Dennis brightened the dinner party abruptly with his terse sketch of today’s literary culture: (1) read the reviews, (2) devour the new novels, (3) give out awards to a few authors, (4) forget all of those novels, and (5) repeat the process.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“They were looking for the capability to be embarrassed,” said Professor Wylkes. “Just potential embarrassment.”
Buster Kelso, Crimes Against Music.
“It was scratching oneself in the nether parts,” said Mr. Fanshawe, “and calling it belief.”
Tristan Holyoke, A Tree Full of Monkeys.
When Master Anselm hath mallet in hand
Doth not each matter all round him resemble more a nayle?
Thomas Gryffin, The Footman’s Felonie. (1606)
Priscilla Fanning, Fragments From the Jacobean Stage.
The bottle of cleanser fell into the sink, giving a sudden irritating crash. And Simon cranked his way through it all again: “If I could have a world with that noise or one without it, which would I choose?”
Chadwick Graves, One Damned Thing After Another.
“Third-rate shithole countries, Hendricks. Isn’t that what Nature wants?”
Chadwick Graves, Maoist Struggle Session and Other Stories.
“What modernist culture lacks,” said Alex, “is the main act. All we have is filler.”
Sebastian Sleeve, The Random Walk and Other Stories.
Amazing Grays
Andrew Tertullian, Pandora’s Ponderous Puns.
“A charging moose,” said the Trooper. “Now that’s some pretty nasty physics.”
Glynnis Hoving, The Multiplication Murders.
“But I don’t know how to want to like that,” confessed Ambrose, without a hope.
Buster Kelso, Crimes Against Music.
dennis scharnberg 