Sadly, Crispin was saddened. About his opinions being discredited. It was all so concerning. Perhaps even problematic.
Glynnis Downs, Houses I Have Known.
“To think that they actually thought in those terms—of challenging the viewer!” The gallery director had spoken. And there was the mildest condescending smirk on her face. But condescension is actually projection, is it not?
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
Scott Fitzgerald had it all wrong. The “artist” is one who just does not care if his two concurrent thoughts happen to be contradictory. This has nothing at all to do with mental gymnastics. Really, it is mere indifference.
Clifford Parkening, How the Moon Doth Sway.
“Strangled Aunt Beatrice this morning. Went for a swim in the afternoon.” Justin was dreaming up entries for his Diary. Somewhat shamefully.
Rhonda Carstairs, A Bad Case of the Whim-Whams and Other Stories.
It is so bad in today’s art that the work is often less than nothing. And then they proceed to rationalize that less than nothing is better than something.
Titus Musgrave, The Mystery of Sleep.
“What lovely apples,” said Paul.
“I beg your pardon,” hissed Deborah.
Myrtle Mawby, Cabinets and Drawers, a Novel.
—War has never solved anything!
—Yes. Perhaps. But what has ever been solved?
Philip Cavendish, Tilly’s Treasury of Colloquial Bits.
“What on earth are we expected to do with yet more literary novels?”
“Appreciate them, silly. Word after word.”
Philip Cavendish, Tilly’s Treasury of Colloquial Bits.
“What does having a vagina mean?” demanded Raymond. “No. Really. What does it mean?”
“I can provide you with a reading list,” replied Janice with enthusiasm.
Tristan Holyoke, A Tree Full of Monkeys.
Ralph Waldo Emerson’s consistency would not be of the “foolish” kind. Therefore, his mind would not be of the “little” kind.
Lionel Peale, The Veil of Isis.
dennis scharnberg 