Grigoriev’s last words concerned some business about “the dreadful numbers” and about “a geometry of lies.”
Hilary Fewkes, The Banality Killings.
“They told me that she simply vanished, in the middle of a sentence,” said Lottie, brushing aside a tear.
Rubina Malcolm, The Black Box.
“Wanting to understand it is the mistake,” insisted Daniels. “Do not try to understand it.”
Ellery Close, The Erasmus Homicides.
But the vulture needn’t know that he is a vulture. Circling a carcass just comes naturally.
Nigel Swarbrick, A Bootful of Nails.
“The actor’s hair was something of a mystery,” exclaimed Harold. “I mean, where was it coming from exactly? And what was it doing?”
Brendan Shaughnessy, Lobsters and Clams—A Novel.
“Hello, stranger,” said Carter. “Remember me?”
Michael Margate, The Lay of the Land.
“People can change, Julie. Some people change all the time.”
Gladys Huizinga, Hard-Luck Dennis.
Anyone using “just” in that way—I just wanted to understand, to help, to find out—is lying.
Jeremy Clyde, Phenomenology of Falsehood.
“It cannot be known, Janet, just how sorry I am.”
Agatha Vox, When Everything Was Singing.
He spent long winter evenings hovering over his biographer and taunting him occasionally with exclamations: “Well, don’t I seem fascinating in that sentence!”
Lane Vivian, A Knob of Old Cheese and Ten Short Tales.
dennis scharnberg 