The little old lady’s insanity is embarrassing to me. And why? Because it is so relentlessly—so grindingly—insipid.
Anthony Dawne, I Think With My Knee.
MELVIN: He became just obsessed with it. Oh yes. I would say absolutely obsessed.
TREVOR: Well, this is the twenty-first century you know. A great many people need something to be obsessed with.
Clay Olmstead, Christina’s Murder—A Play in Three Acts.
The postmodernist doesn’t really believe in relativism, the instability of language, the contingency of logic. Just watch him when he is standing in line at the supermarket.
Y. A. Pemberton, Styles of Pretense.
“Not a single thing in her way. Not a single item to mess with her mellow. Oh my! What a wonderful thing!” Gregory was mocking his sister—again— for her stupid thinking about what matters.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“What could possibly—possibly—be wrong with any activity that involves a penis and a vagina?” Archie often marvelled at the direction taken by his culture.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“I want to be good at something. Isn’t there some way I can just buy that?” Sean was keen to get on in life.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“It’s what I want,” shrugged Jane. “Isn’t what we want important? Isn’t it the most important thing of all?”
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
When do the gestures of modernist literature—alienation, meaninglessness, angst, nothingness—become mere convention, or just posturing? From the outset?
Chelsea Jane Manning, The Feast of Plenty: Critical Essays.
Q: What can a fellow do?
A: Shriek until he has no voice left.
“Is that too harsh?” Andy wondered. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
“I hate my phone number! I hate my phone. Actually, I think I hate all phones. What the hell, I hate all numbers!” Cassandra was talking to no one in particular. Loudly.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
dennis scharnberg 