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.
The crowd shots at Woodstock (the helicopter views) remind me of the obedience of jam spread on toast.
Jeremy Breedlove, A Sardonic View of the Movies.
James shocked Christine with this remark: “Perhaps you just thought that you were sleeping.”
Alberta Traywick, Susannah’s Accident.
Ours is a mediated culture. We don’t deserve traditions.
Desmond Urquhart, The Unsocial Sciences.
The pop song—any pop song—is in need of a punchline.
Arlie Kahoots, Recollections of a Very Merry Prankster.
Language permits this: “very lovely” is a very lovely phrase. But language does not dissolve because of this.
Daniel Brasso, The Infinite Regress.
dennis scharnberg 