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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
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Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
World
Suffer
Delusions
Tongue
Tongues
Express
Condemned
Poet
Occasional
Suffering
Delusion
Find
Poets
Brac
Human
Mad
Bric
Humans
Lots
Brics

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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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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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Nicotine and alcohol embraced in my system like long-parted siblings, grateful to me for reuniting them.
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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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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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Telling the truth is a beautiful act even if the truth itself is ugly.
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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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I'm an American. We're a people diseased with progress.
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I'm too conceited for therapy.
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Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.
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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 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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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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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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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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I'm in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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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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One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
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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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