To this day, philosophy remains reluctant to disclose the secrets of its own production. The secrets of how.
Roger Sensabaugh, A Short History of Boredom.
In short, our Melinda smeared paint. Badly. And won high praise. Widely.
James Finial, The Misadventures of Caroline.
…saying “oh wow” in that slow, yowling voice. Like an alley cat.
Park V. Kessler, Nearly Happy.
“No, it’s the new quick way to laugh,” explained Mr. Hoyt. “It handles the job briskly, and with dispatch.”
Adrian Caliban, The Magnificent Egglestons.
Try to remember that catastrophe is self-expression for the Marxist.
Rollin Mungo, Selected Rants of Mr. Barraclough.
“Yes, Mr. Kelso, because you preferred Mozart, rock ‘n’ roll did not shape the world.”
Edward Valerian, The Empire Is Maintained.
At some point, Nietzsche decided that he was the one who knew. And, thereafter, he simply kept on knowing.
Travis Hilliard, The Private Language.
Formal philosophy—going back as far as Plato—is mostly display.
Travis Hilliard, The Mesmerizing Particles.
The Large Glass has far too many occlusions. That is one path toward a dismissive view of Duchamp.
Crispin Trove, The Viewer as Pest.
There is no route to modernity more direct than that offered by the Pop Music.
Hunter Hogarth, Raised by Wolves.
dennis scharnberg 