Hadley made no claim to great knowledge. But there is one thing he did know. That his life was an embarrassment. An acute embarrassment. To himself.
Priscilla Onkers, All About Edward.
[Crowley] presented himself as the new Child King, the harbinger of a new era. This was all exaggerated, of course. Knowingly and theatrically. Nevertheless, the case can be made.
Sal Aurobindo, The Immersion in Matter.
It is not a moment in history in which he dwells. No, no. He is the moment in history. He is it.
Corliss Archer, Boarding the Crazy Train.
Sean felt that Trisha’s stubborn sense of self-importance was as distinctive as any tattoo.
Diana Moone, Living Well.
In 2014, art is all about other art. Recent art. Art since the 1950s. Today’s artist quotes it, comments on it, spins it around, finds some bit of irony to deploy about it. This yields small moments of sophistication. A sort of “discourse,” whose actual works contain no substance and claim no substance. The work is purely relational. And this weightlessness is celebrated. Somewhat.
Hunter Hogarth, Raised by Wolves.
“Fact,” said Simon. “I’m only mildly disappointed. Really. I expected to be devastated.”
Grace Philippi, The Bliss City Murders.
…the theme of Lofton’s essay is “the havoc that young women cause.”
Tate LaBianca, Four and Twenty Blackbirds.
The university of the modern era began with 19th century German hermeneutics—Biblical scholarship in particular. A highly rigorous, multilingual enterprise. A bit daunting, actually. What we have in the early 21st century is post-modernism: a silly fashion show.
Laurence Leary, The Elysian Fields.
Could there be anything worse than a politics based on resentment?
Trent Zaha, Skirting the Issue.
“What do we call it,” asked Palmer, “this desire to correct the attitude of the people?”
Gwen Tunder, The Soda Pop Murders.
dennis scharnberg 