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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.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
Writer
Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
Think
Forgives
Thinking
Indifference
Forgive
Forgiving
Infinite
Beauty
Always
Never

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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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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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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 in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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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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Life is nothing but a statement of what happens to be.
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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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Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love. The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.
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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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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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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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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
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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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Time, you'll be pleased to know--and since one must start somewhere--was created in creation. The question What was there before creation? is meaningless. Time is a property of creation, therefore before creation there was no before creation.
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I'm too conceited for therapy.
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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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You love life because life's all there is.
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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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