Anyway, for whatever interest is to be derived therefrom. Bacon, Balthus, and Magritte are my three favourite painters, along with Dubuffet, of the whole post-impressionist period, by which I mean tha...
On November 18 of alternate years Mr Earbrass begins writing 'his new novel'. Weeks ago he chose its title at random from a list of them he keeps in a little green note-book. It being tea-time of the...
If something doesn't creep into a drawing that you're not prepared for, you might as well not have drawn it.
I tend to think life is pastiche: I'm not sure what it's a pastiche of - we haven't found out yet.
A lady both callous and brashMet a man with a vast black moustache;She cried, 'Shave it, O do!And I'll put it with glueOn my hat as a sort of panache.
When people are finding meaning in things - beware.
What is, is, and what might have been could never have existed.
There was a young lady named MaeWho smoked without stopping all day;As pack followed pack,Her lungs first turned black,And eventually rotted away.
Mr. Earbrass has rashly been skimming through the early chapters, which he had not looked at for months, and now sees for what it is. Dreadful, , DREADFUL. He must be mad to go on enduring the unexqu...
I don't know what it is I'm doing. But it's not that. Despite all evidence to the contrary.
When they answered the bell on that wild winter night. There was no one expected - and no one in sight.
There was a young woman whose stammerWas atrocious, and so was her grammar,But they were not improvedWhen her husband was movedTo knock out her teeth with a hammer.
There was a young woman named FleagerWho was terribly, terribly eagerTo be all the rage On the tragedy stage, Though her talents were pitifully meagre.
I thought it was going to be different;It turned out to be(,) just the same.