“Here’s what we know so far. He left lights on all night at the lake house. He drove his wife’s car back into town. He freely disparaged [his wife] to the local police. And he has offered no excuse for his presence at the warehouse. In short, Mr. Duveen has been imperfect. Thoroughly—and, I might say, completely—imperfect.”
Pryce Cummings, Rattle Box.
Devising absurdities. That was the task of the “modern” artist.
Evan Amberol, A Theology of History.
Not whether—or even that—professor Derrida is the one who truly sees the nature of language. But if he is the one, then how? How did the penetrating insight come to him? How does it happen? (Surely not like coughing up some half-swallowed pill. Surely not by being born with the knowledge.) Again—and again and again—just say how.
Charles Brookland, Walking the Plank.
Modernity encourages our defects.
Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.
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.
