Writers you fucking hate

>>21988516 (OP)

All of them. They're fucking horrible.

>>21988516 (OP)

Bradbury, Christ, what a self-important hack.

>>21988516 (OP)

This guy. Pretty glad he killed himself

>>21988516 (OP)

That piece of shit always writing in my journals.

>>21988516 (OP)

Brecht. Him and the circlejerk around him encapsulate everything wrong and contraselective about 20th century art.

Richard Brautigan. In Watermelon Sugar almost gave me a damn nervous breakdown. Fuck that book and fuck him.

>>21988516 (OP)

I can't stand him; his style is infuriating, sickening even. I don't even mind the general themes, his writing is just totally insufferable. I can feel his arrogance oozing through the page.

I'd tolerate a thousand Pounds and Nabokovs before I could tolerate the morally smug types. You know, the sort of people who are really proud of having all the right opinions about everything and would never say anything mildly divisive.

>>21988516 (OP)

oscar wilde

>>21988516 (OP)

I don't like Patrick Rothfuss or Robert Jordan because they manage to use a lot of words yet say nothing interesting.

>>21988516 (OP)

Haha Bookchin actually made me stop reading books about politics(and after a couple of years stop bothering with politics altogether), because his were so boring. I am eternally indebted

Haruki Murakami

Jordan Peterson

And the self-insert in his Fahrenheit book

Anne Frank's Dad

Hemingway

>>21988516 (OP)

Me

Why?

>>21988516 (OP)

Joyce. What a tool.

Why's that? I just picked up a collection of his books the other day, haven't read it yet. Seems pretty promising though

>>21988516 (OP)

the smartest guy he knew

>>21988516 (OP)

my friend Tom, total hack and boring to be around.

>>21988516 (OP)

Dosto. No, I do not object to soul-searching and self-revelation, but in his books the soul, and the sins, and the sentimentality, and the journalese, hardly warrant the tedious and muddled search. Dostoyevsky’s lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity – all this is difficult to admire. I do not like this trick his characters have of ”sinning their way to Jesus” or, as a Russian author, Ivan Bunin, put it more bluntly, ”spilling Jesus all over the place." Crime and Punishment’s plot did not seem as incredibly banal in 1866 when the book was written as it does now when noble prostitutes are apt to be received a little cynically by experienced readers. Dostoyevsky never really got over the influence which the European mystery novel and the sentimental novel made upon him. The sentimental influence implied that kind of conflict he liked—placing virtuous people in pathetic situations and then extracting from these situations the last ounce of pathos. Non-Russian readers do not realize two things: that not all Russians love Dostoevsky as much as Americans do, and that most of those Russians who do, venerate him as a mystic and not as an artist. He was a prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian. I admit that some of his scenes, some of his tremendous farcical rows are extraordinarily amusing. But his sensitive murderers and soulful prostitutes are not to be endured for one moment—by this reader anyway. Dostoyevsky seems to have been chosen by the destiny of Russian letters to become Russia’s greatest playwright, but he took the wrong turning and wrote novels.

Nah, in the Brautigan spirit I will not be mean to you, but he is my favorite writer
