Bunbury > Bunbury's Quotes

“My chest bumps like a dryer with shoes in it.”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn't they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?”
― Don DeLillo, White Noise

“Tell him I was too fucking busy-- or vice versa.”
― Dorothy Parker

“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.”
― Kurt Vonnegut

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
― David Foster Wallace

“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”
― David Foster Wallace, The Pale King

“[On Oscar Wilde:]

"If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.

[Life Magazine, June 2, 1927]”
― Dorothy Parker

“What the really great artists do is they're entirely themselves. They're entirely themselves, they've got their own vision, they have their own way of fracturing reality, and if it's authentic and true, you will feel it in your nerve endings.”
― David Foster Wallace

“What fresh hell is this?”
― Dorothy Parker, The Portable Dorothy Parker

“This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I suppose?
Algernon. Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most wonderful Bunbury I have ever had in my life.
Jack. Well, you've no right whatsoever to Bunbury here.
Algernon. That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one chooses. Every serious Bunburyist knows that.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

“Run away with me,” said Roseman when the coffee came. “Where?” she asked. That shut him up.”
― Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49

“Never love anyone who treats you like you're ordinary.”
― Oscar Wilde

“Things then did not delay in turning curious.”
― Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49

“In secret we met -
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears”
― Lord Byron

“Good heavens, I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own garden."
"But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins!"
"I said it was perfectly heartless of YOU under the circumstances. That is a very different thing."
"That may be, but the muffins are the same!”
― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

“As for the story itself, it was entitled "The Dancing Fool." Like so many Trout stories, it was about a tragic failure to communicate. Here was the plot: A flying saucer creature named Zog arrived on Earth to explain how wars could be prevented and how cancer could be cured. He brought the information from Margo, a planet where the natives conversed by means of farts and tap dancing. Zog landed at night in Connecticut. He had no sooner touched down than he saw a house on fire. He rushed into the house, farting and tap dancing, warning the people about the terrible danger they were in. The head of the house brained Zog with a golfclub.”
― Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

“Résumé
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful,
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful.
You might as well live.”
― Dorothy Parker, Enough Rope

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.

"No one sees the barn," he said finally.

A long silence followed.

"Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."

He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.

We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."

There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.

"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."

Another silence ensued.

"They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.”
― Don DeLillo, White Noise

“Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being.”
― David Foster Wallace

“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

“It's weird to feel like you miss someone you're not even sure you know.”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“Mario, what do you get when you cross an insomniac, an unwilling agnostic and a dyslexic?"

"I give."

"You get someone who stays up all night torturing himself mentally over the question of whether or not there's a dog.”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“The doorbell rang like a rape, or the tearing of ripe flesh.”
― Charles Bukowski, Betting on the Muse: Poems & Stories

“Nachtrust

Avond. Twee tuinen verder woedt het voorjaar
en sluipen kapers door het donker.
Ergens vechten nagels om een vacht.
Gekrijs om kruimels liefde. Stukgebeten oren.
De krolse oorlog van een voorjaarsnacht.

Bijna vergeten hoe ik met dezelfde woede
door het donker joeg, hoe jij nog valser
dan een kat je nagels in drie harten sloeg.
Wat is het lang geleden en wat blijf je mooi.

Ik heb de dagen één voor één geteld
en met de beste woorden die ik heb:
ik hou van je. In jou vind ik een bed.

En het is lente en we delen hier
dezelfde nacht met alles wat dat zegt.”
― Menno Wigman, Zwart als kaviaar: gedichten

“Tot besluit

Ik ken de droefenis van copyrettes,
van holle mannen met vergeelde kranten,
bebrilde moeders met verhuisberichten,

de geur van briefpapieren, bankafschriften,
belastingformulieren, huurcontracten,
die inkt van niks die zegt dat we bestaan.

En ik zag Vinexwijken, pril en doods,
waar mensen roemloos mensen willen lijken,
de straat haast vlekkeloos een straat nabootst.

Wie kopiëren ze? Wie kopieer
ik zelf? Vader, moeder, wereld, DNA,
daar sta je met je stralend eigen naam,

je hoofd vol snugger afgekeken hoop
op rust, promotie, kroost en bankbiljetten.
En ik, die keffend in mijn canto's woon,

had ik maar iets nieuws, iets nieuws te zeggen.
Licht. Hemel. Liefde. Ziekte. Dood.
Ik ken de droefenis van copyrettes.”
― Menno Wigman, Dit is mijn dag: gedichten

“Lichaam, mijn lichaam

Lichaam, mijn lichaam, hoeveel handen
van hoeveel vreemden kreeg je op je af?

Ooit was de dood een klamme kappershand.
Toen kwam de vrieskou van een stethoscoop.

Weer later brak je in een tandartsstoel
of zat een valse leerkracht aan je hoofd.

En dan die metro's met dat drukke vlees,
dat restvolk dat als vissen langs je gleed

in winkels, liften, stegen en coupés,
lichaam, mijn lichaam, denk toch aan de geur

van eerste kamers en verliefde lakens,
de lente die het in ons werd. Want wij

zijn bang. En angst duurt soms een lichaam lang.
Straks lig ik daar en wordt mijn haar gekamd.”
― Menno Wigman, Dit is mijn dag: gedichten

“Tuincentrum Osdorp

Ik weet het: iedereen zijn eigen hel.
In leven blijven, naar je werk toe tijgen,
de hele week verkookte koffie prijzen,
onder collega's lijden, loon opstrijken,
op zondag naar een tuincentrum toe rijden,

daar in dat tuincentrum een plant bevoelen,
de koffie proeven (samen lelijk worden),
een broodje delen en het weer bespreken,
's nachts onder je pc je zaad opvegen.

In elkaar, uit elkaar. De daad heet het.
Zo tuur je maar wat naar bewegend vlees.
Je veegt je zaad op en vergeet het.

Ik zou wel willen dat het anders was.
Dat is het ook. Je mist iets en verpleegt het.”
― Menno Wigman, Mijn naam is Legioen

“To realize that nothing makes any final difference is overwhelming; but if one goes no farther and becomes a saint, a cynic or a suicide on principle, one hasn't reasoned completely. The truth is that nothing makes any difference, including that truth. Hamlet's question is, absolutely, meaningless.”
― John Barth, The Floating Opera

“So. Todd Andrews is my name. You can spell it with one or two d’s; I get letters addressed either way. I almost warned you against the single-d, for fear you’d say, ‘Tod is German for death: perhaps the name is symbolic.’ I myself use two d’s, partly in order to avoid that symbolism. But you see, I ended by not warning you at all, and that’s because it just occurred to me that the double-d Todd is symbolic, too, and accurately so. Tod is death, and this book hasn’t much to do with death; Todd is almost Tod—that is, almost death—and this book, if it gets written, has very much to do with almost-death.”
― John Barth, The Floating Opera