Quote

The flesh had infinity in it. I must know every inch by touch yet every inch renewed its mystery the instant my hand moved on. Delightful endless futility.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
Writer
Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
Every
Endless
Flesh
Renewed
Touch
Futility
Moved
Inch
Mystery
Inches
Hand
Delightful
Hands
Infinity
Must
Instant

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Poets suffer occasional delusions of angelhood and find themselves condemned to express it in the bric-a-brac tongues of the human world. Lots of them go mad.
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You love life because life's all there is.
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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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Pain is beyond reason, an obliterating giant stupidity to which all your history of jokes and nuance and ideas and caresses is nothing, simply nothing.
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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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Nicotine and alcohol embraced in my system like long-parted siblings, grateful to me for reuniting them.
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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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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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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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When I see gurgling retarded children (that's God's doing, by the way, not mine) happily styling their hair with their own stinking mards, I think of Adam in those pre-marital days. I know he's your great-to-the-nth-degree-granddad and all - but I'm afraid he was rather an imbecile.
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The only animal from which humans have nothing to learn, in fact, is the sheep. Humans have already learned everything the sheep's got to teach.
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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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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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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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Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.
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Renounce love and you can achieve demonic focus.
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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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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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That's the problem with being alive ... You've got to keep thinking of what to do.
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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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