This, explained the angel, is hell. The people do not love each other. They only want to feed themselves.
The act of memory is an act of ghostwriting.
The newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterp...
My in-ear Babelfish provides synopses of the passages rather than a running translation, but now and then the interpreter confesses, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what he just said. I’m not sure the a...
My landlord is eating a blueberry-blooded Popsicle.
My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?
My role was to pulse at the edge of the universe of the faithful, alone in the darkness. An outrider. A herald.
Sixsmith,Eva. Because her name is a synonym for temptation: what treads nearer to the core of man? Because her soul swims in her eyes. Because I dream of creeping through the velvet folds to her room,...
My voice was jus' a duck fart in a hurrycane.
Naming, thinks Jacob, even in ridicule, gives what is named substance.
Neither of us had anything to say, or rather we had everything to say, but after all those nights of not saying a word, we suddenly found we had not one dollar of time left between us.
Never done anything yourself, have yer? Never performed live to a real audience, have yer?' 'Nor have I fucked a donkey, destabilized a Central American state, or played Dungeons & Dragons,' retorts C...
Power is crack cocaine for your ego and battery acid for your soul.
[...] Senecas Warnung an Nero: Ganz gleich, wie viele von uns du tötest, dein Nachfolger wird nicht darunter sein
No one’s ever very sure if doves and pigeons are the same bird or not.
No organist played a Magnificat but the wind in the flue chimney, no choir sang a Nunc Dimittis but the wuthering gulls, yet I fancy the Creator was not displeazed.
Your place does keep you sane, but can also keep you lonely.
Nonfiction that smells like fiction is neither.
Not a clue – and, no, I don’t touch drugs. The world’s unstable enough without scrambling your brain for kicks.
Nothing exists that cannot be synthesised.
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