G/fur

G/fur

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Love the bondage stuff

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you^

Dearest Father,

You asked me recently why I maintain that I am so afraid of you. As usual I was unable to think of any answer to your question. Partly for the very reason that I am afraid of you. And partly because the explanation of the grounds for this fear would mean going into far more detail than I could ever keep in mind while talking.

Get The Fuck Out, you have a board for this filth.

And if I now try to give you an answer in writing, it will still be very incomplete, because, even in writing, this fear and its consequences hamper me me in relation to you and because the magnitude of the subject goes far beyond the scope of my memory and power of reasoning, to you the matter always seemed very simple, at least in so far as you talked about it in front of me, and indiscriminately in front of other people. It looked to you more or less as follows: you have worked hard all your life, have sacrificed everything for your children, above all for me, consequently I have lived high and handsome, have been completely at liberty to learn whatever I wanted, and have had no cause for material worries, which means no worries of any kind at all.

You have not expected any gratitude for this, knowing what "children's gratitude" is like, but have expected at least some sort of obligingness, some sign of sympathy. Instead I have always hidden from you, in my room, among my books, with crazy friends, or with crackpot ideas. I have never talked to you frankly; I have never come to you when you were in the synagogue, never visited you at Frazensbad, nor indeed never shown any family feeling; I have never taken any interest in the business or your other concerns; I saddled you with the factory and walked off; I encouraged Ottla in her obstinacy, and never lifted a finger for you (never even got you a theater ticket), while I do everything for my friends.

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Someone wants attention

If you sum up your judgement of me, the result you get is that, although you don't charge me with anything downright improper or wicked (with the exception perhaps of my latest marriage plan), you do charge me with coldness, estrangement, and ingratitude. And, what is more, you charge me with it in such a way as to make it seem my fault, as though I might have been able, with something like a touch on the steering wheel, to make everything quite different while you aren't in the slightest to blame, unless it be for having been too good to me.

which one, I wonder?

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Hi there
we've talked yesterday

So do you and yet here we all are

This, your usual way of representing it, I regard as accurate only in so far as I too believe you are entirely blameless in the matter of our estrangement. But I am equally entirely blameless. If I could get you to acknowledge this, then what would be possible is-not, I think, a new life, we are both much too old for that-but still, a kind of peace; no cessation, but still, a diminution of your unceasing reproaches.

Oddly enough you have some sort of notion of what I mean. For instance, a short time ago you said to me: "I have always been fond of you, even though outwardly I didn't act towards you as other fathers generally do, and this precisely because I can't pretend as other people can." Now, Father, on the whole I have never doubted your goodness toward me, but this remark I consider wrong. You can't pretend, that is true, but merely to maintain that other fathers pretend is either opinionated nests, and as such beyond discussion, or on the other hand-and this in my view is what it really is-a veiled expression of the fact that something is wrong in our relationship and that you have played your part in causing it to be so, but without its being your fault. If you really mean that, then we are in agreement.

Hello. I'm transcribing Kafka's Letter to he Father for the thread right now.

But you understand, that purpose of this thread is porn sharing, right?

I'm not going to say, of course, that I have become what I am only as a result of your influence. That would be very much exaggerated (and I am indeed inclined to this exaggeration). It is indeed quite possible that if I had grown up entirely free from your influence I still could not become a person after your own heart. I should probably have still become a weakly, timid, hesitant, restless person, neither Robert Kafka nor Karl Hermann, but yet quite different from what I really am, and we might have got on with each other excellently.

Yes, but Kafka is far better and more important.

okok, btw. I'm Czech, so thumbs up for Kafka

I should have been happy to have you as a friend, as a boss, an uncle, a grandfather, even (though rather more hesitantly) as a father-in-law. Only as a father you have been too strong for me, particularly since my brothers died when they were small and my sisters came along only much later, so that I alone had to bear the brunt of it-and for that I was much too weak.

Do you live also in the Jewish sector of Prague? I am an American, they don't teach Kafka to students that often. I discovered him in high school and have never been the same.

live aprox 100km from Prague. Been there many times. The downtown (which Jewish part is in) is wonderful.

Would like to request all the gifs and webms you guys got

Do you also take interest in this furfaggotry?

I only have 2 more and would appreciate more

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Compare the Two of us: I put it in a very much abbreviated form, a Löwy with a certain Kafka component, which, however, is not set in motion by the Kafka will to life, business, and conquest, but by the Löwyish spur that impels more secretly, more diffidently, and in another direction, and which often fails to work entirely. You, on the other hand, a true Kafka in strength, health, appetite, loudness of voice, eloquence, self-satisfaction, worldly dominance, endurance, presence of mind, knowledge of human nature, a certain way of doing things on a grand scale, of course also with all the defects and weaknesses that go with these advantages and into which your temperament and sometimes your hot temper drive you.

I should like to tour Europe someday.

Not particularly. I don't look at porn or masturbate.

sauce

Sylus

Jasonafex.
furaffinity view/16386469/

And I would like to tour US, lol. But you definitely should.
Why this threads though? Surely there are other board which would appreciate your artistic interests more.

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You are perhaps not wholly a Kafka in your general outlook, in so far as I can compare you to Uncle Phillip, Ludwig, and Heinrich. That is odd, and here I don't see quite clear either. After all, they were all more cheerful, fresher, more informal, more easygoing, less severe than you. (In this, by the way, I have inherited a great deal from you and taken much too good care of my inheritance, without, admittedly, having the necessary counterweights in my own nature, as you have.) Yet you too, on the other hand, have in this respect gone through various phases.

Not really are there other boards that would hold any interest in who I am or what I do and are small enough that I would be shunned and ostracized entirely.

Came for the furfaq porn stayed for the historical facts.

Oh, I see. Small "community". Well, whatever, at least you're bumping the thread up.
What do you think about our peculiar fetish? Btw. I'm Luke. If we happend to stumble upon ourselfs again

yyyyyyay!

This is my fetish :3 *drooling*

Please gangbang me gay furries

Shut up, edgelord.
Just an hero already

I hit the close thread button instead of switching tabs. I am now upset.

Literature you mean.

My name is James. Other probably think you guys are really weird and silly.

Dude I wanna fuck a Haunter

I am very smart hahah ecks dee

Nice to hear that :3

I'll just transcribe some poetry instead.

I was unaware that one of the most important and well respected authors in Western Literature was considered edgy.

Yo, rarely remember to check these, nice stuff.
Why's the fool borking?

It definitely is silly, but who cares.

TRIPS FUCKING GET!!!!!!!!!!

You come to a porn thread to spout shit nobody here gives half a shit about.
Not to mention your shitty grammar that looks like you threw in words just to meet a word count.

Get out of here and take your edgey head avatar with you

I have some study related work to do, so I'm going. See you round
L.

You must be new here.
Just let him do him

Bend me over and give me that horse cock already

This is why g/fur threads turn to cancer

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I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in the sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stam aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

A lot of people care about how they are perceived by others.

So long.

That isn't any of my business.

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OK now, T.S Eliot is crossing the line.
Penalties should apply

You need friends

>"The most important (...) author in western literature"
You sure about that?

Please fuck me

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Hmmm thanks for this, too.. I'm really horny now!

What are the roots that cluth, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the crickets no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
-Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

I have friends.

I enjoy his work.

>one of the most
Yes, I am positive.

This is why we need the quran

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Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

sure if you like:

amputations
hangings
cruxifictions
decapitations
flogging
stoning

for this such as:

listening to music
smoking
drinking alchohol
gambling
going to a concert


What a great idea, USA should get Sharia Law ASAP!

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Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: "Steston!"
"You were with me in the ships at Mylae!
"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
"Oh keep the dog far hence, that's friend to men,
"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frere!"

Hakon Jarl's Death - Poem by Adam Gottlob Oehlenschlaeger (1803)

The nights are brooding long and black:
The Seven Stars glimmer pale.
Winds rush from the gates of the zodiac,
The pine tree snaps in the cold gale.

In the sacred grove the tempest rages
Among the moss-grown gods of the ages.
'Valhal is past;
We sink at last!'
It throws to the ground stained altar stones
And crushes the sacrificial bones.

The heap of Gothic masonry lowers
Brown in the moon's uncertain glance;
In dark blue air rise strutting towers,
And round the walls lean shadows dance.

A wisp of light spreads ghostly fingers
Through painted glass to the Cross, and lingers.
'They are sacrificed,
Thou white Christ!
Thy crown of thorns shall drive them forth
From the windswept mountains of the North.'

Olaf Trygvason lands with his vassals.
They sing the mass on Norway's strand;
From gloomy southern castles
He brings his monks to the mountain land...

I am going to go have some lunch.

The Christian faith invades the region,
But Hakon leads his peasant legion
To fight and bleed
For the old creed.
They meet the King, but the ancient faith
Goes down in the sunset flame of death.

The cock crows loud through the midnight glade.
Earl Hakon slays his son,
Draws from his body the smoking blade,
And prays in the grove to the Pallid One.

'Christ, let the radiant gods still live!
My heart raves ! what more can I give?
Go back again
To thy southern plain!'
But the owl flutters on the breast of the Norn;
It shrieks, and the mountain echoes mourn.

Christian banners seethe in the air;
They flash, they flash through the land.
The heartening horns of the Christians blare;
Luck moves with Olaf hand in hand.

The Saviour is carried before him proudly,
Psalms and litanies sound loudly;
With cross-shaped sword
He leads the horde.
Victorious rumours clear his path;
Hakon flies in lonely wrath.

He spurs his whinnying horse; at the river
Gaul it stops, spattered with foam.
'Let the Norwegian cowards shiver;
I never betray my ancient home.'

Weeping, he kills his horse, and stains
His coat with the blood from the gushing veins.
'You will think it is I
That bleed and die,
But, Olaf, I still have men for war,
And on my side fight Tyr and Thor.'

His eyes flash with a fierce despair.
He flies to the mountains' pine-roofed halls,
And hides in a shadowy cavern there
With Thormod Karker, one of his thralls.

Have a good one.

Want a nice refreshing drink with that?

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A splinter of pine casts smoky light
Where the two sit silent in the night.
Distrustful, both,
Of the spoken oath.
The thrall's eyes stare at the earl, aghast,
But midnight comes, and he sleeps at last.

Then a rustle runs through the cave's dark length.
Hermod appears to the scowling earl.
'The gods have put their faith in thy strength,
Bane on Olaf, the Christian churl !

Fair Freia weeps, her gold tears fall.
Shall a southern crucified criminal
Be overlord?
Go, swing your sword !
Pour Olaf's blood in every shrine,
And a seat in Valhal shall be thine !'

The red shade wanes away in space.
Just then the thrall wakes with a scream :
'Jesus showed me, with smiling face,
Your body drenched in a bloody stream.'

'What! craven slave ! do you fear Thor's thunder?
You are grey as the sky when the sun goes under.
Dare you betray
Your master?' 'Nay.'
The thrall's heart cringes, terror-frosted,
(The earl sinks down in sleep, exhausted.

He dreams, strangely smiling and sighing.
Karker gazes as though bewitched.
'Why did I see his body lying
In blood? and why is his right brow twitched?

>Implying it wasn't that to begin with

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He is, after all, a robber, a blot
On Norway's fame. I could! . . . why not?
When Olaf is told
He will give me gold.'
He pauses, trembles, then Hakon's life
Spurts from the gullet under the knife.

Loudly the horns from the hills come pealing.
'Here he is ! At last we have found him !'
Like a racing river rushing and reeling
Olaf bursts in with his vassals round him.

The thrall is felled with their battle-axes.
Olaf sees Hakon; his face relaxes
In smile to see
The dead enemy.
'Vengeance ! the master heathen is slain,
And the veil of darkness rent in twain.'

It rumbles across the horizoned heaven;
The ocean trembles, the sound goes forth
That the radiant gods of old are driven
Away, and will never return to the North.

Eternally, nothing but cloisters and churches ;
Gone are the groves, but he that searches
May sometimes behold
In the lonely wold
An upright stone with a hero's mark
Still touched with the flames long quenched in dark.

I had a couple of slices of day old bread and cool water. I am having some very good tea and a cigarette for dessert.

Were you going to suggest water? Because I had water.

Norse mythology is so fucking lame and overrated. If I had a penny for every fag with braids, beard, and rune tattoos I see.

I would have exactly zero pennies in that case.

what's the best paganism

Hiduism.

none it's fucking heretical and shitty

I'm a fan of shinto myself because I'm a fucking weeaboo.

>angry semite

This tea is great though. It's yerba, coconut, and cocoa.

I have a weird affinity for Licorice Cinnamon Tea.

Whatever floats your boat, try some poems by Henrik Wergeland he is a bit more "modern" in his writing and world view.