OH MY GOD I can't imagine opening up your deepest secrets and yourself to the Public. This is worst than prostitution. Why the fuck would you want the criticism of other people? Isn't life already hard enough? Even a low iq retard can throw shit at you. You'll be jugged and trashed like many authors on /lit/. Imagine wanting that. Imagine attracting the malice of other. The public with feast on your fucking skin. What if you'll fail? Imagine reading great writer, wisdom books from Near Eastern civilizations and then shitting out a low tier novel oh no no no. How would you cope with that?
Too late faggot, now they know I fapped one out until my balls hurt and how much my mother mogs me all the time, so fuck you and fuck or something in your ass pussy
And btw the high IQ also throw shit at you because they tend to be envy but I dont know if you would want to be in my position.
But you know its also liberating writing all the shit down and anything, its like posting on 4chan but being less corny
And I didnt even tell you about the real embarassing and taboo stuff I wrote and its pretty much true. Im not only fucking over myself, no its more like a colateral damage all around me because I write down your deepest secrets and all that so people see the worst sides of you, that is if you are a bad person, but Im pretty much surrounded by shitty assholes
Forget so-called peer-pressure. It’s more like peer-hunger. No? We enter a spiritual puberty where we snap to the fact that the great transcendent horror is loneliness, excluded encagement in the self. Once we’ve hit this age, we will now give or take anything, wear any mask, to fit, be part-of, not be Alone, we young. The U.S. arts are our guide to inclusion. A how-to. We are shown how to fashion masks of ennui and jaded irony at a young age where the face is fictile enough to assume the shape of whatever it wears. And then it’s stuck there, the weary cynicism that saves us from gooey sentiment and unsophisticated naïveté. Sentiment equals naïveté on this continent...
...Hal, who’s empty but not dumb, theorizes privately that what passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human (at least as he conceptualizes it) is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic, is to be in some basic interior way forever infantile, some sort of not-quite-right-looking infant dragging itself anaclitically around the map, with big wet eyes and froggy-soft skin, huge skull, gooey drool. One of the really American things about Hal, probably, is the way he despises what it is he’s really lonely for: this hideous internal self, incontinent of sentiment and need, that pules and writhes just under the hip empty mask, anhedonia.
>>24549511You do know Infinite Jest is a big joke right?
>>24549303then just write its not that hard lol
