“Artists are the worst of all, Lucy. They are the most conformist people I have ever known. The are an advertisement for the culture.”
Wilson Phelps, Reaching Out.
“I really mean it, Stacie. Apps are my passion.”
Jeremy Malking, The Anechoic Chamber: Stories.
Steel is my friend.
Godfrey Tooke, Collected Aphorisms.
“Theater sucks,” declared Mr. Devlin, with a tone of finality.
Tina Gryde, Flower Children.
Parker’s original intention was to describe the scene of the crime with spectacular literary sentences that would send chills up the reader’s spine. Or down it.
Will Southey, Government Cheese, the Novel.
May 12, 2013. Family scattered all over. Alienated. Aimless. Won’t somebody please write a novel about me?
Reginald Boyington, Dear Dreadful Diary.
Garry Shandling was “that wooden tent stake that I should like to pound into the clay with a large mallet.” Another of Pillsbury’s gems.
Everson Dwight, Theory of Machines, a Novel.
“He cloaks his emotions,” declared Daphne. “I do not know him well!”
Agatha Vox, When Everything Was Singing.
Freddy has now developed a new sound, a new way of vocalizing. It is not laughter, and it is not shrieking. When asked about it by his Aunt Agatha, he said that it lies somewhere “between” laughing and shrieking.
Nicholas Crisp, A Suitcase Fell on Her Head.
It was only because he could not think of anything that young Roderick did not hurl a pungent and demeaning barb in Toby’s direction.
Trenton Childe, Rob Riddle and His Friends. (1792)
dennis scharnberg 