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

More quotes by Glen Duncan

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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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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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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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Grace only exists to be fallen from.
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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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What interests me is love, sex, death, cruelty, compassion and the desire for meaning in an apparently godless universe. In other words the human condition.
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Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love. The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.
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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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Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.
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I'm in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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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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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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That's what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.
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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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No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.
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Only meaning can make a difference and we all know there's no meaning. All stories express a desire for meaning, not meaning itself. Therefore any difference knowing the story makes is a delusion.
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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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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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Life compulsively dangled the possibility of life. Life, the dramatist on speed. Life, that couldn't stop with its foreshadows and ironies and symbols and clues, its wretched jokes and false endings and twists. Life with its hopeless addiction to plot.
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I'm too conceited for therapy.
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