Chuck Wenk

“I was wrong,” I told him. “What more do you want?” “Astonishment,” he said. I nodded. “I’m astonished, all right. I just don’t let it show.” “I should have gotten you when you were seventeen.” I shrugged, meaning that I wished he had.”
― Daniel Quinn, Ishmael

“unpleasant-fact specialist”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“Kimberly St.-Simone or something like that, it was Mildred Bonk. She was the kind of fatally pretty and nubile wraithlike figure who glides through the sweaty junior-high corridors of every nocturnal emitter’s dreamscape. Hair that Green had heard described by an overwrought teacher as ‘flaxen’; a body which the fickle angel of puberty—the same angel who didn’t even seem to know Bruce Green’s zip code—had visited, kissed, and already left, back in sixth; legs which not even orange Keds with purple-glitter-encrusted laces could make unserious. Shy, iridescent, coltish, pelvically anfractuous, amply busted, given to diffident movements of hand brushing flaxen hair from front of dear creamy forehead,”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“Look,” I said after a bit. “The things you’re showing me, the things you’re doing, are…almost beyond belief. I know that. But it’s just not in me to leap up out of my chair while striking my brow and crying, ‘My God, this is incredible!’ ” He wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully for a moment before saying: “What’s wrong with you then?” He seemed so genuinely concerned that I had to smile. “All frozen inside,” I told him. “An iceberg.” He shook his head, sorry for me.”
― Daniel Quinn, Ishmael