“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.
Gwenda sat quietly for half an hour in the front hall. Then she was led into a smaller room that was darkened with old paintings….
Ruth Ledgerwood, Death by Logic.
Speaking of her grandchildren, both of whom were away at school, Anne admitted that “moral judgement from others terrifies them.”
Devona Twilly, Shallowness, a Novel.
“Thank you for allowing me to be even the smallest part of your vast readership,” said Tim, although he had no idea what he would actually say to Joyce Carol Oates, given the opportunity.
Burdyce Goode, Philosophy of Vegetables.
Rabbit Shanahan came to be well-known for stealing row boats. Sometimes, he would repaint the thing and then sell it back to the owner. That was in the 1840s.
Carson Plante, Old Philadelphia.
Jack knew only one method of writing: to move from one caustic paragraph to the next.
Quentin Drabb, Ebenezer’s Untold Tales.
Oliver claims that he used to read Marx a bit. Just for the laughs.
Roone Giddings, An Arrangement of Particles.
“The truth, my dear Millicent, always sounds unconvincing.”
Ernestine Stanley, The Case of the Cautious Cadaver.
