“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.
“Perhaps he was just in a strangling mood that day, Sergeant. Isn’t that possible?”
Heywood Wakefield, The Humdrum Demon.
She was charming, in that way of almost being something.
Stoke Twombly, The Tragedians.
“He was an architect,” quipped Basil. “Enough said.”
Chase Tipton, Enjoying Prison Pizza.
