MOST of the charladies to be met with in novels and plays are comic characters. […] This ridicule of a whole class does not mean that novelists and dramatists hate charladies, but only that the novelist and dramatist is never quite master of his own book or his own play.

At the same time I want to hold on to the fact that each modality of the self-lie also performs the presence, albeit as an obscene underside, of a traumatic truth.

Ever the pedestrian, Jason shoegazes to the side of his rhythm section, his body limp against a guitar and greased locks flowing down over his arched brow.

The idea that overindebted, chronically undersaving American consumers would somehow be serving their country in its time of need by maxing out yet more of their credit cards is surely an idea whose time has passed.