bddbab25 No.3712887[Reply]
/lit/ 2.0
Recommend literature, discuss literature, quotes from wherever. Philosophy. What do you consider recommended reading? For furries in particular? What are you reading now or the last thing you read? (besides tms shitposts)
Finished binge reading all the released Pack Street chapters the other day:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141837/chapters/27547896According to TV Tropes, "In 2023, Weaver announced Pack Street to be going on hiatus, possibly indefinitely, as a result of real life troubles relating to the people he wrote the story with."
That's a shame, because Pack Street is very compelling storytelling. TV Tropes also gives a good description:
>You know Zootopia? A Shining City of interspecies cooperation in a World of Funny Animals, where "anyone can be anything"? Well, there's a Wrong Side of the Tracks there, too, and if you didn't already know there were predator/prey tensions, that's where you'll find out.Pack Street is in the same world as Zootopia; but the author created his own characters, and the story centers around them. The protagonist is a sheep, Remmy Cormo. Here's an excerpt of him at the local burger joint that uses bug meat, accompanied by his mates Ozzy the hyena and Wolter and Anneke the aardwolves:
Post too long. Click here to view the full text. c0febe5b No.3725562
>>3725408Well they changed the twist a little bit so that's cool. It was alright.
bddbab25 No.3735591
>>3735317
That actually sounds pretty interesting. I've never read Dracula, but I've seen the movie starring Gary Oldman a bunch of times. One of my faves.
Started reading The Brothers Karamazov. I really like it so far. Excerpt:
He was then only twenty years old (his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year, and their elder brother, Dmitri, was going on twenty-eight). First of all I announce that this young man, Alyosha, was not at all a fanatic, and, in my view at least, even not at all a mystic. I will give my full opinion beforehand: he was simply an early lover of mankind, and if he threw himself into the monastery path, it was only because it alone struck him at the time and presented him, so to speak, with an ideal way out for his soul struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness towards the light of love. And this path struck him only because on it at that time he met a remarkable being, in his opinion, our famous monastery elder Zosima, to whom he became attached with all the ardent first love of his unquenchable heart. However, I do not deny that he was, at that time, already very strange, having been so even from the cradle. Incidentally, I have already mentioned that although he lost his mother in his fourth year, he remembered her afterwards all his life, her face, her caresses, “as if she were standing alive before me.” Such memories can be remembered (everyone knows this) even from an earlier age, even from the age of two, but they only emerge throughout one’s life as specks of light, as it were, against the darkness, as a corner torn from a huge picture, which has all faded and disappeared except for that little corner. That is exactly how it was with him: he remembered a quiet summer evening, an open window, the slanting rays of the setting sun (these slanting rays he remembered most of all), an icon in the corner of the room, a lighted oil-lamp in front of it, and before the icon, on her knees, his mother, sobbing as if in hysterics, with shrieks and cries, seizing him in her arms, hugging him so tightly that it hurt, and pleading for him to the Mother of God, holding him out from her embrace with both arms towards the icon, as if under the protection of the Mother of God … and suddenly a nurse rushes in and snatches him from her in fear. What a picture! [cont.]
bddbab25 No.3735593
>>3735591[cont.] Alyosha remembered his mother’s face, too, at that moment: he used to say that it was frenzied, but beautiful, as far as he could remember. But he rarely cared to confide this memory to anyone. In his childhood and youth he was not very effusive, not even very talkative, not from mistrust, not from shyness or sullen unsociability, but even quite the contrary, from something different, from some inner preoccupation, as it were, strictly personal, of no concern to others, but so important for him that because of it he would, as it were, forget others. But he did love people; he lived all his life, it seemed, with complete faith in people, and yet no one ever considered him either naive or a simpleton. There was something in him that told one, that convinced one (and it was so all his life afterwards) that he did not want to be a judge of men, that he would not take judgment upon himself and would not condemn anyone for anything. It seemed, even, that he accepted everything without the least condemnation, though often with deep sadness. Moreover, in this sense he even went so far that no one could either surprise or frighten him, and this even in his very early youth. Coming to his father in his twentieth year, precisely into that den of dirty iniquity, he, chaste and pure, would simply retire quietly when it was unbearable to watch, yet without the least expression of contempt or condemnation of anyone at all. His father, a former sponger and therefore touchy and easily offended, and who met him at first with sullen suspicion (“He’s too quiet,” he said, “and he reasons in himself too much”), soon ended up, nonetheless, in no more than two weeks, by hugging and kissing him terribly often, with drunken tears and tipsy sentimentality, true, but apparently having come to love him sincerely and deeply, more than such a man had, of course, ever managed to love anyone else.
