Nick Gloaming

“Our god is that which is left when all gods have been listed and marked.”
― Halldór Laxness, The Atom Station

“Let me pull back the curtain to reveal the wizard and the machinery. As someone who writes experimental fiction, hybrid memoir, and poetry, and who translates contemporary German-language literature, I hope this book shows you can be a writer and have a laugh, be a laugh. And have friends. Have your cake and eat it, too. It's like the backlash against method acting--you're not your character, why not just act.”
― Jen Calleja, Goblinhood: Goblin as a Mode

“What is a pancake? Cooked batter, covered in sugar and butter. It is food. But it is not as food, not as sustenance that we crave the pancake. No, the pancake, or flapjack if you will, is a childish pleasure; smothered in syrup, buried beneath ice cream, the pancake symbolises our escape from respectability, eating as a form of infantile play. The environments where pancakes are served and consumed are, in this context, special playrooms for a public ravenous for sweetness, that delirious sweetness of long-ago breakfasts made by mother, sweetness of our infancy and our great, lost, toddler’s omnipotence. Look around. Notice, if you will, these lighting fixtures suspended from the ceiling like pretty mobiles over a crib. Notice the indestructible plastic orange seating materials designed to repel spills and stains. Notice these menus that unfold like colorful, laminated boards in those games we once played on rainy days at home, those unforgettable indoor days when we felt safe and warm, when we knew ourselves, absolutely, to be loved. We come to the Pancake House because we are hungry. We call out in our hearts to our mothers, and it is the Pancake House that answers. The Pancake House holds us! The Pancake House restores us to beloved infancy! The Pancake House is our mother in this motherless world!”
― Donald Antrim, The Verificationist

“Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe; it gives life back to those who no longer exist.”
― Arkady Martine, A Memory Called Empire