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"Messy Writing Corner" , posted Fri 14 Jul 06:09post reply

To keep it apart from the endless tangents of the Random Thread, this is a thread about writing. Leave notes here! Write about things you have read recently, and how their form or execution was interesting! Maybe even talk about their content, too, if you think that the content is inextricable from its execution! Leave down snippets of writing of your own that you thought were interesting, and then bemoan how it is far too much like your least favourite 19th century author while still being stereotypically post-modern! Harangue others for not having read clearly the great <<nationality> <writing format>>, or tell them about just how AWFUL Flavorless Tasteless Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki is (PAGING MAOU!).

It doesn't matter how amateurish you are or think you are, dish it out here so that we can sniff at it elegantly over cups of coffee/tea/yogurt/???.






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"<elegant handwritten invitation for Maou>" , posted Fri 14 Jul 06:10post reply

-Spoon







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"Re(1):<elegant handwritten invitation for Mao" , posted Fri 14 Jul 09:07post reply

quote:
-Spoon



I am kind of uncomfortable sharing my story ideas...because I wanna finish them and it will set me free from the loop. So I dream...

But I had this idea for starting a story though I feel it doesn't go anywhere so here it is.

" After hundred years of succesfull operation of preserving each and every art pieces, books and statues by de-materializing them and recreating them in a digitized reality that we can freely visit, the unthinkable happens. Attack of a forgotten virus from 2020's wipes out all the art from the world."

What happens next?







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"Re(1):<elegant handwritten invitation for Mao" , posted Fri 14 Jul 12:35post reply

quote:
-Spoon

Jolly good, my fine fellow. The perfect invitation for a perfect chat over virtual MMC coffee. Per earlier e-mails with Spoon that occasioned this post, it's interesting reading a lot of one author to see how their style both defines and limits them. In the noir-ish context of the Cafe and Wish Room/Last Window, this points towards Murakami Haruki, whose early work is great, and whose recent works, the wretched Colorless Tazaki Tsukuru included, seem like pale, warmed-over versions of his own distinct voice and themes.

Tazaki Tsukuru also has the distinction of the worst dialogue I've seen in a Murakami work or anywhere in years. The written equivalent of how a shounen manga character will babble on for three panels in an action sequence about what techniques are being used in a fight he's watching. This is to say, expository dialogue is not how real people talk, and this book brought it home for me!

On the more positive end of things, and still speaking of noir, I recently read the original Dashiell Hammett novel version of The Maltese Falcon from 1929. Even without the joy of hearing Bogart on the screen, it's such a treat reading foundational noir. I was struck in reading it how closely focused Hammett was on describing the outfits and physical builds of various characters in great detail, and letting readers draw their images and conclusions on each character from these. Sometimes, this was harder to do because clothes from 90 years ago are not always the same and thus are difficult to visualize! This reminds me of how I've wanted to read my copy of Kawabata's Asakusa Kurenai-dan, the Crimson Gangs of Asakusa, for years, but the first few pages were full of the most technical descriptions of kimonos or something that I'd ever seen, and I dropped it instantly. Whether it's description or dialogue, it's amazing how these seemingly vital tools for immersion can also be such debilitating roadblocks for the reader if used poorly.
quote:
What happens next?
Ooo, finally I can engage in (safe-for-work) Oguz fanfiction by writing about your proposal! Maybe it's all the Nier I've played this spring, but I think what follows is a secret replacement of all the art so that mankind doesn't know it's gone and lose all hope, except some of the replacements are quite good and the master planner is surprised that his placeholder had meaning for people.





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"Re(2):<elegant handwritten invitation for Mao" , posted Fri 14 Jul 16:57:post reply

quote:
-Spoon


I am kind of uncomfortable sharing my story ideas...because I wanna finish them and it will set me free from the loop. So I dream...

But I had this idea for starting a story though I feel it doesn't go anywhere so here it is.

" After hundred years of succesfull operation of preserving each and every art pieces, books and statues by de-materializing them and recreating them in a digitized reality that we can freely visit, the unthinkable happens. Attack of a forgotten virus from 2020's wipes out all the art from the world."

What happens next?



This is a good one!

So I'd go with a slightly tragicomic tack that would have these underpinnings:
- people are already used to not memorizing things and offloading that cognitive burden to computers, how extreme can we take that?
- art history is highly undervalued even now, and by that point in the future, due to the false assumption that perfect preservation is equivalent to perfect understanding in the public mind, as an academic field it is all but extinct.
- as a result of living in human culture, there exist some cultural/artistic things that are so pervasive they simply don't get forgotten easily; everybody has a vague idea about "Asian art" or "Classical music" or "tribal dancing", no matter how incomplete and fallacy-riddled
- new art can ALWAYS be made
- people can always be misled, and are often happy to be misled

So what ensues is that in order to prevent the widespread panic that would ensue from the knowing that the entirety of the world's art had been lost, a whole bunch of technicians and internet historians quickly start cobbling together AIs and grabbing what artists they can to create the most ambitious swindle ever in the history of humanity: conning all of humanity about what art there was by generating it right now. They scribble out comics, have all the most memorable bars of music such as the opening bars of Beethoven's 3rd or the William Tell Overture that their crack team of mostly pop musicians still remember, and have the AIs generate countless pieces of work based on those stereotypes. Under the guise of "The Library of Alexandria is undergoing maintenance!" they repopulate the entire Library of Alexandria with at-best 3rd-hand knockoffs that manage to contain all the key ingredients that the cultural memory associates with that art.

The vast majority of people, who had never even seen or heard most of it in the first place, don't notice at all.

Some people notice, but it is written off as an internet conspiracy, like the "Berenstain/Berenstein Bears" alternate universe.

Meanwhile, the people that worked hard on the project look forward to listening and reading to an entire human history's worth of new art and music, even if they are all just insane caricatures of the originals.





[this message was edited by Spoon on Fri 14 Jul 16:59]



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"Re(2):<elegant handwritten invitation for Mao" , posted Fri 14 Jul 22:37post reply

quote:
" After hundred years of succesfull operation of preserving each and every art pieces, books and statues by de-materializing them and recreating them in a digitized reality that we can freely visit, the unthinkable happens. Attack of a forgotten virus from 2020's wipes out all the art from the world."



I love Spoon's take on this. I can't help but think that on the more narrative side of things, there's be a push on the power structure side of things to move focus away from trying to restore works that go counter to certain convenient concepts.

For example, while I'm not familiar with the finer points of polytheistic religions and how their actual practitioners past and present actually regard the corresponding divinities, I get the impression that that's a healthier mindset with which to approach the complexities of life and its many aspects where different people people can provide important perspectives and guidance on different domains - a monotheistic outlook feels unhealthy in comparison, since it primes people to look for a sole leader/father figure with all the perfect answers about everything, something that's proven dangerous across history time and time again.

Anyway, the concept of a "culturecide" could be an interesting way to explore a couple of notions dear to me

* the "cultural duty" to pass along things you remember that you don't see anyone else acknowledging; how do you choose what to pass along and how to preserve it out of a whole life of half-remembered things? Only the things you saw in your family and nowhere else (for example, an extension to the Portuguese version of the "happy birthday" song that I only ever hear my mother using); something that inspired you specifically enough to drive some important initiatives in your life? The stuff that make you cry? Something with a significant ratio of historical context to help make sure something important about the collective past isn't forgotten?

* creation/consumption ratio - consuming art is an important part of creating some of your own, only consuming risks being inconsequent outside of one's private sphere and culturally stagnant in the grand scheme of things, creating without learning a thing from what came before sounds like a recipe to botch potentially good ideas - so if all past art is gone and some restoration efforts from memory begin, it'd be important to partake in what's reconstructed out of what was thought lost, but at the same time it's be necessary to move beyond that... so I wonder at a wide enough scale, what'd be an ideal ratio for every individual, in time management if nothing else, of spending time catching up with the past and also trying to make something that hasn't existed yet in quite the way you wish it did...





...!!
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"Re(2):<elegant handwritten invitation for Mao" , posted Sat 15 Jul 06:53post reply

quote:
-Spoon


I am kind of uncomfortable sharing my story ideas...because I wanna finish them and it will set me free from the loop. So I dream...

But I had this idea for starting a story though I feel it doesn't go anywhere so here it is.

" After hundred years of succesfull operation of preserving each and every art pieces, books and statues by de-materializing them and recreating them in a digitized reality that we can freely visit, the unthinkable happens. Attack of a forgotten virus from 2020's wipes out all the art from the world."

What happens next?



So, I assume that videogames are okay, right?

I know the original post doesn't mention music, but some following posts do. I just wanted to mention that Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata will live on through Earthworm Jim.





/ / /


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"Re(3):<elegant handwritten invitation for Mao" , posted Sat 15 Jul 07:53post reply

quote:
So, I assume that videogames are okay, right?

I know the original post doesn't mention music, but some following posts do. I just wanted to mention that Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata will live on through Earthworm Jim.


Wow, honestly I wasn't expecting this many answers and quality discussion you guys put out based on this simple idea.

Mosquiton, I consider videogames as art so no, they're also gone. (Digital only, PT makes this actually not a far fetched future).

I was thinking in broader sense, the first wall drawings frome stone age to the any other artfully carved stands or drawers.

Now I start to wonder if we were to forget any kind of art and we only see things as functions rather than the potential of being an artpiece alongside of their functions.

Do we naturally start over to find the art in the everyday things and it expends to its own thing again?

Also i wonder how villains(politicians) would abuse this?

I really like the idea of insane caricatures of the originals. Just Mr. Bean version of everything. :D







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"Re(1):Messy Writing Corner" , posted Sat 15 Jul 10:44post reply

quote:
To keep it apart from the endless tangents of the Random Thread, this is a thread about writing. Leave notes here! Write about things you have read recently, and how their form or execution was interesting! Maybe even talk about their content, too, if you think that the content is inextricable from its execution! Leave down snippets of writing of your own that you thought were interesting, and then bemoan how it is far too much like your least favourite 19th century author while still being stereotypically post-modern! Harangue others for not having read clearly the great <<nationality> <writing format>>, or tell them about just how AWFUL Flavorless Tasteless Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki is (PAGING MAOU!).

It doesn't matter how amateurish you are or think you are, dish it out here so that we can sniff at it elegantly over cups of coffee/tea/yogurt/???.



I've been typing an underground light novel for a few years. I have ideas. I just don't have time.

It answers the question of "What does being an anime/manga/game/light novel character feel like?" to a point. The original plan was to do it from the view of a random person, but Neo Ryu thought that it'd be better if I were the hero. I end up being part of an elite group that's along the lines of the Avengers fusing with a S.W.A.T. team (this is how I get paid in the story) called the Magical Items and Tactics squad or M.I.T. The obvious difference is that while the Avengers and S.W.A.T. teams are way better when it comes to physical combat and fire arms, we're better with magic.

I bought an electronic book on a guy that beated cancer. I should get going on reading that. I'll take it easy with the book.







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"Hotel Spoon" , posted Sat 15 Jul 11:48post reply

Sometimes simple is best.

It was around 6:30 when Spoon finally rolled into the Hotel Onsy. "Dusty old place," he thought. But then, they all were. What was Ishmael doing running Red Crown like this, sending him off to tired old flophouses when he was on duty, he wondered. "Checking in, mate? Nice weather today," chirped the strangely bulldog-faced hotel owner from behind the counter. His accent struck Spoon as more British than French. "Cool it, pops, I'm just here to hit the hay between cases, don't need any small talk," Spoon growled. If he could just figure out where that dame Ms. P had disappeared to, he was sure she'd spill the beans on where his missing partner Bradley had been seen last. Unfortunately, everyone on his hallway seemed to have some logic puzzle they wanted solved. "Buncha simps and glamor queens, but guess I was asking for it, coming to a joint like this." But why was the annoyingly cheerful owner so insistent that he avoid Room 102, which he kept calling the "yogurt room?"





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"Re(1):Hotel Spoon" , posted Sat 15 Jul 12:10post reply

quote:
Sometimes simple is best.

It was around 6:30 when Spoon finally rolled into the Hotel Onsy. "Dusty old place," he thought. But then, they all were. What was Ishmael doing running Red Crown like this, sending him off to tired old flophouses when he was on duty, he wondered. "Checking in, mate? Nice weather today," chirped the strangely bulldog-faced hotel owner from behind the counter. His accent struck Spoon as more British than French. "Cool it, pops, I'm just here to hit the hay between cases, don't need any small talk," Spoon growled. If he could just figure out where that dame Ms. P had disappeared to, he was sure she'd spill the beans on where his missing partner Bradley had been seen last. Unfortunately, everyone on his hallway seemed to have some logic puzzle they wanted solved. "Buncha simps and glamor queens, but guess I was asking for it, coming to a joint like this." But why was the annoyingly cheerful owner so insistent that he avoid Room 102, which he kept calling the "yogurt room?"



That was GREAT :O






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"Re(2):Messy Writing Corner" , posted Sun 16 Jul 11:21post reply

quote:
I've been typing an underground light novel for a few years. I have ideas. I just don't have time.

It answers the question of "What does being an anime/manga/game/light novel character feel like?" to a point. The original plan was to do it from the view of a random person, but Neo Ryu thought that it'd be better if I were the hero.


Have you watched Re:Creators? The show is still running (episode 15 of 22 played today), and goes a fair bit into both fictional existences (several of the characters are pulled from light novels, comics, shows and games into the real world) and the creative process, as many of their respective creators are also involved. And the characters pulled aren't just protagonists, but also supporting roles and antagonists, which helps shake things up a little when it comes to the existential questions derived from their predicaments. There's a decent overview of the qualities and themes of its early episodes here.





...!!


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"Re(1):Last Maou" , posted Mon 17 Jul 04:52post reply

quote:
Sometimes simple is best.

It was around 6:30 when Spoon finally rolled into the Hotel Onsy. "Dusty old place," he thought. But then, they all were. What was Ishmael doing running Red Crown like this, sending him off to tired old flophouses when he was on duty, he wondered. "Checking in, mate? Nice weather today," chirped the strangely bulldog-faced hotel owner from behind the counter. His accent struck Spoon as more British than French. "Cool it, pops, I'm just here to hit the hay between cases, don't need any small talk," Spoon growled. If he could just figure out where that dame Ms. P had disappeared to, he was sure she'd spill the beans on where his missing partner Bradley had been seen last. Unfortunately, everyone on his hallway seemed to have some logic puzzle they wanted solved. "Buncha simps and glamor queens, but guess I was asking for it, coming to a joint like this." But why was the annoyingly cheerful owner so insistent that he avoid Room 102, which he kept calling the "yogurt room?"



Maou wasn't going anywhere, but the elevator music kept playing anyway. That's just the kind of place Hotel Cafe M was, between the moping old men and the expats, a place where nothing seemed to move. But Maou liked that. A man needs rocks, and this grand mouldering lady was the hardest there was in the windy old port city of San Francisco.

The impish Thai man was sitting at the lounge bar, playing with his beer again. He had a named that would cramp your hand to write and would make your tongue whirl to say, so everybody called him the one thing he wasn't: "Rich". He didn't mind. A real product of the land of smiles, that guy.

"Maou! Nihao!"

For a Thai guy, he spoke a lot of Chinese. Weird Chinese, though: not the Chinese you hear in Chinatown.

Maou brushed the dust off his hat and sat down next to Rich. The dust of Tenderloin doesn't come off of anybody who lives there, but some manners must be observed.

"Professor, give me something cold", Maou said.

Nobody knows why the barkeep and owner of the Cafe M is called "Professor", he certainly wasn't a man of books, let alone a man of God. Still, the drinks that needed to be cold he kept cold, and that counted. The Professor nodded, and poured out something cheap. He'd always pour cheap ones for the people that he already knew couldn't afford the good ones, but he did it as far below the counter as he could so nobody would see. Nobody questioned your drinks here, though the Professor's service was something else, and that counted, too.

Maou's tab was as restless as he was, but a drink would help him settle down, at least for a while.

"You eating, Rich?", Maou asked.
"I'm eating rich!", the Thai man beamed.









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"Re(2):Last Nobi" , posted Tue 18 Jul 10:10post reply

quote:
"You eating, Rich?", Maou asked.
"I'm eating rich!", the Thai man beamed.
How I wish I was still posted in SF when you both were there, if only so we could have reenacted this perfect MMC fanfiction. I did drink whisky with Karasu in a hotel bar in Tokyo one time!

Connecting back to the subject of writing and this very Hotel Dusk-like image, I'm going to return to the subject of impactful writing and tie it to games, specifically Wish Room/Last Window. I don't mean good writing in games as in "good direction," of which there is a great deal, but of good text, of which there is very little. Kyle Hyde and his crowd have it in both Japanese and English, and very likely in Spanish too (ask Maese about this sometime for a story). It's a rare case when I both noticed the writing because it was so good, and didn't notice it because it was so natural.

Most text in games works for some simple dialogue and emotional attachment, but not much deeper than Hollywood stuff, and often overwrought fantasy junk or purely utilitarian. There's some high-end stuff now and again, like the conversion from the perfectly ordinary Japanese scripts of Matsuno's Ivalice Final Fantasy games into apparently Shakespearean stuff abroad, though that's a rare case.

FFVI's writing sticks with me based on the economy of its very high impact language. Few later games say so much about its characters with ten times the text; these are among the most efficiently and convincingly written characters I have ever seen. Oddly enough, the same is true in the original Woolsey translation, though he didn't have a choice given character limits.

Working Designs used to get some flack for giving some random townspeople goofy lines in their translations, but I happened to play their version of Lunar~Eternal Blue first, which not only taught me to swear in English, it also showed me some very powerful phrasing in the text and lyrics, many lines of which stick with me years later. The English lyrics to Rondo of Light and Shadow are astounding work.





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"Re(3):Last Nobi" , posted Tue 18 Jul 22:27post reply

quote:
FFVI's writing sticks with me based on the economy of its very high impact language. Few later games say so much about its characters with ten times the text; these are among the most efficiently and convincingly written characters I have ever seen. Oddly enough, the same is true in the original Woolsey translation, though he didn't have a choice given character limits.
I would hate to sound like if I was part of some insane monomaniac SaGa cult that sacrifices virgins and feed their blood to Enterbrain in order to re-publish the strategy guide of U:SaGa (which I am not, as I already told the police on countless occasions), but you should really have a go at RS2, 3, Minstrel Song or Scarlet Grace. The amount of interaction, personality, and dramatic intensity conveyed by characters who often only have 3 or 4 lines of dialogue in the entire game is staggering.
Kawazu really understand the power of tropes and uses them at their fullest: a lot of situations are knowingly cliché to get the stakes across in the minimum of time and text, while often abruptly cutting the conclusion short to surprise the player, or balancing the gendered undertones of the tropes.

Also, did you play Dai Gyakuten Saiban or Ghost Trick in Japanese? Economy is not the mode here, but good and subtle writing is Takushû's strongest quality.

Finally, I quite enjoy the last episode of this thread and look forward for the next twist. Amuse me, talented people!







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"Re(2):Last Maou" , posted Wed 19 Jul 13:29post reply

quote:
Sometimes simple is best.

It was around 6:30 when Spoon finally rolled into the Hotel Onsy. "Dusty old place," he thought. But then, they all were. What was Ishmael doing running Red Crown like this, sending him off to tired old flophouses when he was on duty, he wondered. "Checking in, mate? Nice weather today," chirped the strangely bulldog-faced hotel owner from behind the counter. His accent struck Spoon as more British than French. "Cool it, pops, I'm just here to hit the hay between cases, don't need any small talk," Spoon growled. If he could just figure out where that dame Ms. P had disappeared to, he was sure she'd spill the beans on where his missing partner Bradley had been seen last. Unfortunately, everyone on his hallway seemed to have some logic puzzle they wanted solved. "Buncha simps and glamor queens, but guess I was asking for it, coming to a joint like this." But why was the annoyingly cheerful owner so insistent that he avoid Room 102, which he kept calling the "yogurt room?"


Maou wasn't going anywhere, but the elevator music kept playing anyway. That's just the kind of place Hotel Cafe M was, between the moping old men and the expats, a place where nothing seemed to move. But Maou liked that. A man needs rocks, and this grand mouldering lady was the hardest there was in the windy old port city of San Francisco.

The impish Thai man was sitting at the lounge bar, playing with his beer again. He had a named tha

-- Message too long, Autoquote has been Snipped --



The kitchen bell rang out sharply, and the Professor received and delivered a massive plate of food to Rich with a leisurely smoothness that entirely concealed how quickly he did it.

Laid before Rich was a thick steak, crispier than chips on the outside and smoky enough to be smelled through the pall of tobacco that hung in the lounge. He cut into it with relish, and his plate soon had the look of a Chinatown butcher's block as deep red juices flowed across it. A woody aroma of yeast emerged as he noisily broke the crust of a roll and sopped up the tinted stream. The moist, pink crumb of the roll was soon capped by a daffodil-yellow smear of butter, and Rich's face filled with satisfaction as he ate it. Men of power and wealth have known less happiness than him at that moment. Rich was, without a doubt, eating richly.

Breaking from his ecstasy, Rich turned his attention to Maou.

"You can see, I am eating", Rich said, paying special attention to the last word.
"I can see that", Maou replied, unable to garnish his own words with that same degree of attention.

"There is nothing more universal and more sacred than eating. Every man, woman, child, and animal on every place on Earth eats. Whether they believe in God or not, whether they have studied or not, whether they have sinned or not, every man has rituals and taboos about food and eating. These rituals and taboos are called table manners, and breaking them is deeply repugnant: you can see how people recoil, how their gazes change, how they whisper, when a guest breaks them. How carefully they must step around the taboo! How difficult it is to explain the offence to the offender! How steeped they are in the mystery, the religion of eating!" Rich relayed this wisdom to Maou with a mouth full of food, stopping only to clear his mouth with a great swallow of beer.

Maou opened a menu. His work, if it could be called that, had left him tired, and the spectacle of Rich's eating provoked his appetite even moreso than the food itself. Maou turned his head to beckon the Professor, but the gesture was hardly needed: the Professor arrived to hear his order exactly as Maou was ready to speak it.

"Just a burger", Maou said.
"Just a burger", the Professor politely confirmed.









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"Re(3):Last Maou" , posted Wed 19 Jul 18:44post reply

quote:



Night has fallen, and lack of moon in the sky left this recently alive dining room in a tranquilly silent state resembling of a ghost town cemetery. Only things that illuminate the night were some lost fireflies. Dark clouds acted as blinders, not even letting the joy of starlights bless the soil.
The staff left the hotel as soon as the clock hit the number 8. They thought all life surrounding here had preffered to leave here before than they did.

What a contrast it was in this hotel's atmosphere. The dinner was served at six, kitchen closed at six-thirty and all of them rushed to go home before eight. A lively day and dead silent night.
A young man who wanted spend the summer working in a restaurant rather than a football camp where some of his friends went and never to be heard of.
He look behind from the back seat and he could have sworn there were no windows for this little hotel that was beside a lake in the middle of the forest. Maybe it was the lights of the car blocking his sight but it was mystery for him how this old building didn't let any light to sneak out the garden eventhough it was well lit inside before they left. Then he wished eagerly to be lost on his everyday life thoughts and didn't wanna waste anymore time thinking about this old building. Let this weirdos discuss how that "a white painted god killer was in fact an emo guy with one-dimensional angsty, fan servicing every dudebros back in the day". He even remembered his dad was saying how the hotel get criticized by the tabloids for its elitist and niche discussions and it was suggested to strip away a star from hotel's ratio. His dad had a chuckle and continued; "Instead they gain one more star in the deep circles and attract more crazy and cult." He turned his head watching the path that will lead them home. None of these things about this god forsaken hotel will matter when he will be watching tv in an hour and sipping his coke.

When night welcome the new day in its darkest form, yawning already started to replace last words of the discussion. "Skeletons are so 2000s" one uttered, another room was echoing that the "wonderland exists in repetation and swapping heads". In one room endless brackets were designed. Everything from absurdly giants to possessed littl girls were discussed. Even Nightmarish Crime Lords who are ambitious to take away corporations from parallel universes that produces genes of unholy or polished Unholy figures trying fill God's fetus with superheroes not knowing he is a puppet/bait of the unholiest trying to fill gold coins to its vault by trying to absorb hearts off mortals worshipping the stalkers of darkness, with minimum effort. Nohing was spared from discussion.
But then all was tired and in strange unity sand man visited all of them at once. Owner recently checked everything before he call it a day. He was still tired from fixing the plumbing. You can call him magician almost. This rusty pipes were still functioning eveb though just recently there was a little pond of words coming from leaking pipes. The pond looked bigger than it should be, some suspected badly used links of the pipes causing that leakage. But it was somehow fixed.

Finally just after midnight the hotel made them all asleep. Even the lost fireflies decided to be gone. All surrender to the darkness except one.
Even if you would be very close, you couldn't hear this one soul's intentionally slow heartbeats. He carrefully tried to paint the sound of his breath with the non-existent light breeze. The basement door slightly opened, if there was any for of light you could've see it was a naked man who has dark mossy green hair with a wet look coming out. He was so pale that he would've reflect moonlight like a diamond if there was a moon in the sky.

He reached the keys of the front door in reception. His heartbeats became even more slower while he was trying to reach the keys over the bulldog faced receptionist sleeping on his chair; his favourite watchmen spot. He succesfully grab the key and then head to the front door. It felt like forever to unlock the door.
He didn't dare to close to the door fully. He couldn't dare running yet, either. He was finally close to the freedom. It was the sound of the step that wakes the bulldog. That treasonous noise; the grass and the soft soil caused by the leakage decided to snitch and shout "He is running!" top of their imaginative lungs when they meet his wet feet. The bulldog called out in the front yard "Who's there!"
He was hiding behind the tree and he didn't even turn his head slightest. He understood that it was time to run deep into the forest there was no room for hesitating as he sees the blood red reflections on the trees facing the hotel. The calling has started and bright red ancients letters of circles getting bigger. He couldn't afford to be close if he wanted his freedom. Then he forced his weak muscles to get out of the lost woods. His eyes were burning as he was whispering softly to himself "Sorry P!".









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"Re(4):Last Oguz" , posted Thu 20 Jul 09:36:post reply

quote:
Dark clouds acted as blinders, not even letting the joy of starlights bless the soil.

there was a little pond of words coming from leaking pipes.

In addition to the unfolding story itself, one of my favorite things so far about the accidental MMC Fanfic Thread is the opportunity to see beautiful and unexpected turns of phrase from various non-native but fluent speakers from around the world.

I recall reading an article a decade ago by/about (?) Levy Hideo, a rare non-native novelist writing in Japanese, about the special word choices and styles that are opened up to him in another language that might not occur to natives. (Bizarrely, one of his books was translated into English...by someone else.)

On a higher level, Nabokov's first novels were Russian before he switched to English and later gave the Cafe the important linguistic genesis of our Gothic Lolita Londonians.

Jhumpa Lahiri, who writes very well about the Indian-American experience, has written on the madness and joy of purposefully toiling to write in Italian, a language she only recently learned.
quote:

insane monomaniac SaGa cult that sacrifices virgins and feed their blood to Enterbrain

the religion of eating!

football camp

"Instead they gain one more star in the deep circles and attract more crazy and cult."

Also I am also pleased by how the story and non-story posts here are linking together.





人間はいつも私を驚かせてくれる。不思議なものだな、人間という存在は...

[this message was edited by Maou on Thu 20 Jul 12:16]



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"Re(5):Last Oguz" , posted Fri 21 Jul 02:54:post reply

quote:
there was a little pond of words coming from leaking pipes.


This was also my favourite turn of phrase in Kofoguz's passage! Such a vivid, tactile, and yet surreal phrase, while also cleverly invoking our familiar problems linking URLs! Good stuff!

Perhaps it was Nabokov, but I remember a Russian author who had fluency in English before Russian, and how that affected his sense of words and writing. Not only that, his fluency with both led to him translating his own work between the two languages! I can imagine that for a language that has a rich literary history steeped in a particular culture, the sense of "common sense" and "expected knowledge" or typical structure must be challenging to convey with brevity in the unusually cosmopolitan English.

Which brings me to another point: I have familiarity with a few languages like French and Japanese, but the only two that I can speak with real fluency are Cantonese and English. There are a number of grammatical tics in Cantonese that resemble the grammar of English, but the sensation of subject omission in sentences which feels very natural in Cantonese becomes clipped and terse in English. I don't think it's an abnormal thing that people have trouble "thinking" in a language that they are not fluent in (for instance, I cannot think in Japanese except for a few extremely simple thoughts; I think in Cantonese or English and then translate those thoughts to Japanese), but even then, there is "resonance" with words that simply isn't there in spite of my exposure and familiarity with them. The best example of this for me is that the "-kun" suffix in Japanese which can denote a small male thing and can be used as a term of endearment/affection/awww-its-so-cute has a 100% perfect analogue in Chinese. However, the sensation I get when hearing the Chinese one is visceral and delightful, while hearing the Japanese one is not; I've heard the Japanese one enough to be able to understand it instantly without thinking, and having seen it used in a zillion manga/anime/games/movies/whatevers I should have enormous amounts of exposure to it in emotional contexts, but still I do not feel anything from it. I intellectually understand it should map to the Chinese one exactly, but I cannot feel the way I do with the Chinese one without simply saying the Chinese one in my head. I suppose I could in a Pavlovian fashion build the association internally that way, but that feels like brainwashing myself.

It makes me wonder if it will ever possible to have a native language "feeling" with a language learned much later in life. Is the wiring of our brains and thinking so profoundly influenced by our initial languages that it becomes impossible for us to feel in other languages without building the association in terms of the languages we have already been wired in?

I have another theory about learning languages which is that learning proficiency with a language is easier for children due to social/environmental things as opposed to merely mental plasticity, but when it comes to developing emotional resonance with a language, I wonder if adults can learn it viscerally the way children can, or if it must come through the act of mapping.





[this message was edited by Spoon on Fri 21 Jul 02:58]



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"Re(6):Last Oguz" , posted Fri 21 Jul 13:46post reply

quote:
Spoon-kun

It makes me wonder if it will ever possible to have a native language "feeling" with a language learned much later in life.
I think the two parts of your post tie together to answer this: much of language learning is experiencial. In other words, "-kun" will probably mean a bit less to you because you presumably haven't often been addressed that way in real life by your teachers, friends, and bosses. It becomes hard to "feel" this word because there is no immediate personal association with the situation or the counterpart who you could imagine/remember addressing you this way.

Language as directed at you and thus experienced by you no doubt makes it part of you, including the ability to think in said language. It could well be that it's harder to learn a new language when older because it's rarer to have an immersive cultural/life experience from the ground up at that point: knowing how kids talk, or vocabulary specific to primary education, for instance, will always be something of an abstraction if you come in as an adult without having gone through that phase in the other language, to say nothing of cultural specificities and references that are tied to language.

All of the above could also be tied to writing in another language, hence the creative agonies described by Lahiri, but also some of the interesting and rewarding joys of perservering.





人間はいつも私を驚かせてくれる。不思議なものだな、人間という存在は...


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"Re(4):Last Maou" , posted Sat 22 Jul 13:48post reply

quote:




The Hotel had a way of keeping people, though many of the reasons were not as savory as the vittles of the Cafe M. Maou was one of these people, and he in turn found himself keeping many things for reasons that were not all tasteful, either.

The faithful of the Cafe M each lived in their own time zones, even as they were all gathered under its smoke-soaked roof. Deep into the night, there were the strangely wakeful taking their afternoon tea in the Hotel. Who knew what had swept them onto the shores of the Bay, but for all of the city that now clung to them, they had not acquired its time.

Tonight, though, the guests had all cleared out by the evening. A wet front had rolled in, and the old men were lured to sleep by the mist.

Maou, too, retired to his room. He had long since stopped smoking, but the desire for smoke had never truly left him. In his room were a few small boxes containing bits of wood: hickory in one, maple in another, mesquite in a third, and so on. He took a pinch of hickory, put it into the room’s ashtray, and lit it. The scent was warm and dark, and brought him the comfort of the scotch he couldn’t afford. Men would always seek fire, even if the only place they can find it is in a cheap glass bottle.

Maou laid back on his bed, letting the faint smell of the smouldering hickory drift over him. His room was full of all manner of dead and transformed wood. Some were mementos, like the piece from time of the Rangers’ burning. Some he didn’t know why he still kept, like the overly-long piece from Norway, or the bone-white colorless one which seemed awful from every angle.

The fragment of hickory popped and crackled. Maou let his thinking slow. He was in no mood for reading tonight, and just stared at an old poster of a beautiful, long-haired Asian woman in a deep crimson turtleneck sweater. She had always written in her spare time, and even in that picture she held a pen and a black folder.

The orange glow of the hickory grew brighter. Maou could feel his eyelids grow heavy, and his mind submerging. Today’s job had gone smoothly, as smoothly as such jobs can go, but he felt as tired as if he had done an honest day’s work. He tried recalling the events of the day, but his mind sank ever further below where it could reach his memories of the day.

The hickory gave out its last light. Maou no longer had the strength to do anything but fall asleep on top of his bed. He thought about the white jacket she wasn’t wearing in that poster, and the long chain that bound the arms of her glasses that she’d loop over her collarbone like a necklace.

As Maou fell asleep, he tried to forget about her.