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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
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Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
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Poets
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Mad
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Occasional
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Telling the truth is a beautiful act even if the truth itself is ugly.
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Grace only exists to be fallen from.
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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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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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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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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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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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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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You love life because life's all there is.
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We go to the past to lay the blame - since the past can't argue. We go to our past selves to account for our present miseries.
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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, 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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Life is nothing but a statement of what happens to be.
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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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Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.
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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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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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