Thoughts on this cunt?

Thoughts on this cunt?

Have you seen the film Genius? Never really looked into him until I saw that. Interesting fella, that's for sure. Wrote with the raw derangement and vitality of Rimbaud it seemed like

No I haven't. Looks interesting desu

America's greatest writer. Shame he's not mentioned more.

The GOAT. Why did people stop reading him? Is it because Bloom shat on him, or because schools didn't want to touch the racism?

tell me more

thinking bout to start with "Of Time and the River". some1 red this?

How tantalizing

>tfw I'm from Asheville
>tfw the schools only mention him briefly to say that he was a bad person that supported racism and hatred.
>These are the same retards that sell you artisinal shaving cream and whine about supporting local artists.
Shiggy.

He used to be popular. A lot of old teachers / professors know him. Even my grandmother read him. Now no one teaches him, and he is generally not as discussed as his contemporaries.

Here are some excerpts from Harold Bloom discussing Wolfe in 1987:
>What, if anything, can we do with Thomas Wolfe now, except to read his life story as composed by the devoted Donald? We cannot read Wolfe. I mean this literally, having just attempted Look Homeward, Angel for the first time in forty years. There is no possibility for critical dispute about Wolfe's literary merits; he has none whatsoever. Open him at any page, and that will suffice. Here is the conclusion of Look Homeward, Angel:
>... It is difficult to believe that this is not a parody by S.J. Perelman, or even some lesser practitioner, but indeed it is the thing itself, Thomas Wolfe at his most Wolfean. ... If you can read Wolfe, then God bless you, but you will not interest many among us unless your reading is animated by social and cultural history, since clearly Wolfe matters a great deal more as an American phenomenon than he possibly could matter as an American writer.

>If there were a single indisputable achievement by Wolfe, I would be pleased to end with the High Romantic note that perfection of the work had replaced perfection of the life, a Yeatsian formulation that makes Wolfe's fate seem more unhappy even than it may have been. But Wolfe, as Donald vividly presents him, was a human disaster, and his books, despite Donald's enthusiasm, are all of them aesthetic disasters. I do not think that we can even say anymore that Wolfe is the novelist for adolescents, the Salinger of the 1930s, as it were. Perhaps some adolescents still read Wolfe, but I do not encounter them. The most significant sentence in Donald's biography comes in the preface: "Later, as an adolescent, I really read Look Homeward, Angel and was certain that Thomas Wolfe has told my life story." Growing up in rural Mississippi, the young David Herbert Donald fell in love with Wolfe's novels, lost that love in the 1950s, and found it again later on. It was, he observes, not uncommon for an adolescent in the 1940s to be deeply affected by Wolfe, but the return of such enthusiasm is rare.
>Wolfe's credo was the famous: "I believe that we are lost here in America, but I believe we shall be found." Whatever that metaphor of being lost in America meant to Wolfe, it is not at all clear what he could have meant by "We shall be found." By whom? By what? Donald, remarkable historian as he is, cannot be expected to answer such questions. Wolfe evidently got lost in childhood, and never quite found himself again by or through writing.

As for the racism, he records a lot of racism and antisemitism frankly. And I was wondering if perhaps schools uncomfortable with tackling that aspect directly didn't want to give him the Mark Twain treatment and read about Ninjatown.

Watched that movie on a plane. Really enjoyed it and ordered Of Time & The River. I'm excited to read him.

is the shallowness of that critique further proof that bloom is a hack, or does he got into more detail elsewhere?

If it furthers the argument anymore, Faulkner went through a similar experience --- called Wolfe a great talent while he was in his bloom, then later reneged on this, claiming his books were like "an elephant trying to do the hoochie-coochie"

Let some of the prose speak for itself:

>...a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

>Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

>Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

>O waste of lost, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this weary, unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

>O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.

(that's all one passage, btw, not separate quotes)

>Genius
>Height: 6′ 6″
>checks out

It is difficult to tell if there is a real distilled true spiritual essence behind the writer of Blooms words, and how much of it is "(liberals dont like this guy, liberals like me, I cannot show a shred of sympathy for a single word of his, or else my reputation and job may be tarnished)", who knows of the honesty and truth

Perhaps you (all) are judging this through ideological spectacles, but I found this sample to be quite tremendous (I cant imagine this being your attempt to cherry pick his worst, as I am almost sure this right here, is more valuable than all the words in blooms fictitious oeuvre).

Could not all admit Hitler was a pleasant painter? It seems bloom even mentions in the other quoted section above, the High Romantic thought of the perfection of ones work being more important than the good and bad deeds of ones life, but it is possible he only does so, to then say "see I am aware you can separately judge a man and his art, so you must certainly believe, that I judge his art fairly, to be shit"

We see the exact same thing now with people getting kicked off twitter, and losing their jobs, and receiving death threats for considering performing at the presidents inauguration, for their thought crimes. Is this the post truth ye speak of? The aire of welcomed lying to save (well more than) superficial face

however I do agree, it shall be prohibited, excessive defecation in a public sphere

Hitler fucking sucked at painting lmao

This is just as bad as McCarthy (whom Bloom loves, by the way).

...

The second example in particular

Wow please stop writing like this.

hard to judge just by one passage but if he writes entire books that way i can see how it would get unbearable

"Do you know, all that really matters right now is the knowledge that I am 23, and a golden may is here. The feeling of immortality in youth is upon me. I am young, and I can never die. Don't tell me that I can. Wait until I'm 30. Then I'll believe you."

It's from his letters, but jesus christ, I'm 23 now and I read that last week and it's hard not to be touched by it even if it is dumb. Thomas Wolfe is like a long lost brother to every American guy in this great country. He's like Jimmie Rodgers.

>Another white male author whose reputation is posthumously destroyed by liberal "values".
Really gets your noggin' joggin'.

He's basically America's Gorky. Praised to no end during his lifetime, but forgotten about afterwards. I think he's definitely good

No he didn't

This passage is placed unfairly without context here. This passage is a complete section, which appears at the start of the book prior to even the first chapter. Here are the opening lines, which are a better example of Wolfean prose:

>A destiny that leads the English to the Dutch is strange enough; but one that leads from Epsom into Pennsylvania, and thence into the hills that shut in Altamont over the proud coral cry of the cock, and the soft stone smile of an angel, is touched by that dark miracle of chance which makes new magic in a dusty world.

>Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas.

>The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cutpurse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time.

>This is a moment:

>An Englishman named Gilbert Gaunt, which he later changed to Gant (a concession probably to Yankee phonetics)...
(And then you have 40 pages on the main character's father before the main character is born.)

Speaking of the novel starting prior to the MC being born, I really like the early section on his infancy:
>Eugene watched the sun wane and redden on a rocky river, and on the painted rocks of the Tennessee gorges: the enchanted river wound into his child's mind forever. Years later, it was to be remembered in dreams tenanted with elvish and mysterious beauty. Stilled in great wonder, he went to sleep to the rhythmical pounding of the heavy wheels.

>They lived in a white house on the corner. There was a small plot of lawn in front, and a narrow strip on the side next to the pavement. He realized vaguely that it was far from the great central web and roar of the city -- he thought he heard some one say four or five miles. Where was the river?

>Two little boys, twins, with straight very blond heads, and thin, mean faces, raced up and down the sidewalk before the house incessantly on tricycles. They wore white sailor-suits, with blue collars, and he hated them very much. He felt vaguely that their father was a bad man who had fallen down an elevator shaft, breaking his legs.

>Hitler fucking sucked at painting lmao
bet your mother would hang more than one of his paintings in her house

>Wow please stop writing like this.
only if you stop not starting to be not retarded

>>A destiny that leads the English to the Dutch is strange enough; but one that leads from Epsom into Pennsylvania, and thence into the hills that shut in Altamont over the proud coral cry of the cock, and the soft stone smile of an angel, is touched by that dark miracle of chance which makes new magic in a dusty world.

better than anything bloom wrote tbhd

s-satan...i-is that you?