And then there is the case of Gertrude Stein. She is the one who sought to kill the nineteenth century dead. By means of a paucity of commas.
Winslow Crabb, A More Satisfactory World.
Today, “knowing” is just another form of hedonism. We have gone full circle. Or is it full ellipse?
Hamilton Barca, The Black Vapor.
We think we want to know more because we believe that we already do know a great deal.
Jonathan Biggs, The Way of Insects.
What if the photograph does steal something? Say, the illusion that you are a great many things—a complexity— instead of that simple thing in the photo. An entity.
Jason K. Broadus, The Ice of My Dreams.
“We form theories. We do sums. We speak in complete sentences. Well, don’t we? We must be intelligent beings. I tell you, we simply must be!”
Nicholas Crisp, A Suitcase Fell on Her Head.
Some things are too good. They’re just too damned good. We ought to seal them up and store them away. They are just too good.
Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.
“Time reveals the truth.” Well, yes. Of course. Except that we all know, don’t we, that “time” and “truth” can have no meaning. The words have no real meaning. And we are very clever, indeed.
Rollin Mungo, Selected Rants of Mr. Barraclough.
Logic doesn’t preclude the preternatural. It merely presents it in terms of a dull order.
Sal Aurobindo, The Immersion in Matter.
This is the way the world ends—not with a Bang (but with Slang).
Chadwick Graves, Maoist Struggle Session and Other Stories.
Let’s hear Pagliacci with all the performers gagged. An opera of whimpers and groans.
Anthony Scowling, The Beat Paradigm.
