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
Flesh
Renewed
Touch
Futility
Moved
Inch
Mystery
Inches
Hand
Delightful
Hands
Infinity
Must
Instant
Every
Endless

More quotes by Glen Duncan

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We’re the worst thing because for us the worst thing is the best thing. And it’s only the best thing for us if it’s the worst thing for someone else.
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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.
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Renounce love and you can achieve demonic focus.
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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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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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The first thing to say about Eve is that she was a big improvement on the Adam design, or that Adam was an extremely misguided variation on the Eve design. (Consider testicles. Two concentrated nuclei of absolute vulnerability. Where? Dangling between the legs. I rest my case.)
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I'm in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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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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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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Telling the truth is a beautiful act even if the truth itself is ugly.
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Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.
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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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No amount of violence you've done to others prepares you for violence done to yourself.
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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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Nicotine and alcohol embraced in my system like long-parted siblings, grateful to me for reuniting them.
Glen Duncan
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Literature is humanity's broad-minded alter-ego, with room in its heart for monsters, even for you. It's humanity without the judgement.
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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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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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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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