What the [Counter-Culture] actually unleashed was resentment. And its companion, malice.
Lajos Munczi, Casting Shadows.
“One cannot deprive a person of his own ridiculousness,” admitted Thornton. “That would be cruel.”
Burdyce Goode, Philosophy of Vegetables.
“How difficult it must be for them,” thought Thomas. “To dwell day after day with their irreducible and relentless sophistication.”
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
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.
