/lit/ - Literature

If one wants to explore all the nooks and crannies of the language — and one does — it's necessary to visit some dank places. This week's challenge: identify a hundred instances of the most hard-working and versatile of our four-lettered friends. For obvious reasons, the emphasis is on the more recent past. A certain amount of non-fiction; more than a certain amount of cinema. (Sometimes, in the latter case, a collaborative work is attributed to just one person.)

Translated works marked [*]. Hints on request.


The authors:

Jack Henry Abbott, Douglas Adams, Martin Amis, Paul Thomas Anderson, Herbert Asbury

Robert G. Barrett, Samuel Beckett, Alan Bennett, Lucia Berlin, Sandra Bernhardt, John Berryman, Shane Black, Richard Brautigan, Charles Bukowski, Anthony Burgess, William S. Burroughs

Thomas Campbell, Truman Capote, Peter Carey, Don Carpenter, Raymond Carver, Catullus, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Raymond Chandler, David Henry Chase, John Cheever, Tom Clancy, Joel & Ethan Coen, Douglas Coupland, Harry Crews, e. e cummings

Philip K. Dick, Stephen Donaldson, Geoff Dyer

Harlan Ellison, James Ellroy, R. Lee Ermey

Ian Fleming

Neil Gaiman, George Gallo, William Gass, William Gibson, Thom Gunn

Dashiell Hammett, Thomas Harris, Joseph Heller, George V. Higgins, Nick Hornby, A. E. Hotchner, Michel Houellebecq, John Hughes

Colin Irwin

James Jones, Erica Jong, James Joyce

Adam Kay, Ken Kesey, Stephen King

Philip Larkin, D. H. Lawrence, Mike Leigh, Elmore Leonard

Norman Mailer, David Mamet, David Markson, Cormac McCarthy, Larry McMurtry, Louis Mellis & David Scinto, Henry Miller, Spike Milligan, William Monahan

Bobby Jack Nelson, David Niven, Alissa Nutting

John Pascucci, Nicholas Pileggi & Martin Scorsese, Harold Pinter, Thomas Pynchon

Guy Ritchie, Tom Robbins, Bruce Robinson

David Sedaris, Hubert Selby Jr, Anne Sexton, David Simon, Tom Stoppard

Quentin Tarantino, James Tate, Hunter S. Thompson, John Kennedy Toole

John Updike

Kurt Vonnegut

David Foster Wallace, ‘Walter’, Joseph Wambaugh, Daniel Waters, Andy Weir, Irvine Welsh, Terry Winograd, Tobias Wolff

1)
What’s your name, fuckface?

I’m asshole. He’s fuckface.


2)
She had a parrot, very pretty, all the most approved colours. I understood him better than his mistress. I don’t mean I understood him better than she understood him, I mean I understood him better than I understood her. He exclaimed from time to time, Fuck the son of a
bitch, fuck the son of a bitch. He must have belonged to an American sailor, before he belonged to Lousse. Pets often change masters. He didn’t say much else. No, I’m wrong, he also said, Putain de merde! He must have belonged to a French sailor before he belonged to the American sailor. Putain de merde! Unless he had hit on it alone, it wouldn’t surprise me. Lousse tried to make him say, Pretty Polly! I think it was too late. He listened, his head on one side, pondered, then said, Fuck the son of a bitch. It was clear he was doing his best.

[*]


3)
“You work six days a week from ten to three. If you come in regular, who knows? You might get a little raise.”
“Don worry. I come in regular, anything keep my ass away from a po-lice for a few hour,” Jones said, blowing some smoke on Lana Lee. “Where you keep them motherfuckin broom?”
“One thing we gotta understand is keeping our mouth clean around here.”
“Yes, ma’m. I sure don wanna make a bad impressia in a fine place like the Night of Joy. Whoa!”


4)
He says so, what are you gonna tell us, tough guy? I say, my usual, zero, nothing. What am I gonna I tell you, you fuck? He says, no, you’re gonna tell me something today, tough guy. I say all right, I’ll tell you something. Go fuck your mother.


5)
Somewhere in there, old Edgar Derby was elected head American. The Englishman called for nominations from the floor, and there weren’t any. So he nominated Derby, praising him for his maturity and long experience in dealing with people. There were no further nominations, so the nominations were closed.

‘All in favor?’

Two or three people said, ‘Aye.’

Then poor old Derby made a speech. He thanked the Englishman for his good advice, said he meant to follow it exactly. He said he was sure that all the other Americans would do the same. He said that his primary responsibility now was to make damn well sure that everybody got home safely.

‘Go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,’ murmured Paul Lazzaro in his azure nest. ‘Go take a flying fuck at the moon.’

1)
What’s your name, fuckface?

I’m asshole. He’s fuckface.


2)
She had a parrot, very pretty, all the most approved colours. I understood him better than his mistress. I don’t mean I understood him better than she understood him, I mean I understood him better than I understood her. He exclaimed from time to time, Fuck the son of a bitch, fuck the son of a bitch. He must have belonged to an American sailor, before he belonged to Lousse. Pets often change masters. He didn’t say much else. No, I’m wrong, he also said, Putain de merde! He must have belonged to a French sailor before he belonged to the American sailor. Putain de merde! Unless he had hit on it alone, it wouldn’t surprise me. Lousse tried to make him say, Pretty Polly! I think it was too late. He listened, his head on one side, pondered, then said, Fuck the son of a bitch. It was clear he was doing his best.

[*]


3)
“You work six days a week from ten to three. If you come in regular, who knows? You might get a little raise.”
“Don worry. I come in regular, anything keep my ass away from a po-lice for a few hour,” Jones said, blowing some smoke on Lana Lee. “Where you keep them motherfuckin broom?”
“One thing we gotta understand is keeping our mouth clean around here.”
“Yes, ma’m. I sure don wanna make a bad impressia in a fine place like the Night of Joy. Whoa!”


4)
He says so, what are you gonna tell us, tough guy? I say, my usual, zero, nothing. What am I gonna I tell you, you fuck? He says, no, you’re gonna tell me something today, tough guy. I say all right, I’ll tell you something. Go fuck your mother.


5)
Somewhere in there, old Edgar Derby was elected head American. The Englishman called for nominations from the floor, and there weren’t any. So he nominated Derby, praising him for his maturity and long experience in dealing with people. There were no further nominations, so the nominations were closed.

‘All in favor?’

Two or three people said, ‘Aye.’

Then poor old Derby made a speech. He thanked the Englishman for his good advice, said he meant to follow it exactly. He said he was sure that all the other Americans would do the same. He said that his primary responsibility now was to make damn well sure that everybody got home safely.

‘Go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,’ murmured Paul Lazzaro in his azure nest. ‘Go take a flying fuck at the moon.’

6)
Tell you what. Comic interlude. Okay? Stop me if you've heard this one. Mickey Mouse is filing for divorce and the judge looks down and he says: I understand that it is your contention that your wife Minnie Mouse is mentally deranged. Is that correct? And Mickey says: No, Your Honor, that's not what I said. What I said was she's fucking nuts.


7)
Here’s the thing. I don’t give a tuppenny fuck about your moral conundrum, you meat-headed shit-sack.


8)
That was the way he’d lived before he met Morn; before he fell into Warden Dios’ hands. Preying on those who were weaker than he was so that he could avoid those who were stronger. Hating everybody, weak and strong alike, because of his own weakness. Tied to the slats of the crib —

Oh, perfect. A cackle like the laughter of a ghoul echoed in his skull. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.


9)
“I heard that you were feeling ill:
Headaches, fever, and a chill.
I came to help restore your pluck,
‘Cause I’m the nurse that likes to — ”

[DOOR SLAMS]


10)
Bogie, above all, loathed the phonies and the pretentious. At one evening party I settled down happily when I discovered that he was sitting opposite me and beside him was an overdressed lady from Cincinnati whose money had restored the facades of both her husband, a bisexual Roman count, and his crumbling palazzo.

“Do you have servant problems in Hollywood, Mr. Bogart?” she asked.

Bogie helped himself to more bread and made a large gray ball of it; then he shrugged.

“It’s *quite* impossible in Italy now,” continued the lady from Cincinnati, missing these first ominous signs. “We used to have only English, then they became impossible, so we took on Germans, but they became difficult, too, so we had to fall back on Italians — nothing but trouble.”

“Too bad,” said Bogie, fixing her with the needling eye I knew so well. “Whaddya got now?”

“Greeks,” she said. “Of course, they’re peasants and have to be taught everything from the start. I never let them near the nursery.”

Bogie flicked the gray bread ball with his thumb and watched it perform a graceful parabola in the direction of John Huston at another table.

“Who looks after the kids?” he asked.

“Oh, I have a wonderful Dutch girl, and the children just adore her. She never complains and doesn’t mind at all eating her meals off a tray. Of course, I overpay her, but it’s worth it because I feel secure when I go to Paris. . . . ”

I waited expectantly. The pause was long.

“Does she fuck?” Bogie asked.

11)
Orientation to CID homicide wasn’t all that sophisticated. There was no training manual; instead, a veteran detective would hold your hand for a few calls and then, suddenly, let go to see if you could walk on your own. Nothing was more terrifying than your first time as primary, with the body stretched out on the pavement and the corner boys eyefucking you and the uniforms and ME’s attendants and lab techs all wondering if you know half of what you should.


12)
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.


13)
Gentle reader, the ugliness of that spectacle buggers description. Who can be a cringing pissing coward, yet vicious as a purpleassed mandrill, alternating these deplorable conditions like vaudeville skits? Who can shit on a fallen adversary who, dying, eats the shit and screams with joy? Who can hang a weak passive and catch his sperm in mouth like a vicious dog? Gentle reader, I fain would spare you this, but my pen hath its will like the Ancient Mariner. Oh Christ what a scene is this! Can tongue or pen accommodate these scandals? A beastly young hooligan has gouged out the eye of his confrére and fuck him in the brain. “This brain atrophy already, and dry as grandmother’s cunt.”


14)
What’s your name?

*Fuck you*, that’s my name. You know why, Mister? ‘Cause you drove a Hyundai to get here tonight. I drove an eighty thousand dollar BMW. That’s my name.


15)
Max was a terribly shy man who always wore his hat in the office — I can’t prove that the two have any connection, although maybe they have. I went back to New York to discuss the book with Max, and he said he had only one change which he wanted — the deletion of that pesky four-letter word which seems to be okay verbally, especially in the army, but verboten on the printed page.

Max was too shy to say the word out loud, so he wrote the word on his calendar pad. I said it was okay to delete it and suggested that since we had completed the rewriting, we go out to lunch and enjoy ourselves.

Along about three o’clock that afternoon Charlie Scribner came into Perkins’ office to consult him about something, and not finding him at his desk, went over and looked at the calendar pad to see where he was. Opposite twelve o’clock, Charlie found the notation F-U-C-K. Later that afternoon, when Charlie did find Perkins at his desk, he said solicitously, ‘Max, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You must be done in.’

16)
October 23, 1986
Chicago

I followed a couple down Wilson Avenue last week, walked behind them for two blocks, and the woman said fuck eleven times. She was angry at a friend who was supposedly spreading lies about her. “I’m going to fucking talk to that bitch Donna and say, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, spreading these fucking lies? It’s none of your business who I fucking fuck, you fucking asshole. I’ll knock your fucking teeth down your fucking throat if I ever . . . ’”

I would have followed them longer, but I was carrying heavy groceries.


17)
Language is always honest. Language does not lie, only its users. I think barrel suckers say that about guns. Notice how ‘lover’ is mostly spelled by using ‘over,’ and ‘sex’ is two-thirds ‘ex.’ If fucking were pretty it would have a pretty name, like ‘meadow,’ like ‘gazelle,’ or ‘paramour.’


18)
Since we read several pornographic magazines at our hotel, we knew the ropes and addresses needed for getting fucked in Paris. You have to admit that addresses are fun. You let yourself be tempted . . . even I, who had known the Passage des Bérésinas and traveled and experienced no end of complications in the pornographic line, never seem to have exhausted the hope of intimate revelations. Where the ass is concerned, there’s always a residue of curiosity. You say to yourself that the ass has nothing more to tell you, that you haven’t one more minute to waste on it, and then you start in again just to make absolutely sure that the subject is exhausted, you learn something new about it after all, and that suffices to launch you on a wave of optimism.

[*]


19)
Hot in his mind, Tom watches Dobbin fuck.
Watches, and smiles with pleasure, oh what luck.
He sees beyond, and knows he sees, red cows,
Harsh green of grass, and pink-fired chestnut boughs.


20)
I finally found them in one day. Fay was eating sunflower seeds with yogurt. She baked her own bread but it wasn’t very good.

“I met Andy, this truckdriver,” she told me. “He paints on the side. That’s one of his paintings.” Fay pointed to the wall.

I was playing with the girl. I looked at the painting. I didn’t say anything.

“He has a big cock,” said Fay. “He was over the other night and he asked me, ‘How would you like to be fucked with a big cock?’ and I told him, ‘I would rather be fucked with love!’”

“He sounds like a man of the world,” I told her.

21)
Tiger held up a hand. “And that is another thing. No swearing, please. There are no swear-words in the Japanese language, and the usage of bad language does not exist.”

“But good heavens, Tiger! No self-respecting man could get through the day without his battery of four-letter words to cope with the roughage of life and let off steam. If you’re late for a vital appointment with your superiors, and you find that you’ve left all your papers at home, surely you say, well, Freddie Uncle Charlie Katie, if I may put it so as not to offend.”

“No,” said Tiger. “I would say ‘Shimatta,’ which means ‘I have made a mistake.’”


22)
You follow him. Outside of town, you pull up alongside, boom! 12-gauge.

Fuck that.

Do it . . . or you'll never get another bag off me.

No, no, no. Fuck that. Fuck that!

Want the cops to know who burnt the Historical House?

Fuck you, fuckwad!


23)
LORD STRANGE’S MEN were back in London for Christmas. Drink, toasts, maudlin clawings. By God, we missed thee, Ned. As for Alleyn, he smirked and pawed his new wife all over. Aye, we open then before the old year shall have ended. With Muly Mulocco. Well, it is a fair play for opening. And then Hieronimo and the Jew and Titus. Friar Bacon? Poor Robin Greene. In memoriam, you might say. This new one of Kit’s promises fair. The Massacre at Paris. They will take multitudinous bellyfuls of Machiavel. And who is or was this Machiavel? An Italian devil, that is called also Niccolo, or Old Nick. And there is Shake-scene reading all gravely with never a cup of sack before him. How dost thou, Johnny Fuckscrotum? Caw caw caw.


24)
It’s February. It’s cold. It’s wet. Laura has gone. I don’t want to hear “Walking on Sunshine.” Somehow it doesn’t fit my mood.
“Turn it off, Barry.” I have to shout, like a lifeboat captain in a gale.
“It won’t go up any more.”
“I didn't say ‘up,’ you fuckwit. I said ‘off.’”


25)
“There ain’t nothing to working whores. They offer you a sex act for money. Got it? Sex, money. You in the service?”
“Marines.”
“Overseas?”
“Vietnam.”
“All right,” Scuz nodded, chewing his cigar, leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Overseas the broads got it made. Fucky sucky, five bucks. See, they saw what every whore said in war or peace for five thousand years. Sex, money. Now, these whores today know that there’s a thing called entrapment, which means you can’t plant an evil idea in their heads, as if that was possible. So in effect they’re gonna wanna say sucky fucky and let you say the price. Or they’re gonna say the price and let you say sucky fucky. Get it?”

26)
I ate my eggs and yarned with White. The drunken Scot kept interjecting, with unintelligible Scots rubbish. “Yerur — nae — narraer — getar — arrr — Glasgae arrhh — fuck.”

We get on to the beach and hire a boat. “Yem — nae ach — aye, Glasgae — abl — fuck.” I took the oars and we pulled gently from the shore. Out loud I quote, “All in the lazy golden afternoon — full leisurely we glide.”

“Yer nae sael ger — Glasgae — ah — fuck.”

A hundred yards offshore, I stack the oars and we just drifted — wonderful! peace! smoking, with our feet up. The sun is warm, the air balmy, the waters calm, the terrible Scot is sick — not in the sea, in the boat. We rowed back hurriedly, with him downwind. “Arragh — wae gal — ferrr — Glasgae ah fuck,” he said.


27)
That night, Hester went home with Aristotle. After Pete and Leroy went to take showers, she said: “I need to see Daddy and Momma. Ari can drop me by.”

“I sure can,” said Aristotle.

And then they left, straight for that goddam sponge boat and a fuckathon.


28)
When I was stung on that cool Ontario afternoon, my response was the same as it would have been before bees became extinct: I shouted, “Fuckity fucking fuck, ow, holy shit that hurts, motherfucker!” I slapped my arm and the bee fell to the ground. Mitch, Erik and his wife were staring at me as if I were bleeding from my eyes. “You fucking fuckheads, stop staring!” Even Kayla the battered dog appeared taken aback by my language. “Don’t pretend to be so sanctimonious, you cheesy, hypocritical fucks.”


29)
The zipless fuck was more than a fuck. It was a platonic ideal. Zipless because when you came together zippers fell away like rose petals, underwear blew off in one breath like dandelion fluff. Tongues intertwined and turned liquid. Your whole soul flowed out through your tongue and into the mouth of your lover.


30)
I picked up the tape/radio — which was still plugged in — and held it over the tub. “Just let me make sure I have it all lined up,” I said. “You want me to throw this thing into the tub when ‘White Rabbit’ peaks — is that it?”

He fell back in the water and smiled gratefully. “Fuck yes,” he said. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to go out and get one of the goddamn maids to do it.”

31)
How are you this morning?

One behind. Where were you?

You were flat out.

Your own fault. When I take a Mog, I’m on the downhill slope. You should have come to bed when you said.

It wasn’t where I could leave it. I would have gone to sleep depressed.

Well, I thought, the honeymoon is over. Fifteen days and fuckless to bye-byes.


32)
“Thing about out here,” cackles Thomas Cresap, when they go to pay him a visit, “is it’s perfect. It’s ’at damn U-topia’s what it is, and nobody’ll own to it. No King, no Governor, nought but the Sheriff, whose Delight is to leave you alone, for as long as you do not actively seek his attention, which he calls ‘fuckin’ with him.’ As long as you don’t ‘fuck’ with him, he don’t ‘fuck’ with you! Somethin’, hah? About as intrusive as Authority ought to git, in m’ own humble Opinion, o’ course . . . ”


33)
THE PRISON GATE GIRLS:

If you see Kay
Tell him he may
See you in tea
Tell him from me.


34)
“Sometimes I have been dreaming of people who fell from the sky. Sometimes I’m underground, talking to a woman with a buffalo head. And sometimes I dream about this guy I kissed in a bar last month.”

Natalie made a noise. “Something you should have told me about?”

“Maybe. But not like that. It was a Fuck-Off Kiss.”

“You were telling him to fuck off?”

“No, I was telling everyone else they could fuck off. You had to be there, I guess.”


35)
The real hell of it was, this pile of trash on his desk wasn’t really trash after all. If they ever bagged the next Carlos, it would be because some local cop, in São Paolo, Brazil, or Bumfuck, Bosnia, or wherever, heard something from some informant or other, then went to the proper house and took a look, and then had his brain go click from all the flyers that filled cophouses around the world, and then it would be up to the street savvy of that cop to see if he might arrest the bastard on the spot — or, if the situation looked a little too tense, to report back to his lieutenant, and just maybe a special team like Ding’s Team-2 would deploy quietly, and take the fucker down, the easy way or the hard way, in front of whatever spouse or kids there might be, ignorant of daddy’s former career . . . and then it would make CNN with quite a splash.

36)
LOG ENTRY: SOL 6

I’m pretty much fucked.


37)
‘According to the Irish, who as a race have never entirely crawled from the bath of superstition in which their mothers gat them, a phooka is a phantom horse that kidnaps travelers and carries them away on its back. I use it to mean an operation which is both covert and wide open. A paradox, Perlmutter! The good news is that we’ve been developing contingency plans for just this sort of clusterfuck since 1947, when the Air Force first recovered the sort of extraterrestrial artifact now known as a flashlight. The bad news is that the future is now and I have to face it with guys like you in support. Do you understand me, buck?’


38)
She drank vodka with vegetables suspended in it, a habit she'd picked up from the missing Estonian, whose first name, Gately read on a torn and then fucked-uppedly Scotch-taped paper out of her jewelry box after his mother's cirrhotic hemorrhage, was Bulat.


39)
“Let's continue the test,” the seated deputy said. “What do you see in this one, Fred?”

“Plastic dog shit,” Fred said. “Like they sell here in the Los Angeles area. Can I go now?” It was the Lions Club speech all over again. Both deputies, however, laughed.

“You know, Fred," the seated one said, “if you can keep your sense of humor like you do you’ll perhaps make it.”

“*Make it?*” Fred echoed. “Make what? The team? The chick? Make good? Make do? Make out? Make sense? Make money? Make time? Define your terms. The Latin for ‘make’ is *facere*, which always reminds me of *fuckere*, which is Latin for ‘to fuck,’ and I haven’t . . .

The brain of the higher animals, including man, is a double organ, consisting of right and left hemispheres connected by an isthmus of nerve tissue called the corpus callosum. Some 15 years ago Ronald E. Myers and R. W. Sperry, then at the University of Chicago, made a surprising discovery: when this connection between the two halves of the cerebrum was cut, each hemisphere functioned independently as if it were a complete brain.

. . . been getting it on worth jack shit lately, plastic shit or otherwise, any kind of shit. If you boys are psychologist types and you’ve been listening to my endless debriefings with Hank, what the hell is Donna’s handle? How do I get next to her? I mean, how is it done? With that kind of sweet, unique, stubborn little chick?”

“Each girl is different,” the seated deputy said.


40)
You fucking Dr White honkin’ jam-rag fucking spunk-bubble! You keep lookin’ at me, I'll put you in the fucking ground!

41)
Of late, the *auteur* theory has crept into the world of comic books. (I said weird digression, but if you need an excuse not to screw up your face, consider that the comic book is more similar to a film than any other art-form, including the stage play; and thus, if you wanna duke it out, fit grist for this column.)

In some ways it is more a manifestation of the Starfucker Syndrome in commercial circles, but auteurism is what it is in bold terms. Whichever comic artist is this week’s Big Star, why he or she is the one given *carte blanche* to rewrite the canon of any pre-existing character. Not even that universal icon, Superman, is safe.


42)
“What thoughts didn’t you want to be alone with?” Duane asked.
“I haven’t got a thought left in my head that I’d care to be alone with for five minutes,” Karla said.
“Nobody’s dead yet, that we know of," Duane said. “Where there’s life there’s hope.”
“No, things are too fucked up now," Karla said. “I doubt my life will ever be unfucked again.”


43)
“You're ice-cold for days, sometimes weeks, then suddenly I come home and you're so hot for it that you're greeting me with your ass in the air. Then the next morning it’s like I disgust you again. Do you know what a mindfuck that is?”


44)
I’ll bugger you and fuck your face,
Aurelius cockboy and Furius fag,
Who read my bawdy verse and think
The author's not a modest man.

[*]


45)
The boy put his paper down quickly and faced Spade, staring at his necktie with bleak hazel eyes. The boy’s small hands were spread flat over his belly. “Keep asking for it and you’re going to get it,” he said, “plenty.” His voice was low and flat and menacing. “I told you to shove off. Shove off.”

Spade waited until a bespectacled pudgy man and a thin-legged blonde girl had passed out of hearing. Then he chuckled and said: “That would go over big back on Seventh Avenue. But you’re not in Romeville now. You're in my burg.” He inhaled cigarette-smoke and blew it out in a long pale cloud. “Well, where is he?”

The boy spoke two words, the first a short guttural verb, the second “you.”

“People lose teeth talking like that.” Spade’s voice was still amiable though his face had become wooden. “If you want to hang around you’ll be polite.”

46)
Speak? Who to?

To . . . him.

To him? To a pisshole collector? To a shithouse operator? To a jamrag vendor? What the fuck are you talking about? Look at him. He’s a mingejuice bottler, a fucking shitcake baker. What are you talking to him for?

Yes, yes, but he’s a good man at heart. I knew him at Oxford.


47)
It’s the future that fucks you up, Brian. It’s the maggot in the apple. See, you’re all pissed off with the present, Bri... and there’s nothing wrong with the present. The present’s fine. The present’s perfect. The present’s peachy fucking creamy. The only thing wrong with the present is the bastard doesn’t exist... because the present is the future, and the future is the past... and it's all the same fucking bag of bones anyway.


48)
“Jesus fucking Christ!” she gasped (and this in an era when the expressive verb/noun fuck did not, like a barnyard orchid, like a meat bubble, like a saline lollipop, did not bloom, as it does today, upon the lips of every maiden in the land).


49)
What fucker said that?

I called him a ponce, and now I’m calling you one. Ponce!

Would you like a drink?

What’s your name? McFuck?

I have a heart condition. I have a heart condition. If you hit me, it’s murder.


50)
“You ugly white cunt, where are my diamond chandelier earrings? Must you insist on being as stupid as you are ugly?” She screamed at me teetering on her new Blahnik mules, her hair under a stocking cap, as she grabbed me by the arm, pressing in hard with her nail extensions. “Now don’t cry, cry baby little white wanna be something Jew girl tryin’ to run away from the past and do big special things like dress this SEXY GORGEOUS BIG TITTIED FUCK BUNNY EBONY BLACK AS NIGHT BLACK AS COAL GRAND CHANEL DIVA! Do I see a tear forming? Not on my time bean pole, shapeless fool, toothpick with two BB’s. What are you hiding under that burlap sack child? Come on, wipe off that forty years in the desert face, and get up and put on my wig and allow me some time to unwind, sip a Remy and get in the mood to ENTERTAIN. My people are waiting, this is Manhattan, the night is dark and fierce and I must (she dragged me to my feet) I MUST shine tonight because people are laying out those American Express platinums to witness the one and only Miss Ember! (She ran frantically around the dressing room screaming into her reflection then back at me.) I’m burning, I am on fire, I’m ready to explode!”

51)
And life did go on.

Even if one sometimes appeared to spend much of it looking in and out of windows.

Or with nobody paying attention to a word one ever said.

Although one continued to take still other lovers, naturally.

And then to separate from other lovers.

Leaves having blown in, or fluffy Cottonwood seeds.

Or then again one sometimes merely fucked, too, with whomever.

Time out of mind.


52)
Through the afternoon and evening they had 17 goes at getting a usable version on tape, but none of them worked and frustration set in. Confusion reigned, with Dylan seemingly unwilling or unable to communicate what he wanted the finished article to sound like, leading the others to presume that he did not actually know. In a process Mike Bloomfield came to describe as ‘chucklefucking’, they kept charging at the song without the remotest direction from either the author or producer, vaguely hoping that in the law of averages, they would eventually stumble on a sound that made some sort of sense. Not today it did not.


53)
I’m sorry, it’s just why can’t we talk to different kinds of people?

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Theresa?


54)
She crawled out to the kitchen and pulled herself up, holding onto the edge of the sink, still yelling he was a blackniggabastard, then let cold water run over her head. Her daughter came over to help her and Nancy continued yelling and then the frustration started her crying and her daughter told her not to cry, Jesus loves us Mommy. Nancy told her to get the fuck away from her.


55)
‘There's the coffee-grinder.’

The coffee-grinder was produced. They both stared at it. It looked okay to Keith.

‘Do you think it’s the fuse?’ she asked confidentially.

‘Could be.’ Grinder, he thought. Here we go. Grind her. A good —

She offered him a screwdriver and looked on with interest. ‘I can’t do it. The screw's too tight.’

Screw, thought Keith. Too tight. Yeah. He was surprised, again, to find no joke, no icebreaking salacity, on his slowly smiling lips. Hang about: it’s coming. Too tight. Screw. If it’s... you can’t have a...

He applied the tool with will. The blade ground into the scratched head — and skidded off into the mons of Keith’s thumb.

‘Fuck,’ he said, and dropped everything.

56)
Since the bungalows at the Sanctuary had electricity only between six and eleven in the evening, Wayne spent most of the day waiting for his laptop to charge up.
‘You know how I got round the draft?’ he asked me during one of these long, powerless interludes.
When I shook my head he saluted me. Along the base of his right hand, in faded black ink, was tattooed FUCK YOU.
‘That’s insubordination,’ I said.
‘You got it, bro,’ he said.


57)
She was inclined now to be more lenient with herself when it came to satisfying her bestial nature. I often wondered what she told herself in making excuses to herself for these extranuptial, pre- or postmorganatic bouts. Certainly she put her heart and soul into them. She was a better fucker now than in the early days when she used to put a pillow under her ass and try to kiss the ceiling. She was fucking with desperation, I guess. Fuck for fuck’s sake and the devil take the hindmost.


58)
“I know I’m better than what I used to do. In Harry’s movies I was always the bimbo. I walked around in a tank top and those fuck-me pumps with stiletto heels till it was time to scream. Harry kills me, he says don’t ever take this business seriously, and he’s the most serious guy I know.”


59)
Tiny had begun to roar. He was usually a reasonable man, but now his voice was high, shattering, crazy.

“You rat-fucking, cock-sucking, asstonguing, sneaky, stinking fleabag.”

Obscenities recalled for Farragut the long-ago war with Germany and Japan. “In a fucking line-rifle company,” he or anyone else might have said, “you get the fucking, malfunctioning M-1’s, fucking ’03’s to simulate fucking carbines, fucking obsolete BAR’s and fucking sixty-millimeter mortars where you have to set the fucking sight to bracket the fucking target.” Obscenity worked on their speech like a tonic, giving it force and structure, but the word “fucking,” so much later, had for Farragut the dim force of a recollection. “Fucking” meant M-1’s, sixty-pound packs, landing nets, the stinking Pacific islands with Tokyo Rose coming over the radio. Now Tiny’s genuine outburst unearthed a past, not very vivid because there was no sweetness in it, but a solid, memorable four years of his life.


60)
We’ve lost Gorgeous George.

You’re gonna have to repeat that.

We’ve lost Gorgeous George.

Well, where’d you lose him? He ain’t a set of fucking car keys, is he? And it’s not as if he's incon-fucking-spicuous, is it?

61)
The shooting part comes after Los Angeles. I was hitching to Bakersfield, a fairly new Mercury stopped, I piled in the back seat with my duffel bag. In front, two guys in their early twenties maybe, I didn't get their names. One had acne, the other had buckteeth. Both were badass talkers like, what the fuck, they didn't give a shit for anything. Living was a ratfuck. The last town was a goatfuck. Just driving along was a pissfuck. They looked to me, ain't that fucking right? I said I was just trying to get to Bakersfield. Yeah, well, that place was a pile of cowfuck, too. And would you fucking look at that, the dumb fuckbutt in the car ahead was going too slow. Acne pulled up to the car’s rear bumper and started pushing it faster. The guy in the car began frantically waving his arms to stop. He couldn't stop. Acne was stomping the gas and whooping it up. Man, was this fucking living, or what! Toothy was laughing his ass off. This went on, the speed up to 70/75, it was wild. The car ahead finally careened from the road and skidded onto the shoulder in a whorl of dust. But it didn't fucking roll, it came to a stop fucking upright. Well, fuck. Acne and Toothy were looking back, throwing the finger. What a pigfuck.


62)
Ed gagged, tried for a body count.

No discernible faces. Maybe five people dead for the cash register and safe take and what they had on them — “Holy shit fuck.”


65)
I’m sorry you’re unwilling to defend your beliefs in any kind of rational —

If you already know the answers to your questions, then why ask PIG FUCK?


64)
‘Now you’ve got five days before they invade,’ said Brian.

‘Five days,’ scoffed Milne. ‘The only reason they’re giving me five days is because they’re fucked if they know what happened. And it’ll take them that long to organise an invasion force. I wonder what he’ll call it? Operation Pacific Shield. Operation Ocean Storm. The boofheaded, cheeseburger-eating, left-hand-side-of-the-road driving, gum-chewing, line-dancing, cowboyboot-wearing, flag-waving, Kentucky-fried fuck.’


65)
My eyes were closed.
I was curled fetally
and yet I held a bayonet
that was for the earth of your stomach.
The belly button singing its puzzle.
The intestines winding like the alpine roads.
It was made to enter you
as you have entered me
and to cut the daylight into you
and let out your buried heartland,
to let out the spoon you have fed me with,
to let out the bird that said fuck you,
to carve him onto a sculpture until he is white
and I could put him on a shelf,
an object unthinking as a stone,
but with all the vibrations
of a crucifix.

66)
I bent down, keeping out of the way of his knees and said: “Keep quiet or you’ll get the same and more of it. Just lie quiet and hold your breath. Hold it until you can’t hold it any longer and then tell yourself that you have to breathe, that you’re black in the face, that your eyeballs are popping out, and that you’re going to breathe right now, but that you're sitting strapped in the chair in the clean little gas chamber up in San Quentin and when you take that breath you’re fighting with all your soul not to take it, it won’t be air you’ll get, it will be cyanide fumes. And that’s what they call humane execution in our state now.”

“Go —— yourself,” he said with a soft stricken sigh.

“You’re going to cop a plea, brother, don't ever think you’re not. And you’re going to say just what we want you to say and nothing we don’t want you to say.”

“Go —— yourself.”

“Say that again and I’ll put a pillow under your head.”


67)
Parents seem to think obstetricians are wise owls with expert knowledge of infants, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. We know the square root of fuck all about them, save for a few half-remembered semi-facts from medical school.


68)
Catherine did not know how long she had been captive. She knew that she had washed twice — the last time she had stood up in the light, wanting him to see her body, not sure if he was looking down from behind the blinding light. Catherine Baker Martin naked was a show-stopper, a girl and a half in all directions, and she knew it. She wanted him to see. She wanted out of the pit. Close enough to fuck is close enough to fight — she said it silently to herself over and over as she washed.


69)
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night


70)
“She’s inside,” he said. “Molly’s inside. In Straylight, it’s called. If there’s any Babylon, man, that’s it. We leave on her, she ain’t comin’ out, Steppin’ Razor or not.”

Maelcum nodded, the dreadbag bobbing behind him like a captive balloon of crocheted cotton. “She you woman, Case?”

“I dunno. Nobody’s woman, maybe.” He shrugged. And found his anger again, real as a shard of hot rock beneath his ribs. “Fuck this," he said. “Fuck Armitage, fuck Wintermute, and fuck you. I’m stayin’ right here.”

71)
“Vassals,”’ Terri said.

“What?” Mel said.

“Vassals,” Terri said. “They were called vassals, not vessels.”

“Vassals, vessels,” Mel said, “what the fuck’s the difference? You knew what I meant anyway. All right,” Mel said. “So I’m not educated. I learned my stuff. I’m a heart surgeon, sure, but I’m just a mechanic. I go in and I fuck around and I fix things. Shit,” Mel said.

“Modesty doesn’t become you,” Terri said.


72)
Lookit, they're suiting up for a raid right now. I don't know where they're going, but they do. And so do you. So make the call . . . Lookit, fuckstick, you don't gotta trust me... just listen to what I'm saying to you.


73)
Murphy gave it (on Garricks authority) that when it was asked what was the greatest pleasure, Johnson answered f——g & the second was drinking. And therefore he wondered why there were not more drunkards, for all could drink tho’ all could not f——k. But Garrick is his most intimate friend . . .


74)
I heard about this guy, walked into a federal bank with a portable phone, handed the phone to the teller, the guy on the other end of the phone said: “We got this guy’s little girl, and if you don’t give him all your money, we’re gonna kill ’er.”

Did it work?

Fuckin’ A it worked, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Knucklehead walks in a bank with a telephone, not a pistol, not a shotgun, but a fuckin’ phone, cleans the place out, and they don’t lift a fuckin’ finger.


75)
It is possible to express facts about syntactic structure without ever referring to the importance of syntax in communication. However, it is a tenet of systemic grammar that concern with the macro-functions provides a base for deeper understanding of how the structures are put together. Recall the example given earlier of developing a 'grammar' for living things. A simple structural analysis would be based on laying out maps of organs, what they connected to, and what structures appeared in which areas. A functional analysis would involve a study of physiology, viewing the body as an intertwined set of systems (such as the circulatory system and the respiratory system) and describing individual organs and internal structures in terms of the functions they serve in each of these systems. A macro-functional analysis would include an understanding of the functions these systems serve in preserving the individual and the species. The organs and structures can be described in terms of the way they contribute to one or more of the necessary macro-functions (which have been succinctly characterised as 'feeding, fleeing, fighting, and reproduction').

76)
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sophie,” she replied.
“Not dancing?”
“No, I don’t really like African dance, it’s too . . . ”
Too what? He understood her dilemma. Too primitive? Certainly not. Too rhythmic? Even that bordered on racism. There was nothing you could say about African fucking dance.

[*]


77)
I rant, I rave with frustration. I even consider rolling it in magazine paper. Then . . . a flashbulb of remembrance; my wallet! Of course; didn’t I put a pack of zig-zag gummed wheatstraws in my wallet that night we all got so zonked at Jan’s and the three of us composed that immortal children’s classic *Fuckleberry Hen*?


78)
— Yefuckinkilledme litmefuckindie junkedupootyirfuckinheids watchinthefuckinwaws ya fuckindopeyjunkycunt ah’llfuckinripyefuckinopen n feedoanyirfuckinmiserablesickgreyjunkyflesh startinwiyirjunkycockcauseahdiedafuckinvirginahllnivirgitafuckinridenivirgittaewearfuckinmakeupncoolclathesnivirgittaebeanythin causeyoufuckinjunkycuntsnivircheckedusyisletusfuckindiefuckinsuffocatetaefuckindeath yiskenwhitthatfeelslikeyacunts causeahvegoatafuckinsoulnahkinstillknowfuckinpainnyousecunts youseselfishfuckinjunkycuntswiyirfuckinskagtookitawawayfius soahmgaunnychewyourfuckindiseasedprickoafWANTAFUCKINBLOWJOBWANTAFUCKINBLOWJOBWANTAFAAAAAAAAACKIN


79)
Freddy spoke solemnly, trying to be precise. “You are a paradox. You’re a funny fellow. A long time ago, when I was a little boy studying my mommy and my daddy, I decided there are two kinds of people in the world: A, those who fuck, and, B, those who get fucked. Now the funny thing about you, Petrov, is you think you’re A but you’re really B.”


80)
I sat there wishing some OSI guys had been on the plane, so that they could vouch for me. But I’d already made sure no OSI guys were on it. After I’d arranged to go to Brazil, I’d started worrying that OSI would go down there and start legalizing the situation into chaos. So, as Dick Nixon used to say, I rat-fucked them. I called my airline to see if they were on the same flight, and found that they were. So I canceled their reservations. Canceled their hotel, too, just for fun.

And look where it had gotten me. As Nixon wrote in Beyond Peace, “If you live by the rat-fuck, you die by the ratfuck.”

I checked out the lounge and found a liquor cabinet. Poured myself a drink. For all I knew, I was going to spend the rest of the day with electrodes attached to my testicles. I needed a drink.

81)
Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, she scratched his head and asked. “What do you think? This ought to be the right kind of place for a tough guy like you. Garbage cans. Rats galore. Plenty of cat-bums to gang around with. So scram,” she said, dropping him; and when he did not move away, instead raised his thug-face and questioned her with yellowish pirate-eyes, she stamped her foot: “I said beat it!” He rubbed against her leg. “I said fuck off!” she shouted, then jumped back in the car, slammed the door, and: “Go,” she told the driver. “Go. Go.”

I was stunned. “Well, you are. You are a bitch.”


82)
“Okay, okay, okay. Just take it easy. You’ll be all right in a minute.”

“All right? I’ll never be all right again. Its all right for you, if you’re a thirty year man. I aint. I dont give a fuck for them, see? Not a single goddam solitary frazzle-assed fuck. I — just — got — my — belly — full.”


83)
The man came out with the flashlight and led me through the room into a kitchen and a new corner. “*Mis bolsas!*” I said. He understood and went back in and brought my bags. “I’m sorry,” I said in English. Jesus nursed and fell asleep, but I leaned against the wall and waited for morning. I am learning English, I thought. I went over all the English I knew. Court, Kentucky Fry, hamburger, good-bye, greaser, nigger, asshole, ho, Pampers, How much? Fuck a duck, children, hospital, stopit, shaddup, hello, I'm sorry, *General Hospital*, *All My Children*, inguinal hernia, pre-op, post-op, *Geraldo*, food stamps, money, car, crack, pólis, *Miami Vice*, José Canseco, homeless, real pretty, No way, José, Excuse me, I’m sorry, please, please, stopit, shaddup, shaddup, I’m sorry. Holy Mary mother of God pray for us.


84)
Who said that? Who the fuck said that? Who's the slimy little communist shit twinkle-toed cocksucker down here, who just signed his own death warrant? Nobody, huh?! The fairy fucking godmother said it! Out-fucking-standing!


85)
Captain Kroll looked into each of their faces, and in a hushed voice he said that their reconnaissance patrols were reporting *beaucoup* troop movements all through the valley. They should maintain an extreme degree of alertness, he said. Mister Charles needed some scalps to show off in Paris. Mister Charles was looking for a party.

“Rock and roll!” said the guy behind B.D.

It was a dumbfuck thing to say. Nobody else said a word.

86)
It’s impossible. I’m the kind of fool who, facing Caesar and his starving lions, need only retract a statement to walk away scot-free but instead cannot suppress saying “fuck you” to Caesar — knowing full well the consequences. What is more, *I refuse to be martyred*; I don’t accept the consequences, and whine all the way to my death. A death, it seems, that I chose.

If I *could* please Caesar, I would, I gladly would.

It’s a fucked-up world, but it’s all I got.


87)
“My name’s McHenry. You’ll get the rest of your fine tomorrow night. We got to hurry. Rest of the fine is fifty whacks. You want to know what a whack is? You want to know the rest of the rules, so’s you don’t go around busting the rules?”

“Fuck your mother,” Jack said.


88)
So ended my acquaintance with one of the most charming women I ever had. — One beautiful when dressed and beautiful in bed, with a lovely cunt, and who was a lovely fuckster. — She was a careful manager, a good cook, fond of her home, and had every quality a woman needs to make a home happy. — I doubt most women’s words on fucking subjects, for when a woman has had two or three men — a fresh bit of meat up her cunt, put in on the sly, and with or without the chance of a present, is a treat few can refuse themselves. — A knowledge that another prick has rubbed up her lends an additional charm to and fills a woman’s impressible mind with voluptuous images and sensuous delight and adds to the pleasure when the regular legitimate prick is working its way . . .


89)
“*Va fongul!*” his girl replied, rolling her harassed eyes up toward the ceiling. “What does he want from me?” she implored, shaking her fists. “*Lasciami!*” she told him in menacing entreaty. “Stupido! If you think my friends are so bad, go tell your friends not to ficky- fick all the time with my friends!”


90)
“I’ve had it.
I’ve gone fishing now for seven years
and I haven’t caught a single trout.
I’ve lost every trout I ever hooked.
They either jump off
or twist off
or squirm off
or break my leader
or flop off
or fuck off.
I have never even gotten my hands on a trout.
For all its frustration,
I believe it was an interesting experiment
in total loss
but next year somebody else
will have to go trout fishing.
Somebody else will have to go
out there.”

91)
“Ah’m makin' an awful mistake, but Ah’ll see ya,” Wilson said. “What ya got, boy?”

Gallagher was truculent as though he knew he were going to be beaten. “What the fug do ya think I got — it’s a flush in hearts, jack up.”

Wilson sighed. “Ah hate to do this to ya, boy, but Ah got ya in spades with that bull.” He pointed to his ace.

For several seconds Gallagher was silent, but the dark lumps on his face turned a dull purple. Then he seemed to burst all at once. “Of all the mother-fuggin luck, that sonofabitch takes it all.”


92)
I threw a stone & hit his gelding on the rump it reared and started.

Well eff you he cried I have ridden 2 adjectival days to be here Dan’s my mate you well recall.


93)
“This Arthur Dent,” comes the cry from the furthest reaches of the galaxy, and has even now been found inscribed on a mysterious deep space probe thought to originate from an alien galaxy at a distance too hideous to contemplate, “What is he, man or mouse? Is he interested in nothing more than tea and the wider issues of life? Has he no spirit? Has he no passion? Does he not, to put it in a nutshell, fuck?”


94)
“Marie,” I said, “Do you still love me?” “Chuck you, Farley,” she said, “and your whole famn damily. You know I’ll always love you. All’s hotsie-dandy here, thank you very much.”


95)
Anyway, we’re sitting in her room concocting this letter to her pretend boy friend when Black Geraldine waltzes in and drapes herself across the bed and starts chipping in, saying was this boy friend blond, did he have curly hair, and then nasty personal-type questions she should know better than to ask Shirley. And Shirley’s getting confused and stammering and Geraldine’s laughing, so finally I threw caution to the winds and told Geraldine to fuck up.

She screams with laughing and goes running down the corridor saying, ‘Do you know what Irene said, do you know what Irene said?’

When she’d gone Shirley said, ‘You shouldn’t have said that.’ I said, ‘I know, but sometimes it’s necessary.’ She said, ‘No, Irene. I don’t mean you shouldn’t have said it. Only you got it wrong. It’s not fuck up.’ I said, ‘What is it?’ She said, ‘It’s fuck off.’

She’s good-hearted.

96)
Eddie Coyle replaced the handset in the receiver carefully. He opened the door of the booth and found a stout woman, about fifty, staring at him. “It took you long enough,” she said.

“I was calling my poor sick mother,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, her face immediately relaxing into an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Has she been ill long?”

Eddie Coyle smiled. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “and the horse you rode in on.”


97)
I’m sorry you’re hurt.

I’m not hurt.

You just said you were hurt.

I didn’t say I was hurt. You said I was hurt.

I asked if you were hurt, and you said, ‘Yeah, I’m hurt’.

You made me say it. You put words in my mouth.

You’re a grown man. You have control over your own words.

Goddamn right I do. So here come two words for you. Shut the fuck up.


98)
Hey! What’s this day-of-rest shit? What’s this bullshit? I don’t fucking care! It don’t matter to Jesus. But you not fooling me, man. You might fool the fuck in the league office but you don’t fool Jesus. It’s Bush league psych-out stuff. Laughable, man! I would’ve fucked you in the ass Saturday. I’ll fuck you in the ass next Wednesday instead. You got a date Wednesday, baby!


99)
Man has undertaken the top job of all,
*son fin*. Good luck.
I myself walked at the funeral of tenderness.
Followed other deaths. Among the last,
like the memory of a lovely fuck,
was: *Do, ut des*.


100)
So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a snowdrop of forked white fire. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan, and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river.

3 is Confederacy of Dunces

>>23026867
>3 is Confederacy of Dunces
Correct. John Kennedy Toole.

I suspect people will find the films much easier in general, but we're starting with a novel, so that's good.

9) Ferris Bueller's Day Off

14) Glengarry Glen Ross

18) Journey to the End of the Night

45) Maltese Falcon

70) Neuromancer

78) This isn't Finnegans Wake, is it? Or is it just thunder words he did this with?

84) Is that you, John Wayne?

>>23026739
>41)
Neil Gaiman is the only writer I recognize as having worked in comics so I think this might be him in an interview or article.
>45)
Guess but it sounds like the era, but the Spade here might be Sam Spade from Maltese Falcon
>>23026760
>69)
ee cummings style punctuation and capitalization
>>23026776
>93)
Arthur Dent is of course the main character of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

>>23027117
A fine six out of seven, although we'd better fill in some of the details:

>9) Ferris Bueller's Day Off
John Hughes. Ferris's cheery nurse-o-gram singing at the door.

>14) Glengarry Glen Ross
David Mamet. From the Alec Baldwin cameo of course. It's not in the stage play, just the film, but I think DM wrote it.

>18) Journey to the End of the Night
Céline in typical mood.

>45) Maltese Falcon
Dashiell Hammett. Much harder for a film. It just has to miss it out altogether or say it explicitly (not happening in 1941).

>70) Neuromancer
Correct, William Gibson. Case in heroic mode, or as close as he ever gets to it.

>78) This isn't Finnegans Wake, is it? Or is it just thunder words he did this with?
It isn't. Same sort of idea. If you say it out loud with the right regional accent it all makes sense.

>84) Is that you, John Wayne?
Full Metal Jacket, if people are wondering. A hard one to attribute. Three people worked on the script but I gave it to R. Lee Ermey since supposedly he did most of his dialogue himself.

>>23026729
30 is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
>>23026734
36 is The Martian
38 is Infinite Jest
>>23026769
89 might be Catch-22?

>>23027201

>41)
>Neil Gaiman is the only writer I recognize as having worked in comics so I think this might be him in an interview or article.
Nope, not NG. It's from a book of cinema reviews by someone more well known for fiction.

>45)
>Guess but it sounds like the era, but the Spade here might be Sam Spade from Maltese Falcon
You're a close second behind the duck.

>69)
>ee cummings style punctuation and capitalization
Correct. It's from "No Thanks". No title. (eec usually just numbered his poems. This is #44, for what it's worth.)

>93)
>Arthur Dent is of course the main character of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
He is, although this isn't the first book in the series. Maybe someone else can pinpoint it.

>>23026718
>9
This wasn't in V., was it?
>38
IJ
>44
Catullus
This was a tough one, OP

81 is breakfast at tiffanies?

>>23027291
All correct. I'm gonna need more animated girls (I try to give animated gifs when people get lots of answers at once).

>30 is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Of course. Hunter S. Thompson.

>36 is The Martian
Andy Weir. Opening line, so people should recognize this even if they just read the first paragraph in the bookshop and put it back.

>38 is Infinite Jest
Correct, David Foster Meme himself.

>89 might be Catch-22?
Might be and is. Idealistic young WASP meets Mediterranean working girl; comedy culture clash ensues.

>>23027305

>9
>This wasn't in V., was it?
Hehe, well, not unless someone was quoting someone. It's already been found.

>38
>IJ
Yes, but as above, you're not the first.

>44
>Catullus
Correct. Just called ‘Catullus 16’, usually.


>This was a tough one, OP
I was expecting the films to prove easier than the books, but people are getting lots of books so far.

>>23027317

>81 is breakfast at tiffanies?
Of course. A girl called Holly being mean to a cat; what else could it be? Truman Capote.

44. Catullus XVI
6[3]. PTA, The Master
66. The Big Sleep?
74. Pulp Fiction

>>23027389

>44. Catullus XVI
Correct, although already ID'd.

>6[3]. PTA, The Master
63, yes. Paul Thomas Anderson. (PSH might have improvised it actually, but whatever. Let him sue me.)

>66. The Big Sleep?
Correct. Raymond Chandler. Easy to spot the older books, haha. They didn't use bad language. Quite right too.

>74. Pulp Fiction
Correct. Roger Avery wrote some of the stories but I think QT did the dialogue.