Tag Archives: G.K. Chesterton

More Sentences I Liked

The vessel was just comfortable for two people; there was room only for necessities, and Flambeau had stocked it with such things as his special philosophy considered necessary. They reduced themselves, apparently, to four essentials: tins of salmon, if he should want to eat; loaded revolvers, if he should want to fight; a bottle of brandy, presumably in case he should faint; and a priest, presumably in case he should die.

“The Sins of Prince Saradine” by G.K. Chesteron, a man of many disagreeable notions and many agreeable sentences.

But every work of art, divine or diabolic, has one indispensable mark — I mean, that the centre of it is simple, however much the fulfilment may be complicated. Thus, in Hamlet, let us say, the grotesqueness of the grave-digger, the flowers of the mad girl, the fantastic finery of Osric, the pallor of the ghost and the grin of the skull are all oddities in a sort of tangled wreath round one plain tragic figure of a man in black.

“The Queer Feet” by G.K. Chesterton

If a little hoochie tunnel leading straight to the Miz’s presence hadn’t opened right at that moment, causing her to sprint from my side, I was going to ask her, “What’s it all about?”

“Leaving Reality” by John Jeremiah Sullivan

Not to mention that in our minds the basement was now permanently a onetime BDSM sex dungeon, and not a mutual-consent swinger dungeon, either.

“Peyton’s Place” by John Jeremiah Sullivan

After comedian Sarah Silverman riffed at TED 2010 that her wish to adopt a terminally ill “retarded baby” made her an “amazing person,” [TED organizer Chris] Anderson, who had invited her, tweeted to his million-plus followers that she had been “god-awful,” and AOL co-founder Steve Case tweeted, “Shame on you.” (In an ensuing tweet war, Silverman schooled both Anderson—“a barnacle of mediocrity on Bill Gates’ asshole”—and Case—“should be nicer to the last person on earth w/ an AOL account.’)”

“Those Fabulous Confabs” by Benjamin Wallace

So frequently did gazes slip to reëxamine my badge that I came to know what it must be like to have cleavage.

“Magic Mountain: What Happens At Davos?” by Nick Paumgarten

This is admittedly a little hard to parse, because Santorum uses a handful of words differently than many people would use them.

“What Santorum Didn’t Say” by Greg Marx

At lunch, the most common question, aside from ‘Which offensive dick-shaped product did you handle the most of today?’ is “Why are you here?” like in prison.

“I Was A Warehouse Wage Slave” by Mac McClelland. It is one of the only funny lines in a grim, essential piece of reporting that makes me grateful that it was written, and will dissuade me from ordering anything from Amazon, which may not be the actual warehouser featured, but which no doubt runs under similar conditions.

Flambeau drove the blade of his spade through the whistling grass into the wet clay below. Then he seemed to stop and lean on it as on a staff.

‘Go on,’ said the priest very gently. ‘We are only trying to find the truth. What are you afraid of?’

‘I am afraid of finding it,’ said Flambeau.

“The Honour of Israel Gow” by G.K. Chesterton

Tagged , , , ,

Four Phrases I Liked

Angus, who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental hygiene, revealed the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out of the inner room and confronting the new-comer. A glance at him was quite sufficient to confirm the savage guesswork of a man in love. This very dapper but dwarfish figure, with the spike of black beard carried insolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the neat but very nervous fingers, could be none other than the man just described to him: Isidore Smythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and match-boxes; Isidore Smythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirting housemaids of metal. For a moment the two men, instinctively understanding each other’s air of possession, looked at each other with that curious cold generosity which is the soul of rivalry.

From “The Invisible Man” by G.K. Chesterton.

Never forget that the Kennedys were hardheaded Irish parvenus who liked thumbing their noses—well, some appendage, anyway—at a WASP high society that had tried to exclude them. If Jacqueline Bouvier had only been Protestant, her husband might have been besotted with her.

Presumably, most of you are up to speed on the, so to speak, bare bones of Alford’s story. Awarded a White House summer internship, 19-year-old Mimi — who has less sexual experience than a eunuch’s handkerchief — travels to Washington in 1962.

From “Burying Camelot” by Tom Carson.

When Romney tried to “humanize” himself early on by dropping a George Costanza reference, it should have been a tip-off that this was going to be the worst final episode of a TV series since Seinfeld. This time it was the audience that ended up in jail.

From “The GOP’s Season Finale Bombs” by Frank Rich.

Tagged , , , , ,
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 82 other followers