Donald wanted to be admired for his struggle. Not for any particular struggle, mind you. But for struggling in general.
Grayling Scott, An Inventory of Characters.
The physicist is a fellow who searches for his [lost] car keys under the streetlight, because that’s where the best light is.
Hill Boothby, Essays on Disappointment Management.
It was a lovely day. The sun was bright. The birds were twittering. A warm lazy breeze touched all surfaces. And delicate clouds drifted so slowly. Then, with no warning, the world came crashing down.
Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.
“Yes, but when will murder come to be regarded as self-expression?”
Allison Cowling, Night of the Detective.
Skepticism eludes skepticism.
Amanda Willcoxen, ed., The Literary and Philosophical Fragments of Gregory Sallust.
Logic: a microaggression.
Callista Ralph, Alphabet Soup.
It was the early nineteenth century that brought forth the notion of expression. And so began the hideous flood in which we have been treading water ever since.
Seth Palingroom, The Philosophies of Cultural Exhaustion.
Who “doesn’t care” the most? That seems to be the question.
Trent Bendix, Grieving for Margaret.
The human psyche simply must behave in this way. Don’t you think? Rather like a steam engine?
Alice Trinculo, Speaking to Sparrows.
“I asked him whose influence he had resisted. That gave our author quite a start.”
Trent Bendix, The Dejected Bird.
dennis scharnberg 