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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.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
Writer
Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
Express
Condemned
Poet
Occasional
Suffering
Delusion
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Poets
Brac
Human
Mad
Bric
Humans
Lots
Brics
World
Suffer
Delusions
Tongue
Tongues

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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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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 an American. We're a people diseased with progress.
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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.
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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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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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Grace only exists to be fallen from.
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Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.
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I'm too conceited for therapy.
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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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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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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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One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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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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No amount of violence you've done to others prepares you for violence done to yourself.
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Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love. The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.
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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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Telling the truth is a beautiful act even if the truth itself is ugly.
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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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