…and it revealed an excessive enthusiasm on his part for writing prose that was dense and murky. What he regarded as his talent.
Benjamin Alexis, Thriving Under the Influence.
“It is easier to lie if you keep it simple, Donna. Will you try to remember that? Please?”
Pryce Cummings, Rattle Box.
“If one intends to smirk, dear lady, then one needs to be far more clever that he ever was.”
Timothy Waldo, The Important Things.
“We got rained on at Woodstock, man. And didn’t we endure Santana and The Who? And respectfully?”
Corliss Archer, Boarding the Crazy Train.
He painted a white square that exhibited a mild contrast in value with respect to its background. All this during a summer’s afternoon, in his studio. During an episode of incomparable courage.
Roger Penberthy, A Non-Newtonian Unpleasantness.
“The most preposterous thing,” grumbled Larry, “is when he quotes himself.”
Otto Klegg, The Ellipse of Uncertainty.
“They don’t like it,” said Randall. “They can feel their precious randomness being taken away from them.”
Dell Arbogast, The Null Hypothesis and Other Stories.
“Yes, I have noticed some stuff about the guy, Heather. A decided immersion in the theater of reasonableness, for one thing.”
Ralston Dowd, A Spot of Bother.
“No, Deirdre. It was insufficient irony on my part. I assure you.”
Will Southey, Government Cheese, the Novel.
Dearest Leon, just two words: ice pick.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
