Quote

Your ideal possession candidate's a thirteen-year-old recently orphaned schizophrenic girl three days away from her period on her way to see the shrink with whom she's romantically besotted.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
Writer
Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
Way
Ideals
Thirteen
Periods
Shrinks
Days
Candidate
Year
Recently
Besotted
Girl
Candidates
Orphaned
Away
Ideal
Romantically
Three
Possession
Schizophrenic
Years
Period
Shrink

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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.
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I'm too conceited for therapy.
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This is love: You stop bothering about the universal, the general, get sucked instead into the local and particular: When will I see her again? What shall we do today? Do you like these shoes? Theory and reflection are delicate old uncles bustled out of the way by the boisterous nephews action and desire. Themes evaporate, only plot remains.
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I'm an American. We're a people diseased with progress.
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You think God will never forgive you, but the only God is beauty and beauty always forgives. It forgives with its infinite indifference.
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I'll tell you something,' she said. 'I'm not sure I ever really liked him.' Adam?' I said. 'I don't blame you.' 'Not Adam,' she said, struggling to swallow a greedily chomped chunk. 'God.
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Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.
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Telling the truth is a beautiful act even if the truth itself is ugly.
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I don’t know where the universe came from or what happens to creatures when they die. I don’t know if the whole thing’s an unravelling accident or an inscrutable design. I don’t know how one should live—but I know that one should live, if one can possibly bear it.
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The rain's been racing earthwards as if with some religious or political fanaticism. The clouds have the look of dark internal bleeding. Surely you lot look up from Cosmo while this sort of thing's going on? Surely you take a Playstation break?
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Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.
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Life's generally artless ... but it does get these occasional hard-ons for plot. It connects things, nefariously, behind your back, and before you know it you're in the final act of a lousy movie.
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My mother once told me she thought hell would be nothing more than being given a glimpse of God--then having it taken away, forever.
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One develops an instinct for letting silence do the heavy lifting. In the three, four, five seconds that passed without either of us speaking, the many ways the conversation could go came and went like time-lapse film of flowers blooming and dying.
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Once you've stopped loving someone breaking his or her heart's just an unpleasant chore you have to get behind you. My God, you really don't love me anymore, do you? No matter your decency the victim's incredulity's potentially hilarious. You manage not to laugh.
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Bliss defies description, obviously, since it annihilates you, since you're not there to experience it. You get the lead-up and the come-down, never the zenith.
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Life, like the boring drunk at the office party, keeps seeking you out, leaning on you, killing you with pointless yarns and laughing bad-breathed in your face at its own unfunny jokes.
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Renounce love and you can achieve demonic focus.
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Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love. The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.
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