And now when she hears a dog bark—or hears anything else—she runs up the stairs in terror.
Christina Rubb, The Awful Puzzle.
Osborne was found perpetrating cruelty upon perfectly innocent objects. This won him the everlasting wrath of Mr. Staunton.
Lane Vivian, A Knob of Old Cheese and Ten Short Tales.
I do not despise my culture. Nevertheless, I do dislike some aspects of it intensely. Rousseau and Romanticism come to mind.
Algernon Webb, A Speculative Autobiography.
—We must remember that hatred of others is really displaced hatred of oneself.
—Oh? And what about hatred of oneself, then? Where does that come from?
Philip Cavendish, Tilly’s Treasury of Colloquial Bits.
“Let’s try this,” grumbled Williams. “Let’s take away their alcoholic beverages. All of it. For ten months. And then let’s find out how happy they are. All of them.”
Allison Cowling, Night of the Detective.
“I feel good.” “I feel special.” “I feel good about myself.” “I want to grow as a person.” Realistically, how long does the society last whose citizens are preoccupied with such matters?
Gilbert Parkening, How the Moon Doth Sway.
The task of our rhetoric is to smother the truth (truth that we all recognize).
Stefan Jannings, Prolegomena to Any Future.
Alicia was outspoken about her deep respect for certain forms of wildlife.
Priscilla Onkers, All About Edward.
I foresee a compounding multiplication of novelists and novels. I predict an awful hypertrophy.
Paul Uccelo, The Enigma of the Box.
To sustain an interest in modernism, one must be shallow. (Read Henry Miller? Fine. But study Henry Miller?)
Logan Nygaard, A Treatise on Amusement.
dennis scharnberg 