dennis scharnberg

We are the holes in our bodies.   We are absences.

Pamela Hrothgar,  No Stone Unturned.

He never knew what didn’t hit him.   (Living in a culture of near-misses.)

Amanda Willcoxen, ed.,  The Literary and Philosophical Fragments of Gregory James Sallust.

“I know how to shut up in three languages,” claimed Nigel.  And he most certainly was not boasting.

Ralston Dowd,  A Spot of Bother.

“Had I only learned self-deception,”  thought Alexandra,  “then I might have gone somewhere in life.”

Priscilla Onkers,  All About Edward.

“Oh, how I yearn for literary sentences!” cried Doris.   “And I want them one after another.  Page after page.”

Myrtle Mawby,  Cabinets and Drawers, a Novel.

QUESTION:      What sells books?

ANSWER:     Boredom.   Extreme boredom.

Charles Pfanning,  Mild Interrogations.

“Embarrassment is episodic,” thought Emily. “But shouldn’t it be continuous? Shouldn’t it be never-ending?”

Thaddeus Crewes,  Crowded Evil World.