Being an intellectual is a form of failure. Or put it this way: How might one succeed as an intellectual?
Jackson Currothers III, The View From the Cauldron.
Evidently, the word “irony” and the word “iconic” just cannot be used enough. The internet is the contorted death of the English language.
Francine Arthur, A Critique of Sincerity.
“You feel thick. All over. You feel viscous. But like a viscous solid. You cannot quite pour yourself.” Gavin struggled, as usual, to describe the heroin “experience.”
Jason Starling, ed., Adventures in Narrative Parsimony.
It is obvious to Carlotta that the universe ought to be aligned perfectly with her preferences.
Glynnis Hoving, The Multiplication Murders.
It’s an awful thing, to recognize that you are just as self-absorbed as the others.
Jason K. Broadus, The Ice of My Dreams.
No one ever really doubts himself. If one reflects on the matter, it becomes clear that “doubt” is very difficult indeed.
Amanda Willcoxen, ed., The Philosophical and Literary Fragments of Gregory Sallust.
Reggie was ashamed of himself. He had succumbed again to the rip-and-tear style of burglary. Back to his former ways.
Grayling Stott, An Inventory of Characters.
Being a scientist—even being engaged directly in significant scientific advance—does not remove you from being a completely silly person.
Gregory James Honus, Protocols of the Flounder.
Everything you see or hear exists only for your entertainment. This is the cultural threshold that we are approaching.
Gunther Pinks, A Paranoid’s Pitiful Propositions.
“It was just fish blood,” said the Sergeant. “Nothing to concern us.”
Ellen Entwhistle, The Caravan Murders.
dennis scharnberg 