Charles Roach Quotes

Baby, in a couple of minutes I'm going to rip off your god damned panties and show you some turkey neck you'll remember all the way to the graveside. I have a vast and curved penis, like a sickle, and many a gutted pussy has gasped come upon my callous and roach-smeared rug. First let me finish this drink.

I felt better when everything was in disorder. It will take me some months to get back to normal: I can't even find a roach to commune with. I have lost my rhythm. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I have been robbed of my filth.

the jellyfish has a purpose, the hyena, the tick, the rat, the roach each filled with their swollen light. my light is out. who did this to me?

the night was beginning and i was standing before the plate glass window of a restaurant and in that window was a roasted pig, eyeless, with an apple in its mouth. poort damned pig. poor damned me. beyond the pig inside there were people sitting at tables talking, eating, drinking i was not one of those people i felt a kinship with the pig we had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time i imagined myself in the window eyeless, roasted, the apple in my mouth … i walked away from the window i walked to my room i still had a room as i walked to my room i began to conjecture: could i eat some paper? some newspaper? roaches? maybe i could catch a rat? a raw rat? peel off the fur, remove the intestines remove the eyes forego the head, the tail … i walked along. i was so hungry that everything looked eatable: people, fireplugs, asphalt, wristwatches … my belt, my shirt … i sat in a chair i din’t turn on the light i sat there and wondered if i was crazy because i wasn’t doing anything to help myself the hunger stopped then and i just sat there then i heard it: two people in the next room copulating. i could hear the bed spring and the moans i got up, walked out of the room and back into the street. but i walked in a different direction this time i walked away from the pig in the window but i thought about the pig and i decided that i’d die first rather than eat that pig. it began to rain i looked up. i opened my mouth and let in the rain drops… soup from the sky...

I’m really sorry, sir, I was working on a final solution to the packing density problem in the sub-subbasement—” she glanced sideways at the dog-eared paperback lying facedown on her desk, copiously annotated: Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, by Mary Roach—“and I may have become slightly distracted.

It" is the idea of him or her that resides in us--inspired by the "Something" in them, as Pope has it, "That gives us back the Image of our Mind." Although the perception of It must be excited by some extraordinary perturbation in the looks and personality of the adored, the aura that It broadcasts arises not merely from the singularity of an original, as Walter Benjamin supposed, but also from the fabulous success of its reproducibility in the imaginations of many others, charmed exponentially by the number of its copies. The one-of-kind item must become a type, a replicable role-icon of itself--from "a Charles Hart" or "a Nell Gwyn" to "a Mary Pickford" or "a Douglas Fairbanks"--in order to unleash the Pygmalion effect in the hearts and minds of the fans, making the idea of him or her theirs--as much or more than anything else they might call their own.

They had known who she was all right. She glistened with sex. Even the roaches and the ants and the flies wanted to fuck her.