[********] Tolstoy! How many goddamn pages does it take to describe some miserable saps sitting on a bench waiting for a train? I especially hate it when antiquated literature gets bogged down in lengthy inner monologues Mother ******** worked sixteen hours a day six days a week and they jabbered in their heads THAT much? I always was amused by Kipling's ejaculations, though, being a boy and probably never going to quite grow up.
Camus' The Stranger (which inspired the Cure song "Killing an Arab"wink and The Plague are the ones I read and are fond of.
I dislike words that are used to categorically different, if not necessarily disparate things. I'd make a damn good lawyer if I didn't believe so strongly in justice, I imagine.
Kafka just needed to actually finish his books and hire a good editor. You know, I found one of those things at the nearby streetcar stop, but as it was missing the power cord I decided to sell it on Craigslist ... for beer money, go fig'. Ever read Camus? I think I rather like that guy! Not gonna touch Proust, though! Seven ******** volumes! Sounds like a Beijing phone book, to me!
I wonder if perhaps you use the word lust as a sort of blanket term to describe different things. I'm a bit of a stickler for precision in language use, and always have been. I personally think the most interesting literature is psychological horror (Lovecraft), vengeance (Dumas), adventure (Homer, Conrad), and morbid surreal ... whatever (Kafka), and of course almost all of what I like has a kernel of tragedy to it.
You'd be rendering the genre such a service! What about it appeals to you, though?
And, yeah, it's funny how people can turn trauma-induced dysfunctions into lifestyles. It's weird, because I view that sort of thing as being little different from addictions, yet the only people praised for being drunks and junkies are musicians, and even then only from a distance and occasionally.