural pulse of some wilder awareness, a sympathy for beasts, whatever belief in an immanent vital force, the Lord of Creation, whatever secret harbouring of the idea of human oneness, whatever wishfulness and simple-hearted hope, whatever of too much and not enough, all at once and little by little, whatever burning urge to escape responsibility and routine, escape his own over-specialization, the circumscribed and inward-spiralling self, whatever remnants of his boyish longing to fly, his dreams of strange spaces and eerie heights, his fantasies of happy death, whatever indolent and sybaritic leanings, lotus-eater, smoker of grasses and herbs, blue-eyed gazer into space – all these are satisfied, all collected and massed in that living body, the sight he sees from the window.

>‘It is just so interesting,’ he says at last. ‘The colours and all.’

>The colours and all.

Turin's final moments from the Children of Hurin.
Then they lifted up Túrin, and saw that his sword was broken asunder. So passed all that
he possessed.

Probably the shortest phrase that really got me:
I can't go on, I'll go on.

Also Yeats at his very best never fails for this kind of thing.

'The Sorrow of Love':
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.

From 'Byzantium':
Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the starlit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Also Auden at his best:
O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard
The desert sighs in the bed
And the crack in the teacup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

This is just among many. The end of Hart Crane's 'Cape Hatteras' also set me on fire.

I like the translation that says "and the darkness did not comprehend it"

The chapter on depression and anhedonia in Infinite Jest.

The epilogue to The Brothers Karamazov at the funeral. God damn that made me cry so hard.

When Villefort was running from the courtroom to see what had happened to his wife and son.

Goddammit I'm still reading that book! Now I know that somebody dies.

“I am a sick man... I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man.

>learn to read it in the original language, it's a sad echo of the OT opening...BRShITh

>Out there things can happen
>And frequently do
>To people as brainy
>And footsy as you.

The ending to Steppenwolf.

During the entire magic theater part I had this stuck in my head:

youtube.com/watch?v=M_vi67SHU4E

holy... I want more...

That sucks.

Pretentious garbage that only edge lord pseuds claims to "get".