Do an impression of a writer, other's guess who its is

Do an impression of a writer, other's guess who its is

>How odd I can have all this inside of me, and to you it's just sperm

Burroughs

> Sentence fragments on a page.

>He spat.

>When I was introduced to him (in the sense that I was given the permission to witness his presence, by a man who is now dead and buried somewhere near Toledo, Spain) for the first time, the first thing I noticed was the elongated nature of his brindled face, and the yellow landscape I had seen many times in my other lifetimes.

is this mr hacienda himself?

Polopetro was getting bogey-blasted by his great sons wife's child Autosedron. He called out to great anil to look up cheat codes for infinite stamina; like a lion he hit up down triangle square and slashed Autosedron through both tits spear protruding from his left nipple. Death fell over his eyes and Polopetro quickly looted his armor.

Homer

marquez

Rupi.

Also Rupi.

No clue.

Either Marquez or Borges.

Pynch? Maybe Burgess? Not sure, to be honest.

Pic related is my impression. There's 4 more pages if you lads want more, but I have a feeling you'll be able to guess just by the formatting.

I tell the media I'm more or less pansexual. And although I tell them this, I really am just a faggot.

Hunter S Thompson

Hemmingway

Corncob McCarthy of course

Junot Diaz

Rupi

>her look was a melody, a heavenly serenade from the balcony of Juliet herself, yes Juliet, in her little nightgown, pink as her cheek, and I a lowly weed in the brush, through which a skulking Romeo would approach, and steal her away, my Juliet...

Rupi?

How are you dense fuckers missing that OP is imitating DFW? He's the picture and it's a parody of one of the most famous sentences in Infinite Jest.

I doubt anyone is missing that pathetically bad reference, friend.

My thing rises when I think of of my meaningful stories, a series of fantasy novels that are not fantasy novels.

>"Ah, excellent," Mr. Sirius Bumbleby roared, as the dirty young urchin scrurried towards Kings Street to the abominable quarters below the shop of Miss Doolittle, benefactress and task-master, where she was at this moment shouting at her poor maid Prissy for undercooking the roast.

The fact that you boys know how to even attempt to imitate Ruby implies she has a developed style. Nice.

Where are you going john b dinglewood? The sink is leaking is leaking john b dinglewood. I like girls like me like sinks like john b dinglewood my sink fixer life fixer mask maker wood dingle. Where are you going john b. Dinglewood i need a man to take the trash the trash the trash john b. Dinglewood dingle your wood home.

Iliad (translated by Ernest Cline).

The ol' lewd multi-lingual lepidopterist, n'est ce pas?

Dick Ends

marguerite young

Brautigan?

(you)

Think more dikey

Toklas' girlfriend.

Yep the g. Steineroo

My mother died today.Or yesterday,i don't really give a fucc.

Yes, it was Nabokov, thank god I did him some justice

James "Not F Scott" Fitzgerald was a very handsome and likable man, who everybody liked. Though he was very likable, except the abhorrent soft mutterings of his wife, who was also very handsome and likable but also a bitch, made him drink and be unlikable. Then he died/got divorced/lost all will to live all because of his dumb bitch wife who is definitely not Zelda Fitzgerald.

>I fucked a dead rat once

lmao!

"pink as her cheek"

Nabokov, but a terrible impersonation

Camus?

David Foster Wallace brought his eyes down to the ground, the sort of veiled aggressive expression that forces one to look at the apparent curiosity at your feet. He sighed, tumbled his fingers, one after the other like a fat man straining to take a shit, and finished chewing on his fork's hunk of blood sausage. "Women made me what I am," he said. "A
latent heterosexual."

Grrm? The fat shit is the key or red herring

The amschaspand looked down at the head of day and pronounced that there was no agathodaemon. How quickly life movies, that we who think there is some time discover there is really no time at all. Yet how kind death can be, when aches and sorrows melt at last and man's weary soul is free to be childlike and pure again. The fricatrice spread her legs and grabbed my member, and her moistness was a river turtle. All men destroy that which they love.

The shadow was an eerie, brooding presence, looming over me as I stared longingly at nothing in particular; it was all out of my grasp—the darkness is beyond the mind of man.

Jane Austen.

proust

Camus

Some live in darkness but others live in light.