dennis scharnberg

“Sounds are merely sounds, Cassandra.  They don’t mean anything.”

Timothy Waldo,  The Important Things.

Phillips claimed loud and long that he wanted to experience such-and-such.  To experience it first and, then, to write short stories about it all.  This would be followed by publication of the stories, and then seeing them written up in one of the better book reviews.  Then, of course, there would be the short list for a major literary prize.  These, he contended, would be the intentions of almost any sane person.

Anselm Bligh,  A Collection of Miniatures.

“Might there be drawbacks to animal worship?” Stacie wondered.

Hartley Spinks,  Along the River Run.

The more nihilists the better.

Godfrey Tooke,  Collected Aphorisms.

“Of course I cannot know, Bertie.  I am limited to surmise and inference, just like all the others.”

Leonard Lundy,  I Can Hear the Robin Sing.

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.