Fail, fail, fail, fail, succeed

John D. MacDonald (Part 1)

Holy fuck is this guy an amazing writer. Get a load of this:

Her back felt lean and fragile under my hands. It was like kissing a corpse.”

“We discarded the social and sexual taboos of centuries, and mislabeled the result freedom rather than license.”

“The world outside was a drab travelogue, without sound track, poorly edited.”

”The thing called Me is on that stage in every scene, in every act. I am the lead in a pointless drama.”

”A million million things have gone into my head, and memory is one of those toy cranes which can dig at random and never come up with as much as ten per cent of what must be there, buried under round candies.”

“Most men give up seeking an answer to the riddle of their own existence.”

”I felt like a child being bathed by an evil nursemaid.”

”August was a squat, bald, imperious little weasel in a soiled scurfy beret, Bermudas, Indian sandals and a sports shirt emblazoned with pastel fish.”

– John D. MacDonald, from “The End of Night”