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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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I'm too conceited for therapy.
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My mother once told me she thought hell would be nothing more than being given a glimpse of God--then having it taken away, forever.
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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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Grace only exists to be fallen from.
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No amount of violence you've done to others prepares you for violence done to yourself.
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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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Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.
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I'm in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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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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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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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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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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No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.
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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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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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One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
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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 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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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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