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The Stories of Vl...
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  (page 500 of 685)
"Vasiliy Shishkov - the poet has a fake book of terrible poems and an excellent book of real ones. He eventually dissolves and disappears into his verse." — Mar 01, 2018 08:02PM

 
Trigger Warning: ...
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by Neil Gaiman (Goodreads Author)
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  (page 86 of 310)
— Nov 02, 2017 07:16AM

 
The Essential Rumi
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  (page 64 of 416)
— Apr 19, 2018 08:01PM

 
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Cormac McCarthy
“Where hunters and woodcutters once slept in their boots by the dying light of their thousand fires and went on, old teutonic forebears with eyes incandesced by the visionary light of a massive rapacity, wave on wave of the violent and the insane, their brains stoked with spoorless analogues of all that was, lean aryans with their abrogate Semitic chapbook reenacting the dramas and parable therein...”
― Cormac McCarthy, Suttree

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
“There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.”
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

John Kennedy Toole
“I suspect that I am the result of particularly weak conception on the part of my father. His sperm was probably emitted in a rather offhand manner.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Lawrence Durrell
“I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.”
― Lawrence Durrell

Cormac McCarthy
“She smiled and sipped from her glass. There was altogether too much of her sitting there, the broad expanse of thigh cradled in the insubstantial stocking and the garters with the pale flesh pursed and her full breasts and the sootblack piping of her eyelids, a gaudish rake of metaldust in prussian blue where cerulean moths fluttered her awake from some outlandish dream. Suttree gradually going awash in the sheer outrageous sentience of her. Their glasses clicked on the tabletop. Her hot spiced tongue fat in his mouth and her hands all over him like the very witch of fuck.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Suttree

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