dennis scharnberg

It is the word “line” that misleads us. It is not line of reasoning, but circle of reasoning.

Daniel Brasso, The Infinite Regress.

Reality lacks assumptions.

Clem Tartessos, Designing the Past.

All this was written in a letter, found—still in its envelope—amid other papers and various small rock samples inside an iron strongbox, resting on the floorboards of a most unlikely attic.

Talbot Smalls, Barnacle Bill in Macao.

“Paul and David Ogg? Oh yes, I remember them. With those two, it was all mischief all the time. Anarchy might be a better term. Once, they managed to steal a dozen or more jean jackets from school lockers, and then found a unique way to set them on fire.”

Will Southey, Government Cheese, the Novel.

With the Baroque, there is no longer any tangling of the lyrics by means of the polyphonic methods of earlier years. And what a loss.

Adrian Childe, Greater Patterns in Bach.

“Nothing escapes it,” whispered Mr. Alton, appearing somewhat mystified. “The sense that we are being pillaged.”

Desmond Ogg, Waving Fields of Alfalfa.

There were no bird sounds. The day was dawning, but there were no bird sounds. Stoffels was the first in his group to notice it. No birds.

Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.

“It took all of fifteen-thousand dollars. Fifteen-thousand, Rosie! What a handsome sum that is. If sums can be handsome.”

Nathaniel Mist, A Light Pleasant Drowsiness.

“It’s good! It’s good! It’s good! Everything’s good. It is just good!” Danny had convinced himself that this bit of mocking sing-song was fit for all purposes.

Charles Jeffrey Yett, Writing in Miniature—Vol. Three.

Is reality still?

Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.