Quotes About Author

On Saturday, they will have an evening of…aphorisms. Everyone must think of an aphorism on the subject of suffering and pleasure.

Another tormentor inquired if it was true that I had installed two ping-pong tables in my basement. I asked, was it a crime? No, he said, but why two? Is that a crime? I countered, and they all laughed.

By this time I was in a state of excitement bordering on insanity; but I also had the cunning of the insane.

And I still have other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain.

Zembla is a site devoted to the life and works of author, translator, and lepidopterist.

If sex is the sermon made of art, love is the lady of that tower.

I do not want, John. You know I do not understand what is advertisement and what is not advertisement.

Certain tight parentheses have been opened and allowed to spill their still active contents.

Dr. Falternfels was writing and smiling; his sandwich was half unwrapped; his dog was dead.

My loathings are simple. stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.

Religion is boring and alien to me and relates no more than a chimera to what is to me the reality of the spirit.

I shall vomit,' said Hugh, 'if you persist in pestering me with all that odious rot.'

Space' (it says here, rather suggestively) 'denotes the property, you are my property, in virtue of which, you are my virtue, rigid bodies can occupy different positions.' Nice? Nice.

but I say give me rain, rain, rain on the shingle roof for roses and inspiration every time

twirling in his fingers the mummy of a cigar

a cesspoolful of rotting monsters behind his slow boyish smile.

The name yawned like a black doorway, then the door banged.

I first understood that things which to me had seemed natural were actually forbidden

A procession of silver pencils marched down an endless tunnel of corruption.

Uvijek se možete pouzdati u ubojicu da ?e pisati kitnjastim stilom.

We must thank fate (and the author's thirst for universal fame) for his not having turned to the Ukrainian dialect as a medium of expression, because then he would have been lost. When I want a good nightmare I imagine Gogol penning in Little Russian dialect volume after volume of Dikanka and Mirgorod stuff about ghosts haunting the banks of the Dniepr, burlesque Jews and dashing Cossacks.

Such incidents have convinced me that my heart is basically sound despite recent diagnoses.

Najdraži san jednog autora jeste da pretvori ?itaoca u gledaoca.

Solitude was corrupting me. I needed company and care. My heart was a hysterical, unreliable organ.