“My fantasies—as you call them—would work out just fine, if I didn’t have to drop down to dirt zero every time upon fading out….”
Chadwick Graves, One Damned Thing After Another.
Mathematics does not depend on proof. The proofs come later.
Amanda Willcoxen, ed., The Literary and Philosophical Fragments of Gregory James Sallust.
A wheelbarrow filled with detritus is pretending to be a culture.
Octavius Kinder, A Sustainable Unhappiness.
“She has tattoos all over her backside, Katharine.”
“Meaning what!”
“Meaning she is bad news.”
Gladys Huizinga, Hard-Luck Dennis.
What he didn’t notice before—when he first examined the ad—was how profoundly happy the model appeared to be.
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
“Your argument is little more than a complaint, Hettie, as are many so-called arguments these days.”
Roberta Pym, The Complete Undoing of William Ambrose.
“As a cook, let me assure you that it is always more fulfilling to know that a hammer—even a small one—was involved at some point (no matter how distant) concerning the dish I intend to prepare.”
Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.
In the 21st century, people exhibit an almost unlimited gullibility and yet claim to be capable of achieving what they designate as mindfulness.
Hill Boothby, The Dazzling Realm of Almost.
“I am kicking a boulder, therefore I am.”
Ralston Dowd, A Spot of Bother.
Sophistication: a popular mental illness; a toxin.
Nathaniel Bumppo, The Final Word.
dennis scharnberg 