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Ne'er without the thorn

N

Ne'er without the thorn

It was three days old, and the droop of its petals was like the ever-blinking adverts she pretended not to see and like the sirens she pretended not to hear. Its stem was suspended in water, flaking, flaking bits of stem-skin in a jar on her desk behind a pile of books that she had carefully-carelessly piled there, just in case. It was invisible from the window. She had to peer around the books to see it, the little gasp and clutch of colour and its withering. She had to peer around the books so that she could not stare at it for hours, for days, watching it die. It was dying. It was three days old, and the curl of its leaves was like the fu

Bodies

B

Bodies

Jan. 4 Dear Professor ____, I am an inmate here in a prison in ____ and I got your name from an engaging op-ed article of yours in the Times some weeks ago. I am writing to ask if you would please consider arranging a one year subscription to the Times for me. I apologize if you find my request offensive but I enjoy literate material and feel the newspaper an excellent alternative to a college classroom. An inmate here in the facility has a subscription and once in a while an issue will trickle into my hands, which is how I came across your piece and the enclosed order form. I should add that I don't skim through the Times but spend a few

Birthright

B

Birthright

Cam stood in the lineup with the rest of them, the four of them. Scuffed floors, white walls, a mirror at the front of the room (obviously a window from the other side). Cam tried to make herself yawn, for effect, but the effect withered, died in silence. The girl beside her stank of desperation. Her fingernails ragged with nervousness, paint chipping off in flakes. She must've paid dearly for her name, Cam thought—a legacy, a dowry, a mortgage—and little good it had done her. (People like that never win the lottery.) Cam would've felt pity, if she could've. If her mind weren't cramped and crowded with the bulk of her own indignity. If her m

Through a Glass Darkly

T

Through a Glass Darkly

The entanglement of Will's latest—and last—obsession began with a book. I remember his reading it; or rather, I remember his tone and shortness of breath during those frequent phone calls—the excitement that buzzed with his voice across miles of cable to stand my hair on end. He never told me the title, nor did I really want to know; if he'd told me, I would have had to read it, out of curiosity if not a sense of obligation; and I know I'd never find what Will had in the spaces between its innocuous-seeming mix of adverbs and punctuation-marks. It was a well-known book, or so I inferred, but only Will had uncovered its true meaning. He told

Ne'er without the thorn

N

Ne'er without the thorn

It was three days old, and the droop of its petals was like the ever-blinking adverts she pretended not to see and like the sirens she pretended not to hear. Its stem was suspended in water, flaking, flaking bits of stem-skin in a jar on her desk behind a pile of books that she had carefully-carelessly piled there, just in case. It was invisible from the window. She had to peer around the books to see it, the little gasp and clutch of colour and its withering. She had to peer around the books so that she could not stare at it for hours, for days, watching it die. It was dying. It was three days old, and the curl of its leaves was like the fu
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that time again

that time again

Updates: Pynchon and Cortázar are astonishing; otherwise, literature has been rather underwhelming. Apologies for the prolonged absence. It will probably be prolong(er).

in which I succumb to pretension

in which I succumb to pretension

'If there is anything that might be able to act as some sort of non-destructive "key" to Pale Fire, I think, it is the following passage: "We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new worlds with live people, speaking, weeping, laughing.  We take it for granted so simply that in a sense, by the very act of brutish routine acceptance, we undo the work of the ages, the history of the gradual elaboration of poetical description and construction, from the treeman to Browning, from the caveman to Keats.  What if we awake one day, all of us, and find ourselves

my life (sparknotes edition)

my life (sparknotes edition)

Apparently I won the One-Act Play Contest, which is awesome? Mostly because I'll get to see "Welcome Home" made into a film (or several), which is extra-awesome? And now it got a DD, too, and for some reason I just can't lay off the question marks? Seriously, though, effusive thanks to BeccaJS (https://www.deviantart.com/beccajs) and lovetodeviate (https://www.deviantart.com/lovetodeviate) and O-Uaglione (https://www.deviantart.com/o-uaglione) and everyone who donated prizes and everyone who commented and faved, and preemptive thanks to everyone who will be creating film interpretations in the near future. Incidentally, the fact that I can't write fiction anymore has surpassed the point of the "rather troubling." Semester's (finally) started

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I stumbled upon on one of your stories I printed out and I thought I would check your profile again. I am sure you don't come on here anymore, but I wanted to tell you that you are one of my favorite writers here on DA. That is all I wanted to say. :)
danielzkleinHobbyist Writer
O NOES I R BANNED!

O NOES HOW R I POSTING THIS?

O NOES APRIL FIRSTS!
Is Gravity's Rainbow Pynchon's best novel? V. looks pretty interesting actually.

While I'm at it what are some other good modern/postmodern novels? Faulkner and Woolf are oft-mentioned names. Beckett looks promising.
I'd say yes, definitely, though I'm hardly an expert and the only others I've read are The Crying of Lot 49 and Mason & Dixon (both of which are also excellent).

Faulkner, Woolf, and Beckett are some of my favorites ever! I still think that Woolf's The Waves is the best thing ever written. My top five (not including that or GR, as they've already been mentioned): The Sound and the Fury (Faulkner), Pale Fire, Lolita (both Nabokov), To the Lighthouse (Woolf), Ulysses (Joyce). Those aren't really postmodern, though (wait, that's a lie, Pale Fire is); for that I'd suggest stuff by Paul Auster, Julio Cortázar, Donald Barthelme. If Danielewski's House of Leaves counts (does it? to be honest, I'm not entirely certain where the boundaries lie), then definitely definitely that.

Oh man, I could go on.
Thanks. I've actually started reading V. and it's great.
What the fucktart happened to all your deviations?!
I ate them. Yummy.