David B Lentz Quotes

“New York City is where specks of dust aspire randomly with all their cunning to become grains of sand.”
― David B. Lentz, The Fine Art of Grace

“Hacks are killing our national literary culture. America treats best-sellers like literary lions and literary lions worse than stray dogs.”
― David B. Lentz, Novel Criticism: How to Critique Novels Like a Novelist

“God in His infinite wisdom blessed humans with redundant tongues: one to outfit the mouth for speech. And a mother tongue to give it meaning... Though it wags out such inconceivable beauty, attached to the mother tongue lies one much maligned woman.”
― David B. Lentz, Bloomsday: The Bostoniad

“I look forward to the promising upside of the long-term that lingers ahead for me after such abysmal days. Things always just seem to balance out in the long run. In fact, I’m almost there. The zero line is within inches of my trembling outstretched grasp.”
― David B. Lentz, The Day Trader: A Novel

“Our dreams drive us so. One after another. Jasmine sprung bravely from the fertile soil of our suffering. And who can live without dreams? Who loves their brief, sweet passage? Dum vivimus, vivimus. While we live, let us live.”
― David B. Lentz, Bourbon Street: The Dreams of Aeneas in Dixie

“I want to kill every best-seller list and encourage Americans to discover for themselves inspired new literature that will endure in perpetuity. Let’s pluck from squalid obscurity underground, and publish, the next Hemingways, Fitzgeralds, Morrisons, Bellows, Barths, Vonneguts and Faulkners.”
― David B. Lentz, AmericA, Inc.: A Novel in Stream of Voice

“The ability to find pixilation amid the pixelation is at the essence of the gift of celestial Grace.”
― David B. Lentz, The Fine Art of Grace

“Tim Finnegan’s Wake
by Dr. Thom Dedalus

When God reeled in good auld Tim Finnegan,
And looked into his green Irish peepers,
Said He, “Now, what was I thinkin’?
Poor lad, he ain’t one of the keepers.”

To hell Tim descended without any fear,
To the devil, whom not much is lost on,
Said he, “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here,
Among all your old friends from South Boston.”

Tim’s jokes night and day caused Satan to swear,
As migraines crept behind blood red eyelids,
“An eternity with you is just too much to bear.
You’re going home to your wife and your nine kids.”

So up pops Tim at his wake from his casket.
“It can’t be,” went a howl from his wife.
When he belched the sea from his own breadbasket,
Said she, “Someone, hand me a knife.”

Now Tim’s fishing off George’s Banks
Catching codfish, haddock and hake.
The happiest folk in town to give thanks,
Is John Hancock for Finnegan’s wake.

Finn’s now a legend among life underwriters,
In Beantown and all over the States.
In him beats the heart of a fighter.
Sad to hear how they increased his rates.

Finn’s tale is best told with a dram of Jameson.
You’re entitled to whatever sense you can make.
Just cause you’re dead, it don’t mean you’re gone.
You may take comfort in Finnegan’s wake.”
― David B. Lentz, Bloomsday: The Bostoniad

“To B-major or B-minor: that is the question. Consider that the major and minor chords are separated by the smallest tonal step which is one half-step carrying in its pitch the gravity of all humanity which needs the major to recognize its relative, inherent tragedy which once given expression seeks the resurrection that only the major can procreate which self-expression gives beauty to the harmony of the major which then confirms the whole truth of the tragic minor saga which overcomes the hidden hand of destiny in the great ellipse of being and the greater cosmic void of nothingness which passage of time has sadly destined to be replayed in the same octave of the ineluctable modality of the audible which ellipse with such a simple twist resonates as infinity which is both meaningless beyond all human capacity for understanding but which holds within it the ubiquitous mystic beauty and truth of the pulsing human heart.”
― David B. Lentz, Bloomsday: The Bostoniad

“New York had pushed and bent and bullied, driving me underground to sort out the madness and sculpt my Being with my own hands in self-discovery on its cold pottery wheel and in the white heat of its kiln. The City enabled me to learn who I really was, as a pixelated man and member of Humanity.”
― David B. Lentz, The Fine Art of Grace

“The relentless persistence of Light eventually exhausts darkness.”
― David B. Lentz, The Fine Art of Grace