For the love of Mary, I get it, she's got a nifty twat. Tell me what I need to know and you can go up there and try'n get back into it.
Glen DuncanMots clés jake
I rather wished I'd stabbed him somewhere less awkward.
Glen DuncanMots clés jake
For you, my darlings, freedom to do what you like is the discovery of how unlikable what you like to do makes you. Not that that stops you doing what you like, since you like doing what you like more than you like liking what you do...
[Lucifer]
Mots clés satire theology lucifer
Naturally torturers giggle while they work: The body’s dumb obedience to physics (pull hard enough and this comes off, squeeze tight enough and that pops out) against which the nuances of the victim’s personality count for nothing has in it one of the roots of comedy—the spirit’s subservience to the flesh. You can cut a head off and shove it in a bag, stick it on a pole, play volleyball or footie with it. Hilarious, among other things.
Glen DuncanI wish you had fucked her. Then you’d know. Then you’d know the sublime … Her asshole, for example. It’s like a stern coquettish spoiled secretary working for Himmler—
Glen DuncanThe beauty spot by her lip was one of a dozen or so scattered over her body. My new constellations.
Glen DuncanYo!”
“We good?”
“We’re good.”
“Okay. You’ve broken Mr. Marlowe’s window, however.”
“Apologies, boss. Exuberance.
It’s just what you’re stuck with, the lousy furniture you can’t change. The educated me knows hell’s nothing, a fiction I happened to inherit. The other me knows I’m going there. There must be a dozen mes these days, taking turns looking the other way.”
“It’s the postmodern solution,” I said. “Controlled multiple personality disorder. Pick a fiction and allocate it an aspect of yourself.
This had occurred to me. But for no reason I can dignify with anything higher than the authority of a two-hundred-year-old gut I didn’t buy it.
“It’s possible,” I said. “Of course it’s possible.” “But you don’t think so” “No. I’m not sure why.”
Another silence, her intelligence working. Then a very slight smile. “It’s because it would be less romantic,” she said.
Oy, Jake,” he said, shaking his head, like a benevolent rabbi I’d disappointed with my weak will. “Impatience. Seriously. I know this is hard for you …” He glazed over. Drifted a moment. Went through something in his impenetrable interior … “Actually I do know this is hard for you. I’m sorry. I’m not using my imagination. That was my New Year’s resolution, you know. Work on standing in the other fellow’s shoes. That and to read one poem every day.
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