Tristram was beside himself. Practically glowing, in fact. You see, he had just found out. That his paper—the new one—had been accepted for presentation. At something called the Aspen Festival of Ideas.
Tina Gryde, Flower Children.
“I do love tumbling dearly,” whispered Lady Paulina.
Gideon Hawley, The Gentleman’s Progress. (1749)
“…and all such kidding, prodding, jostling, weedling, mockerie, jeering, cajolerie, pulling of hair, mashing of the toe, cod walking, Tom foolerie, shouting aloud in all daye light, the trickerie of the numbers….
Tobias Pym, “The Smythfield Daye” (1630)
Paul Crackenthorpe, English Pamphleteers of the Seventeenth Century.
“What about this scenario, Matthews? That they expend great resources in concealing their incompetence, and they count on bluffing us with the illusion—with the rumor only—of their strength?”
Roger Penberthy, A Non-Newtonian Unpleasantness.
“Is it possible, Christine, that you are not thinking as clearly as you might be?”
Hilary Fewkes, The Banality Killings.
The Marxist is certainly not bewitched by the concept of causality.
Addison West, The Ontology of Destruction.
“If anything,” said Spaulding, “Jane is a bit too wonderful.”
Gwenda Reid, Murder in Retrospect.
With postmodernism, irony becomes a humdrum commodity.
Titus Musgrave, The Enigma of the Box.
…our feare being so busie
in this season.
Roger Pym, The Lady in Lace. (1621)
Priscilla Fanning, Fragments From the Jacobean Stage.
“And if it is the phone that is using you, Eleanor? What then?”
Mark Anthony, The Tale of the Mirror.
