Best prose you ever read?

Gene Wolfe, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,John Henry Newman, Mervyn Peake,

Good list.

...

ye, spat, coffee, tortilla, etc

faulkner for sure. preferably his short stories

Thanks.
Very much agreed. His short stories are glorious. "A Rose for Emily" comes immediately to mind.

"Only one enemy remained, two if you counted God"

t. some guy on reddit

And also Thomas Wolfe

Sure, Joyce is better at arranging words, making them sound lyrical and pretty, alluding to better works or familiar melodies, making beautifully obscure metaphors that are frankly god-tier, but it's ultimately just literary masturbation.
Woolf speaks to the soul; no amount of lyrical arrangements or prose stylism is going to cut as deeply as her insight to the soul.
Joyce performs, Woolf expresses.

Come on, we all love Faulkner, he's a genius, but I don't think his prose is anywhere near the best.

GRRM

Corn thread?

>only authors writing in English posted

Maude's translation of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

Gibbons had a fucking godlike grasp of the English language so seconded

Go away, Proust, your prose isn't as great as you think it is.

Borges, Bolaño and Rulfo.
English writers are rubbish compared to the glorious spic prose.

The W.K. Marriot translation of Nicolo Machiavelli's the Prince.

Pedro Paramo is fucking amazing, desu.

Dubliners at its best for realism
Moby Dick
White Jazz for originality

jesus, i'm reading it right now and the memes are really true

oh you are so full of shit, either that or your soul is shallow...

Not that wolf can't speak deeply to souls at times, briefly, and with a tomboys consequence, but mister anonymous if you don't find the hull of your metaphysical vessel bottoming out at times in her literary waters then, well, you may not be shallow, but you no doubt haven't any slack in your plumb when sounding out Joyce

in fact, I can see how you would come to think the way you do, quite sad really, when you think about it... *tuts softly in a silent room, removes pince-nez, rubs eyes and looks at ceiling, deep in reflexion on the human condition and greater mysteries of life*

English - Sterne
Latin - Apuleius
Greek - Thucydides
French - Montaigne

Filtered.

That should make this board just a bit better.

Melville by a country mile

faulkner, joyce, melville

I read it in english, but tolstoy

>americentrism

>triggered
boo hoo someone doesn't like irish fart fetish guy

Ray Bradbury is up there IMO

Weirdly, I'd have to say Michael Oakeshott. 'On Being Conservative' is so beautifully written. It's a real pleasure to read.

faculty.rcc.edu/sellick/On Being Conservative.pdf

>. . . for she was the only girl they loved, as she is the queenly pearl you prize, because of the way the night that first we met she is bound to be, methinks, and not in vain, the darling of my heart, sleeping in her april cot, within her singachamer, with her greengageflavoured candywhistle duetted to the crazyquilt, Isobel, she is so pretty, truth to tell, wildwood's eyes and primarose hair, quietly, all the woods so wild, in mauves of moss and daphnedews, how all so still she lay, neath of the whitethorn, child of tree, like some losthappy leaf, like blowing flower stilled, as fain would she user, for soon again 'twill be, win me, woo me, wed me, ah weary me!

Probably something someone posted on this shitty board

>Gass
>Joyce
>Melville
>Faulkner
POWER GAP
>Woolf
>Eliot
>Gaddis
POWER GAP
>Salinger
>Pynchon
>Nabokov
POWER GAP
>DFW
>Corncobs
>Hemingcuck
>Steinbeck

Nabokov. I just wish he wasn't such a douche and had more interesting things to write about than a guy who tries to fuck an underage girl.

He has other books

The Captain looked at Fermina Daza and saw on her eyelashes the first glimmer of wintry frost. Then he looked at Florentino Ariza, his invincible power, his intrepid love, and he was overwhelmed by the belated suspicion that it is life, more than death, that has no limits.

"And how long do you think we can keep up this goddamn coming and going?" he asked.

Florentino Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months, and eleven days and nights.

"Forever," he said.

>White Jazz

People need to realize that this is the best thing Ellroy ever wrote.

the fact that you would even tell the person you are filtering that you are filtering them is a cry for help, and that is why I am giving you one last pity reply

we both know your soul is deprived, it longs for succor, it longs not to have to preface a declaration of its favorite author with a concession to another [pefumed with condescension of course, but not to save face, to secretly plea for those who know better to show you the error in your understanding without having to come right out and ask why--why does Joyce seem like such impenetrable, allusive busywork to me, what am I missing?]

the only answer is you must stop depriving your soul before deprivation turns to incurable depravity. start taking your medicine user.

goodness, here, i responded to you you can stop trying to get my attention

No, no, my man... Charles Newman's White Jazz.