Springer Quotes

You know how is it when you love someone? And the hard part, the bad part, the Jerry Springer Show part is that you never stop loving someone. There's always a piece of them in your heart.

In the end we're all Springer guests, really, we just haven't been on the show.

Conform, go crazy, or become an artist.

You have two choices, grasshopper. Out-slut Clotile - or go Springer on her ass. I'm down for the assist in both scenarios.

Confound my genteel upbringing! I could not think of any name foul enough to call him.

In the end we're all Jerry Springer guests, really, we just haven't been on the show.

I hope that the kind reader recognises this as a despairing attempt at humour.

"One cannot be a mother without first being a person; family, husband, and children should not be allowed, as is so often the case, to steal a woman’s selfhood and her dreams." Mother to Sherlock, Mycroft, and Enola Holmes by author Nancy Springer

It wasn’t that she hated the idea of sex, just . . . she didn’t want it. Didn’t need it. But no one else ever seemed to feel that way

Not only was Miss Cribbe bearded, and always trying to get chummy with us like we we're her real children or something, but she had a disgusting incontinent springer spaniel called Misty, who was constantly sneaking in to the dorms and weeing on our duvets

Yet one could speak truth and still be a villain

Mr Davis was a middle class tremble of a man worried about an unseemly display and his Jerry Springer moment

All the words I had prepared turned coward and fled my mind like conscripts deserting a battlefield.

To her, everything is beautiful in its own way, and everyone is a friend just waiting for her. And somehow it works for her.

what's life without a spice of stupidity

And I ought to stop dreaming about it and start doing it. Right now.

There is nothing that makes us feel so good as the idea that someone else is an evildoer.

Peace is something you make with your adversaries, not with your friends.

He would expect me to flee from him. Therefore, I would not. I would flee towards him.

The only way for me to be safe and free was to be - be what my name decreed me. Enola. Alone.

in the secret code of flowers, a rose of any sort signifies love.

Three mysteries are grasped by no man: The mistletoe green between earth and sky, The sadness in a maiden’s smile, The runes shaped by the changing moon.

Writing fiction has always, for me, been an alchemy of turning pain into poetry, ugliness into beauty. It has been a kind of redemption.

One world: everybody fucks everybody. When he thinks of all the fucking there's been in the world and all the fucking there's going to be, and none of it for him, here he sits in this stuffy car dying, his heart just sinks. He'll never fuck anybody again in his lifetime except poor Janice Springer, he sees this possibility ahead of him straight and grim as the known road.

the greatest harm I could possibly suffer would be to lose my liberty, to be forced into a conventional life of domestic duties and matrimony.

To be a man, apparently, was to lack the ability to be a woman

If any decent woman's calling consisted of taking her proper place in society (husband and house, plus voice lessons and a piano in the drawing-room), then this particular woman-to-be prefers to remain indecent.

Nothing last forever except change

He was just a sixteen-year old boy who had been killed, a kid whose photo had been in the paper, a kid who would mostly be forgotten by the time the newspaper went into the garbage-yet he was the universe, all the dying, all the crying. He was everyone who had ever died young.

Money is the root of all goodness. To talk disparagingly about money is the privilege of those who have money. There are also those people who state matter-of-factly that "money isn't everything". This statement is also true, but only so long as one has money.

In the blue sky overhead, larks sang like my heart.

The killed are dead, the bereaved are traumatized. The trauma may be converted to hatred that may be converted into revenge addiction.

My dear sister... His dear sister. Those words - how oddly they affected me

Hey," Marshall said, leaning beside me. "You okay? You look supremely pissed." I smiled. "I'm absolutely fine." "Is your boyfriend here on a date with someone else? Did you guys break up or something?" He seemed to be mocking me. "Yep. We broke up," I said sarcastically. "I caught him sleeping with my sister and then she found out she was pregnant. It didn't work out between them, though, and he left her for that girl." I gestured at Sarah. "My sister's gonna take him on Jerry Springer." Marshall raised an eyebrow. "You don't have a sister." "And you don't have any brain cells.

Let's try to find ten good things to say about Albert Belle: 10. So far as we know, he's never killed anyone. 9. He is handsome, and built like a God. 8. He played every game. 7. He has never appeared on the Jerry Springer Show. 6. He was an underrated base runner who was rarely caught stealing. 5. He hasn't been arrested in several years. 4. He is very bright. 3. He works hard. 2. He has never spoken favorably about Adolf Hitler, Saddam Hussein, or any other foreign madman. 1. The man could hit.

We bastards are not to blame for any of it.

To be a man, apparently, was to lack the ability to be a woman.

I think,” he says at last, “that it is a great pity she will not trust in me.

He doesn't blame people for many sins, but he does hate uncoordination, the root of all evil, as he feels it, for without coordination there can be no order, no connecting.

To S.H. & M.H.: Rot. E.H.

Grinning with delight even as my heart ached—a familiar bittersweet feeling, that of enjoying affection from afar—I watched until they all went inside, the cab and the barouche drove away, and it became apparent that the moment of drama was over.

When looking to travel incognito, it's safest to travel as a widow. People are always anxious to avoid conversation about death. Widows scare them. And there's no better disguise than fear.

Who was I to meddle in people’s love lives? Mine was a mess. My heart wanted the one thing it wasn’t allowed to have — love with someone besides my cupid-appointed soul mate. I was so screwed up, I made the dysfunctional relationships on Jerry Springer look wholesome.

Stop it,' he whispered. Hid lidded eyes winced. His hands faltered up to cover his face. Dusty did not stop. 'If I'd known you-if I'd known you when you were alive, I think I would have loved you, too.' Dusty, please stop.' He could barely speak. I think I do love you.' Her voice had dropped to a whisper, because it was a truth like a silver sword. 'I think I do. I cry, too.

He slouches down and in answer to Springer says, “Things go bad. Food goes bad, people go bad, maybe a whole country goes bad. The blacks now have more than ever, but it feels like less, maybe. We were all brought up to want things and maybe the world isn’t big enough for all that wanting. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

Filip was from San Jose, but his painfully good looks excused that. He was tall, six-foot-something-or-other, intensely blue eyes, chiseled features, massive package. Didn't have Prince Albert in a Can, but he did have a thick gauged one through his cock head. His name really wasn’t Filip, it was Brent, an all-American moniker about as dark and mysterious as pastel-colored bobby socks. Initially, I joked about his choice of sobriquet, changing his name to go off to the big city, transform into Mr. Big Stuff, until it dawned on me I’d done the same damn thing with my ‘Catalyst’ surname. So I shut up. He comported himself with rigid shoulders and stiff gestures, as if he had a secret. Turns out he did. Filip was married, had a wife for more than a year now, but they had some kind of crazy arrangement. Days they were a couple; evenings they were free to do as they pleased. Where’d they come up with that idea, Jerry Springer?

 “If you wanted to go back to your place, we could,” Filip suggested. “But only until dawn.” Yeah, right. An affair is an affair, the way I see it. What difference is there between 5 and 7 a.m.? Was their marriage some sort of religious fasting thing, starve until the sun sets then binge and party down? I'd never sunk my teeth into married meat, but figured it was a logical progression from my I'm Not Gay But It's Different With You saga. And if I was going to sin, I was gonna sin good. That means no peeking to see whether it’s still dark outside.

Once woman is made equal to man, she fancies herself his superior

Etty saw Rowan, daughter of Robin Hood, lifting her green kirtle, her brown braid lashing like a wildcat's tail as she tried to run.

Walking away barefoot on the soft loam, with mist rising in ribbons all around her, Etty tucked the year's first violets into her hair.

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

There is method to her madness!

Curiosity goes hand in hand with intellect, and intellect runs in the family.

I could not be corseted, either literally or figuratively, into any conventional feminine mould.

One cannot be a mother without first being a person; family, husband and children should not be allowed, as is so often the case, to steal a woman's selfhood and her dreams.

He doesn’t hug back. But he doesn’t pull away, either. Yeah, we’re improving.

Den Blick in die Welt kann man mit einer Zeitung versperren.

Death is a grisly King; Fate is his bride. Now quaintly I've chosen To serve at their table, To dance at their wedding…

Sorrow will turn to stone unless you weep. I thought it would come before this. Weep it out.

Fathers - half of anyone's life seemed to be about who fathered them.

Neuroscience consultant Marilee Springer says, “Multitasking is known to slow people down by 50% and add 50% more mistakes.” Multitasking is like putting your brain on drugs.

Sallie Springer es un chico terriblemente grosero y corre el rumor de que ha copulado. Sin embargo me cae simpático, porque es muy divertido.

I watched him until he disappeared between the forest trees—watched after him almost as if I knew that, through no fault of his own, I would not converse with him again for a long time.

Do you, Maddison Louise Springer, take this man as your hunka hunka burning love, to hold tight and be true until you both go to that big 'ol heartbreak hotel in the sky?" Elvis asked me.

The main focus of the TRANSCEND method3 is not to merely identify who is guilty and punish those, the traditional legal approach, but to create an attractive new reality acceptable to all those involved.

A mother who is afraid to admit that she resents her children may interfere so much in their lives, under the pretect of being concerned about their welfare and safety, that her over-protection is really a form of punishment.

Thread and cloth were ordinary – worse than ordinary; they were women’s affairs. But letters! Letters were for lords and kings. And something in me blazed fiery jealous and joyous at the thought: Why ever should they have what I did not?

Truth is...we're all a little screwed up. If humans were capable of being perfect there would be no such thing as Jerry Springer, and the world would be filled with unicorns and fairies, and families would never be broken, and children would never disappoint their parents, and things wouldn't hurt as badly, but it also wouldn't feel so damn good when things go right. And friends wouldn't have anything to stay up late and talk about because everything in the world would be too boring to matter. The only thing we can do is try to find people whose scars compliment our own.

When you hike through the forest you have no choice but to experience every step. The slow speed at which you move through the wilderness allows you to experience the landscape in such an intimate way. You have the opportunity to slow down and look across every stunning mountain vista, touch the blossoming azaleas, feel the cool mist of the waterfalls, and smell the rich scents of the forest as you pass through it. You have the opportunity to experience this paradise that is our planet.

Research by Scanlan has demonstrated that some individuals can work only at 20–30% of their ability and still retain their jobs. I suggest they retain their positions by making sure that they only follow official directives and policies as much as “visibility necessitates” yet ignore most everything else at work that may need their attention!

She lay all too aware of how frost stiffened her hair, furred her blankets.

however, that most married women disappeared into the house every year

The bestowing of chrysanthemums indicates familial attachment and, by implication, affection.

I am a liar. All is not well. Not at all.

I had learned to trust the peculiar workings of my heart and mind

General systems theory and cybernetics are deterministic while human actions are not!

I think one of the sweetest proofs we have of the Father's loving care for us is that we often find in this life the things which gave us great happiness below.

A talented artist who has unfortunately turned her energies to the cause of women’s so-called rights.

that the time is always ripe, that the place is here and the time is now.

The only person you appear to hate here, Jeremy, is yourself.

For Ellid born of Eitha had a face like a flower for loveliness and a body like a doe for grace; her mind was steadfast as a sword and her spirit was bright as its skylit blade. Cuin

Gandhian economic boycott, however, combined refusal to buy English textiles with the collection of funds for the merchants precisely not to confuse the key issue by threatening their livelihood.

>>How old were you when you had your first kiss? >>Twenty. It's pathetic. Guys don't want to kiss fat girls. >>Not true. There are all those guys on jerry springer, and there's president Clinton... >>Make that: no one I ever wanted to kiss wanted to kiss a fat girl. >>I'll bet you never gave anyone a chance. Mitch says you practically beat him away with a stick. >>I was trying to spare him.

Still, the thought of having someone to spend time with, to talk to, maybe to hold while she slept? It sounded romantic. Perfect. Why was it so difficult for others to contemplate a relationship built on mutual affection, on romantic gestures that didn’t extend into the bedroom? Abby wanted roses and inside jokes, something easy and natural. Sex was a complication she didn’t have any interest in.

The thought of these people having the bold idea of leaving their homes to come here and pray pleases and reassures Rabbit, and moves him to close his own eyes and bow his head with a movement so tiny that Ruth won’t notice. Help me, Christ. Forgive me. Take me down the way. Bless Ruth, Janice, Nelson, my mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Springer, and the unborn baby. Forgive Tothero and all the others. Amen.

I don't know why I'm always surprised when God does these things. He is so lavish in His love; it takes my breath away. It really does. Just when we think something has ended, He always shows us a new beginning.

Chance Duv knows!" She spoke lightly. "Folk have always told me that the night is full of all manner of evil." "Ay, even so," Bevan said heavily, "but it is the same evil that is in the day—evil of men. Look there!

Horses sweat, you know, and men perspire, whereas ladies glow. I am sure I looked all of a glow also. Indeed, I could feel all-of-a-glow trickling down my sides beneath my corset, the steel ribs of which jabbed me under the arms most annoyingly.

Dimly, with her burning heart more than her mind, she began to understand why she had always liked gay men. They suffered, were persecuted, they were outsiders in a world where studbuck male heteros held all the power, they did not count, they were Other – the way women were.

What do you want?” I swallow again. “I mean, as a prize. What do you want as a prize?" (...)When Brandon speaks, his words are breaths against my cheek, and I can feel them where we touch, vibrations from his chest to my arm. “You,” he says. “If I compete and win, I want you as my prize.

If you ask me, I think Jerry Springer destroyed the public image of the USA. I mean up to early in the nineties I still imagined it like it was presented in hollywoodfilms and stuff. But then, early in the 90's they started broadcasting that freakshow in the Netherlands, and that new idea of entertainment, where you put the biggest morons you can find on screen so you can watch it and feel superior. Later on, politics also discovered the same formula. We want politicians we feel superior to. The very idea of anything being 'better' or 'higher' than us makes people extremely uncomfortable.

To jest wyjątkowo dziwny naród. Mamy piękną historię, piękną literaturę i mnóstwo pięknego chamstwa. W którejś z książek Wańkowicza jeden z jego rozmówców zapytał go, czy to picie wódki jest najtrudniejszą cechą Polaków. Wańkowicz odpowiedział, że picie nie jest problemem. Problemem jest bezinteresowna zawiść.

As Herb sliced his small partridge stuffed with wild rice, the fresh vegetables artfully arranged on his plate by the cook, the conversation flowed. Lucy Fur, standing on her hind legs on the floor, raised a paw, placing it on Herb’s thigh. He cut a small piece of partridge for her, put it on a bread plate, and bent over. No one said a word, since everyone there would have done the same thing. The springer spaniel rejoined them upon hearing the plate scrape the floor. These were animal people. The differences among them were differences of income, age, gender, and the mysteries of personality. But when it came to animals, they were as one. Every single one of them, even Tazio, new to animal ownership, cherished a deep respect for all life.

Any country that enjoys fighting and bitching as a recreation as much as America does will always be, in some way or another, walking along a knife’s edge. We’re a nation that spends its afternoons watching white trash throw chairs at each other on Jerry Springer, its drive time listening to the partisan rantings of this or that hysterical political demagogue, and its late-night hours composing feverish blog entries full of anonymous screeds and denunciations. All of this shit is harmless enough so long as the power comes on every morning, fresh milk makes it to the shelves, there’s a dial tone, and your front yard isn’t underwater. But it becomes a problem when the magic grid goes down and suddenly there’s no more machinery between you and whomever you happen to get off on hating.

Dear Thomas, on his knees to me, pleading. And his pain smote me to the core of my heart, and I saw: Mother of misery, I had done this to him. Cernunnos had tried to warn me. I was not whole, not ready, he had said. Ongwynn had tried to warn me. All powers above and below, even the sweet lady mother of us all, had tried. This moment was the one that Lady water had tried to show me…. Yet I whispered, “I cannot.

Over the top of the hill a knight came riding. At first I saw only his helmeted head, bent, but even then I knew him and began to run toward him. A knight riding a weary horse, a battered knight with one arm in a sling, his shield hanging from his saddle. Its device, a single heart-shaped green leaf with a violet blossom. As I ran toward him he lifted his head, and his eyes smiled at me the warmest blue the world has ever known.

She had several books she'd been wanting to read, but instead she sprawled out on the couch surrounded by pillows and blankets, and spent the hours flipping channels between Judge Judy, The People's Court, Maury, and Jerry Springer, and rounded out her afternoon with Dr. Phil and Oprah. All in all, it was a complete waste of a day. At least until school got out. Jay showed up after school with a bouquet of flowers and an armful of DVDs, although Violet couldn't have card less about either...he was all she wanted. She couldn't help the electric thrill of excitement she felt when he came strolling in, grinning at her foolishly as if he hadn't seen her in weeks rather than hours. He scooped her up from the couch and dropped her onto his lap as he sat down where she had been just a moment before. He was careful to arrange her ankle on a neatly stacked pile of pillows beside him. He stubbornly refused to hide his affection for her, and if Violet hadn't known better she would have sworn that he was going out of his way to make her self-conscious in her own home. Fortunately her parents were giving them some space for the time being, and they were left by themselves most of the time. "Did you miss me?" he asked arrogantly as he gently brushed his lips over hers, not bothering to wait for an answer. She smiled while she kissed him back, loving the topsy-turvy feeling that her stomach always got when he was so close to her. She wound her arms around his neck, forgetting that she was in the middle of the family room and not hidden away in the privacy of her bedroom. He pulled away from her, suddenly serious. "You know, we didn't get much time alone yesterday. And I didn't get a chance to tell you..." Violet was mesmerized by the thick timbre of his deep voice. She barely heard his words but rather concentrated on the fluid masculinity of his tone. "I feel like I've waited too long to finally have you, and then yesterday...when..." He stopped, seemingly at a loss, and then he tried another approach. His hand stroked her cheek, igniting a response from deep within her. "I can't imagine living without you," he said, tenderly kissing her forehead, his warm breath fanning her brow. He paused thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. "I love you, Violet. More than I ever could have imagined. And I don't want to lose you...I can't lose you." It was her turn to look arrogant as she glanced up at him. "I know," she stated smugly, shrugging her shoulder. He shoved her playfully but held on to her tightly so that she never really went anywhere. "What do you mean, 'I know'? What kind of response is that?" His righteous indignation bordered on comical. He pulled her down into his arms so that his face was directly above hers. "Say it!" he commanded. She shook her head, pretending not to understand him. "What? What do you want me to say?" But then she giggled and ruined her baffled façade. He teased her with his mouth, leaning down to kiss her and then pulling away before his lips ever reached hers. He nuzzled her neck tantalizingly, only to stop once she responded. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer, frustrated by his mocking ambush of her senses. "Say it," he whispered, his breath warm against her neck. She groaned, wanting him to put her out of her misery. "I love you too," she rasped as she clung to him. "I love you so much..." His mouth moved to cover hers in an exhausting kiss that left them broth breathless and craving more than they could have. Violet collapsed into his arms, gathering her wits and hoping that no one walked in on them anytime soon.

What have you done to allow yourself to express your preferred gender identity? Have you been "cross-dressing" in private? Have you gone out "dressed"? Engaged in any other activities (such as theatre, sports, etc.) that allowed you to express your feminine or masculine self? How do you feel when you are dressed in the clothes you like? Do you like how it makes you look? Do you just like the feel of the fabric? Is it sexually arousing? Do you dress primarily for comfort and relaxation? What were you told about being gay or lesbian growing up? What were the attitudes of the people around you, and how were those conveyed? Were you called queer or gay? How did you feel about that? Did you know anything about transgender people growing up? What images did you come across? Transvestite stereotypes? Jerry Springer? Do you know anyone now who's transgender? What stories have you heard or read? What are your sources of information about transgender life? What are your own thoughts, feelings, prejudices about gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender people? Do you ever find yourself not wanting to associate with, or be associated with, others in the community? Who are you uncomfortable with? Can you identify where those prejudices came from?

at the moment—and looking for other boats. Kelly advanced the port throttle a notch farther as he turned the wheel, allowing Springer to pivot all the more quickly in the narrow channel, and then he was pointed straight out. He advanced the starboard throttle next, bringing his cruiser to a mannerly five knots as he headed past the ranks of motor and sail yachts. Pam was looking around at the boats, too, mainly aft, and her eyes fixed on the parking lot for a long couple of seconds before she looked forward again, her body relaxing more as she did so. “You know anything about boats?” Kelly asked. “Not much,” she admitted, and for the first time he noticed her accent. “Where you from?” “Texas. How about you?” “Indianapolis, originally, but it’s been a while.” “What’s this?” she asked. Her hands reached out to touch the tattoo on his forearm. “It’s from one of the places I’ve been,” he said. “Not a very nice place.” “Oh, over there.” She understood. “That’s the place.” Kelly nodded matter-of-factly. They were out of the yacht basin now, and he advanced the throttles yet again. “What did you do there?” “Nothing to talk to a lady about,” Kelly replied, looking around from a half-standing position. “What makes you think I’m a lady?” she asked. It caught him short, but he was getting used to it by now. He’d also found that talking to a girl, no matter what the subject, was something that he needed to do. For the first time he answered her smile with one of his own. “Well, it wouldn’t be very nice of me if I assumed that you weren’t.” “I wondered how long it would be before you smiled.” You have a very nice smile, her tone told him. How’s six months grab you? he almost said. Instead he laughed, mainly at himself. That was something else he needed to do. “I’m sorry. Guess I haven’t been very good company.” He turned to look at her again and saw understanding in her eyes. Just a quiet look, very human and feminine, but it shook Kelly. He could feel it happen, and ignored the part of his consciousness that told him that it was something he’d needed badly for months. That was something he didn’t need to hear, especially from himself. Loneliness was bad enough without reflection on its misery. Her hand reached out yet again, ostensibly to stroke the tattoo, but that wasn’t what it was all about. It was amazing how warm her touch was, even under a hot afternoon sun. Perhaps it was a measure of just how cold his life had become. But he had a boat to navigate. There was

do you think Jesus would do if he came back to earth tonight in Bremerton?” C asked, as he spooned some rice onto his plate. “I don’t know,” I said, savoring a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Would he come in a white robe and sandals, or the dress of this time?” C pressed on. I shrugged my shoulders, forking in the fried rice. “Would he be white, black, Asian, or maybe look like Saddam Hussein instead of Kevin Costner or Tom Cruise? What if he didn’t fit our image of him? What if he was bald? Or, for God’s sake, what if he was gay? “He wouldn’t have any cash, no MasterCard, Visa, Discover Card, or portfolio of any kind. If he went to a bank and said, ‘Hello. I’m Jesus, the son of God. I need some of those green things that say “In God We Trust” on them to buy some food and get a place to stay,’ the bank manager would say, ‘I’m sorry, but I looked in my computer and without a social security number, local address, and credit history, I can’t do anything for you. Maybe if you show me a miracle or two, I might lend you fifty dollars.’ “Where would he stay? The state park charges sixteen dollars a night. Could he go to a church and ask, ‘May I stay here? I am Jesus’? Would they believe him?” As I took a sip of my drink, I wondered just who this character was sitting across from me. Was he some angel sent to save me? Or was he, as the Rolling Stones warned in their song, Satan himself here to claim me for some sin of this life or a past life of which I had no recollection? Or was he an alien? Or was he Jesus, the Christ himself, just “messing” with me? Was I in the presence of a prophet, or just some hopped-up druggie? “‘Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.’ That’s what Jesus said. What doors would be opened to him?” he asked. “The Salvation Army—Sally’s?” I guessed. “That’s about all,” C said. “Unless he saw Tony Robbins’ TV formula to become a millionaire and started selling miracles to the rich at twenty-thousand dollars a pop. He could go on Regis, Oprah, maybe get an interview with Bill Moyers, or go on Nightline. Or joust with the nonbelievers on Jerry Springer! Think of the book deals! He

With the motto “do what you will,” Rabelais gave himself permission to do anything he damn well pleased with the language and the form of the novel; as a result, every author of an innovative novel mixing literary forms and genres in an extravagant style is indebted to Rabelais, directly or indirectly. Out of his codpiece came Aneau’s Alector, Nashe’s Unfortunate Traveller, López de Úbeda’s Justina, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Béroalde de Verville’s Fantastic Tales, Sorel’s Francion, Burton’s Anatomy, Swift’s Tale of a Tub and Gulliver’s Travels, Fielding’s Tom Jones, Amory’s John Buncle, Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, the novels of Diderot and maybe Voltaire (a late convert), Smollett’s Adventures of an Atom, Hoffmann’s Tomcat Murr, Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Southey’s Doctor, Melville’s Moby-Dick, Flaubert’s Temptation of Saint Anthony and Bouvard and Pecuchet, Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Frederick Rolfe’s ornate novels, Bely’s Petersburg, Joyce’s Ulysses, Witkiewicz’s Polish jokes, Flann O’Brien’s Irish farces, Philip Wylie’s Finnley Wren, Patchen’s tender novels, Burroughs’s and Kerouac’s mad ones, Nabokov’s later works, Schmidt’s fiction, the novels of Durrell, Burgess (especially A Clockwork Orange and Earthly Powers), Gaddis and Pynchon, Barth, Coover, Sorrentino, Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo, Brossard’s later works, the masterpieces of Latin American magic realism (Paradiso, The Autumn of the Patriarch, Three Trapped Tigers, I the Supreme, Avalovara, Terra Nostra, Palinuro of Mexico), the fabulous creations of those gay Cubans Severo Sarduy and Reinaldo Arenas, Markson’s Springer’s Progress, Mano’s Take Five, Ríos’s Larva and otros libros, the novels of Paul West, Tom Robbins, Stanley Elkin, Alexander Theroux, W. M. Spackman, Alasdair Gray, Gaétan Soucy, and Rikki Ducornet (“Lady Rabelais,” as one critic called her), Mark Leyner’s hyperbolic novels, the writings of Magiser Gass, Greer Gilman’s folkloric fictions and Roger Boylan’s Celtic comedies, Vollmann’s voluminous volumes, Wallace’s brainy fictions, Siegel’s Love in a Dead Language, Danielewski’s novels, Jackson’s Half Life, Field’s Ululu, De La Pava’s Naked Singularity, and James McCourt’s ongoing Mawrdew Czgowchwz saga. (p. 331)