"Writing is fifty years behind painting." (25)

1 Name: Artfag : 2010-09-27 12:18 ID:gr82mqjd

Prove me wrong.

2 Name: Bookworm : 2010-09-30 22:58 ID:6F/PazPh

No

3 Name: Bookworm : 2010-10-06 17:03 ID:+alQHDLG

What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? Behind? What?

4 Name: Bookworm : 2010-10-06 18:37 ID:vqetET/l

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but the exact nature of those words vary from person to person (and also between art history majors vs everyone else).

5 Name: Artfag : 2010-11-04 14:51 ID:gr82mqjd

"Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? 'Your very own words,' indeed! And who are you?"

6 Name: Bookworm : 2010-11-05 19:40 ID:L6zVXfX4

7 Name: Couch Potato : 2010-11-08 07:28 ID:5L7Mewrc

Film is the superior medium because it encompass all other media.

8 Name: Bookworm : 2010-11-20 22:58 ID:Heaven

Real life is the superiorest medium because there is no limit to what can be expressed.

9 Name: Bookworm : 2010-11-21 08:30 ID:DDEmCRUR

Art and writing are mutual.
Prove me wrong.

10 Name: Bookworm : 2010-12-07 07:06 ID:zcrpoxle

>>8
Laws notwithstanding.

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12 Post deleted.

13 Post deleted.

14 Name: Bookworm : 2015-09-23 15:59 ID:7OhsyPXT

This is similar to talking about textboards vs imageboards

15 Name: Bookworm : 2015-11-26 14:51 ID:L5h8Da9J

... and humans were created by a flying spaghetti monster.
Prove me wrong!!

16 Name: Bookworm : 2016-02-21 04:17 ID:XFUkexwg

I am completely correct.
Prove me wrong.

17 Name: Bookworm : 2016-06-07 12:01 ID:JS+CdjLh

>>7
Video games do that and more.

18 Name: Bookworm : 2016-07-05 00:56 ID:2ccpFmXu

So books in the 2060s will be either totally indecipherable or commercial rot?

Western culture had a good run, I guess.

19 Name: Bookworm : 2016-07-25 18:13 ID:kiS4xuWQ

So... books in 50 years will be:

>Badoop
>fhgfhdhfdflhdglsadgfqwhuodghdzlfh
>AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA em em em DA!
>ping
>The end

I'm glad literature is still behind

20 Name: Bookworm : 2016-08-07 07:06 ID:2ccpFmXu

Futurist literature was already there in the 1920s.
Excessive Haste, a play by Verlaine.

Scene I

The curtain rises: a gentleman and a lady are seen locked in a close embrace.

Scene II

A second gentleman approaches noiselessly and shoots them both dead. The corpses remain in close contact, faces down. The killer draws near them, raises the man's head and starts back. He then raises the woman's head and shows even greater astonishment.

2nd gentleman: "My God! I've shot the wrong couple!"

fin.

21 Post deleted.

22 Name: Bookworm : 2017-03-13 14:24 ID:JS+CdjLh

>>7
But the video game encompasses film and more.

23 Name: Bookworm : 2017-05-08 03:33 ID:0RUflnh1

Leck mich am Arsch

24 Name: Bookworm : 2019-01-05 22:26 ID:2n0ZmfgR

painting is gay

25 Name: Bookworm : 2019-02-17 08:30 ID:jDJU8oLl

Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Would n't you like if your tails were -- so --
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but -- never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!


Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two --
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.
Now we're going to -- never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!


All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird --
Hide or fin or scale or feather --
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.
Let 's pretend we are... never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
This is the way of the Monkey-kind.


Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings,
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure, be sure, we're going to do some splendid things!


What of the hunting, hunter bold?
Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
Brother, I go to my lair -- to die.
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