He traveled only by night, almost silently. The litter itself was solid and comfortable. The carriers—eight in number—were always smooth and speechless. Their pace was brisk, and sleep came easy.
Constantine Aviola, Chandu the Magician.
Modernism freed art from the representational burden. Contemporary Art—starting in the 1960s—liberated art even further. So, the big story is one of unburdening.
Nelson Poindexter, Corpuscular Aesthetics.
Modernity is a gradual suicide.
Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.
People can be disappointed when they see the old paintings on display. Because they do not glow.
Nelson Poindexter, Corpuscular Aesthetics.
Astrophysics: a theme park.
Nathaniel Bumppo, The Final Word.
“It’s weeping without tears, Carol. Very much like acting?”
Park V. Kessler, Nearly Happy.
Our “Shannon” was an online sex worker drifting through life anonymously and without a stateable purpose.
Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.
“I have never before witnessed a more perfectly positioned occasional table. Let me make at least that much clear to you, Barbara.”
Adrian Caliban, The Magnificent Egglestons.
In the dark of the night, Helena Petrovna Blavatsky lies on her left side in deep slumber whilst Hoot Koomi, her “mahatma”, bends over her and whispers endless mysteries into her ear. This is the picture presented to us, the living way of Theosophy.
Teresa Ravens, The Lives of Helena Blavatsky.
November 11, 2012. It strikes me that hardly anyone is writing novels these days—suggesting that it is very difficult to do. On the other hand, everybody and his dog is busy scribbling miniatures! So, easy to do?
Reginald Boyington, Dear Dreadful Diary.
dennis scharnberg 