“Try to picture it this way, Victoria. We are descending into the valley. Perpetually.”
Thaddeus Crewes, The Seven Long Years.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you an alibi, Inspector.”
“How about a few glib sentences, instead?” whispered Lydia, cruelly.
Gwenda Reid, Murder in Retrospect.
“The catastrophe isn’t something to come, Reggie. The catastrophe is the hour-by-hour, day-by-day enactment of this culture.”
Mark Anthony, The Tale of the Mirror.
Denise and Carla were desperate to find out—to fathom—what that snapshot had meant to the old boy.
Harrison Wilmer, The Michaelmas Killer.
At some point that evening, Newburne began to talk about what he called “the beauty of the object.”
Everson Dwight, Theory of Machines, a Novel.
Logic haunts us.
Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.
“Not water, Linda. No. Water is the worst thing.”
Rubina Malcolm, The Black Box.
They pretend as though, in repeating, they are actually inventing.
Cedric Plumm, Calpurnia’s Dream and Other Essays.
“How bad are things out your way, Bobby?”
“Bad enough.”
Alberta Traywick, Susannah’s Accident.
“How immense!” exclaimed Janet, with more enthusiasm than she had intended.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
dennis scharnberg 