We need more novels like we need more postmodernist paintings. The two needs are identical.
Baldwin Tavinger, Toward a Rhetoric of Number.
“Look,” said Jennifer, confidently, “if you don’t wish to be censored, don’t say the wrong thing. This is not difficult!”
Gladys Huizinga, Hard-Luck Dennis.
Jacqueline sat at her desk, muttering. All morning long. Later, Archie claimed to have overheard at least one phrase clearly—something about “the centuries of patriarchal oppression.”
Priscilla Onkers, All About Edward.
“Is there really any evidence of anything,” shrieked Diana, “other than stale old history books written by white males with an agenda?”
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
Actually, it was no accident. I wanted to kick that table. Even though it was made of wrought iron. I must have been thinking that it might in some way lead to expansion of consciousness. Or perhaps to the expansion of something else.
Will Southey, Government Cheese, a Novel.
“It’s time to wise up, Tom. I mean about Eleanor. She seems bent on destroying the very society that makes her degeneracy possible in the first place! I mean, is there some kind of hidden logic in that?”
Clifford Apogee, Draining the Pools—A Collection of Stories.
McWorld.
Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.
That one can be greater than one’s heritage—this is the great illusion.
Roone Giddings, Dirty Old Coins.
The Marxist finds it easy to believe that he is normal and that his opponents are mentally ill.
Winslow Crabb, A More Satisfactory World.
“But what would one find on the dark side of the moon?”
“Swastikas, Gerald. And plenty of them.”
Sebastian Sleeve, The Random Walk and Other Stories.
dennis scharnberg 