Literature is humanity's broad-minded alter-ego, with room in its heart for monsters, even for you. It's humanity without the judgement.— Glen Duncan
The most sensational Glen Duncan quotes that are glad to read
Snow makes cities innocent again, reveals the frailty of the human gesture against the void.
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.
Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind;
dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.
When you're a kid it's people's cruelty that makes you cry, then when you're an adult it's their kindness.
The first thing to say about Eve is that she was a big improvement on the Adam design, or that Adam was an extremely misguided variation on the Eve design. (Consider testicles. Two concentrated nuclei of absolute vulnerability. Where? Dangling between the legs. I rest my case.)
Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.
I'm with Milton and the Rolling Stones: I don't find the Devil an unsympathetic character. But in any case, my fiction is populated as much by people who do good as it is by those who do bad. I'm interested in imaginatively accommodating as much of the human as possible, for which you need both moral extremes and everything in between.
There is no God and that's His only commandment.
You think God will never forgive you, but the only God is beauty and beauty always forgives. It forgives with its infinite indifference.
With adolescent egotism and a lot of money one can pretty much rule the world.
The message is clear: By all means become an abomination -- but only while unhinged by grief or wrath.
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.
Nicotine and alcohol embraced in my system like long-parted siblings, grateful to me for reuniting them.
This is love: You stop bothering about the universal, the general, get sucked instead into the local and particular: When will I see her again? What shall we do today? Do you like these shoes? Theory and reflection are delicate old uncles bustled out of the way by the boisterous nephews action and desire. Themes evaporate, only plot remains.
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.
One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
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.
Grace only exists to be fallen from.
Telling the truth is a beautiful act even if the truth itself is ugly.
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]
That's what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.
Peace is purchased in the currency of loss.
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.
No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.
My parents believe in the happy endings to the stories of their children.
I'm in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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.
No amount of violence you've done to others prepares you for violence done to yourself.
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.
Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers; grace only exists to be fallen from.
We’re the worst thing because for us the worst thing is the best thing.
And it’s only the best thing for us if it’s the worst thing for someone else.
Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.
Home pulls. It draws you back to tell you you don't belong.
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?
If Im going to invest the time in a novel, I want something more than the entertainment you get out of most genre fiction.
One knows one's madnesses, by and large.
By and large the knowledge is vacuous. The notion of naming the beast to conquer it is the idiot optimism of psychotherapy.
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.
That's the problem with being alive ... You've got to keep thinking of what to do.
What interests me is love, sex, death, cruelty, compassion and the desire for meaning in an apparently godless universe. In other words the human condition.
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.
Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love.
The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.
The first horror is there's horror. The second is you accommodate it.
I don't know how one should live - but I know that one should live.
Any seasoned deal maker will tell you that spontaneous negotiation's a bad strategy; the ad hoc approach will leave you ripped-off, busted, conned, stiffed, outsmarted and generally holding the shitty end of the stick.
Nothing holds love together like shared vice or collusive perversion.
Renounce love and you can achieve demonic focus.
You love life because life's all there is.
I don’t know where the universe came from or what happens to creatures when they die. I don’t know if the whole thing’s an unravelling accident or an inscrutable design. I don’t know how one should live—but I know that one should live, if one can possibly bear it.
Every now and then life sold you an illusion of design.
A coincidence, a parallel, a sledgehammer symbol. The goods were always faulty. You forked over the cash only to discover they'd fallen apart by the time you got home. But life kept at it. Life couldn't help it. Life was a compulsive salesman.