His writing is heavily influenced by dreams, his personality, and knowledge. Including lack of knowledge. A lot of his work describes architecture and what he did and didn't understand. The void in the mind was something to be feared but not something that isn't worth exploring. His own fears are reflected in what he wrote.
No, they love him. My Polish friend (from Poland) recommends me his books all the time, and my dad, who barely understands basic English, also likes many of his books.
>I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I >Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? >But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? >Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den? >’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. >If ever any beauty I did see, >Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
>And now good-morrow to our waking souls, >Which watch not one another out of fear; >For love, all love of other sights controls, >And makes one little room an everywhere. >Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, >Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, >Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
>My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, >And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; >Where can we find two better hemispheres, >Without sharp north, without declining west? >Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; >If our two loves be one, or, thou and I >Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
>Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, >Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris, >Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, >Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, >Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, >Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, >Night and day journeys a coffin.
>Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, >Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, >With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black, >With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing, >With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, >With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, >With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, >With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, >With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin, >The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, >With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang, >Here, coffin that slowly passes, >I give you my sprig of lilac.
All of them could be understood. The most probably answer would be Joyce but we have evidence of many foreign ESLs understanding him quite well. Of course few understand him perfectly. I certainly only understand a fraction of what is going on
Mayhap. However, I’m an EFL as English is my fifth language and I easily comprehend all English speaking authors. Boons of being genuine European with superior education, actual culture and undiluted blood unlike the variegated new worlders, I guess. Lovecraft prose isn’t in any way complicated btw.
I understand him just fine.
bump
cope
>pedo
yes, and?
Pipe down
>Pipe
Why must you post verbal references to phallic imagery?
Because you like dick
His writing is heavily influenced by dreams, his personality, and knowledge. Including lack of knowledge. A lot of his work describes architecture and what he did and didn't understand. The void in the mind was something to be feared but not something that isn't worth exploring. His own fears are reflected in what he wrote.
you're not special
Seethe
CHEERIOS
Imagine being *this* triggered by non-Americans.
No, they love him. My Polish friend (from Poland) recommends me his books all the time, and my dad, who barely understands basic English, also likes many of his books.
I know enough english to know he's shit.
No, but seriously.
>I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
>Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
>But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
>Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
>’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
>If ever any beauty I did see,
>Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
>And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
>Which watch not one another out of fear;
>For love, all love of other sights controls,
>And makes one little room an everywhere.
>Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
>Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
>Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
>My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
>And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
>Where can we find two better hemispheres,
>Without sharp north, without declining west?
>Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
>If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
>Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
No, but seriously.
>Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
>Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
>Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,
>Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,
>Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
>Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
>Night and day journeys a coffin.
>Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
>Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
>With the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the cities draped in black,
>With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil’d women standing,
>With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
>With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,
>With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
>With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,
>With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour’d around the coffin,
>The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,
>With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang,
>Here, coffin that slowly passes,
>I give you my sprig of lilac.
I love how I can spot Whitman by "grass" just as much as his cadence.
Lovecraft is very popular in France.
All of them could be understood. The most probably answer would be Joyce but we have evidence of many foreign ESLs understanding him quite well. Of course few understand him perfectly. I certainly only understand a fraction of what is going on
He's better in Spanish believe it or not
Not sure what Lovecraft himself would think of such a statement!
True. Same goes for Henry James.
Beckett.
>ESLs
So, Americans?
THIS homosexual PAYS FOR IQfy EVERYONE LAUGH
And you don't, you poorgay commie douchebag? This is a place you frequent, why not support it?
how much does it cost?
Nah, American is the correct form of English.
I'm the ESLest and I can understand him.
Mayhap. However, I’m an EFL as English is my fifth language and I easily comprehend all English speaking authors. Boons of being genuine European with superior education, actual culture and undiluted blood unlike the variegated new worlders, I guess. Lovecraft prose isn’t in any way complicated btw.
i would think henry james would offer quite a challege to an esl guy.
HEY GAIZ DID U NO HE WAZ RACCISS?