A circle of admirers. That’s what Hudson wanted. But just how broad should that circle be? That morning, at 9:06, he had no answer. No scheme at all.
Hartley Spinks, Along the River Run.
When asked what he yearned for, LW did not hesitate. “For a wild beast in our path,” he said.
Titus Musgrave, Carthago Delenda Est.
Cthulhu swims leftward.
Anthony Scowling, The Beat Paradigm.
“The hole must be filled, Audrey. And, no, I do not mean country matters!”
Thaddeus Crewes, The Seven Long Years.
“Think of today’s art as a corridor,” said Mr. Tomlin. “Think of it as a matter of high seriousness.”
Leonard Lundy, I Can Hear the Robin Sing.
Rubble is beautiful.
Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.
That which is explicitly ridiculous cannot be ridiculed. This is the shabby armor of the postmodernist.
Clem Tartessos, Designing the Past.
“You see, Jenny, I grew up in a social milieu that was not interested in Blacks. And certainly not obsessed with them. I realize that it must seem almost impossible to you.”
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
Reeves reported seeing a guy with a hand-held cardboard sign, on which a simple message had been scrawled with what appeared to be liquid shoe polish: “Will Work for Food (organic only, please).”
Virgil Simms, The Case of the Frivolous Factotum.
One thing that Gibbon missed: that life might be more fun during the period of decline.
Hill Boothby, The Dazzling Realm of Almost.
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