Date: 1963
"Then he started talking about let a equal acceleration and let t equal time and suddenly he was scribbling letters and numbers and equals signs all over the blackboard and my mind went dead."
preview | full record— Plath, Sylvia (1932-1963)
Date: 1963
"At about this point I began to feel peculiar. I looked round me at all the rows of rapt little heads with the same silver glow on them at the front and the same black shadow on them at the back, and they looked like nothing more or less than a lot of stupid moonbrains."
preview | full record— Plath, Sylvia (1932-1963)
Date: 1963
"After that--in spite of the Girl Scouts and the piano lessons and the water-color lessons and the dancing lessons and the sailing camp, all of which my mother scrimped to give me, and college, with crewing in the mist before breakfast and blackbottom pies and the little new firecrackers of ideas...
preview | full record— Plath, Sylvia (1932-1963)
Date: 1963
"I tried to think what I had loved knives for, but my mind slipped from the noose of the thought and swung, like a bird, in the center of empty air."
preview | full record— Plath, Sylvia (1932-1963)
Date: 1970
"God, what a muck-heap my mind is, thought Tallis."
preview | full record— Murdoch, Iris (191-1999)
Date: 1984
"His brain was deep-fried. No, he decided, it had been thrown into hot fat and left there, and the fat had cooled, a thick dull grease congealing on wrinkled lobes, shot through with greenish-purple flashes of pain."
preview | full record— Gibson, William (b. 1948)
Date: 1984
"He still had his anger. That was like being rolled in some alley and waking to discover your wallet still in your pocket, untouched."
preview | full record— Gibson, William (b. 1948)
Date: 1988
"My rank aroma was the perfume my soul exuded, devotion's air."
preview | full record— Erdrich, Louise (b. 1954)
Date: 1991
"The surface of the collective psyche was like the worn, stripy ticking of an old mattress."
preview | full record
Date: 1992
"Even more important to David than the very natural worry that his wife and his son might grow fond of one another was the intoxicating feeling that he had a blank consciousness to work with, and it gave him great pleasure to knead this yielding clay with his artistic thumbs."
preview | full record— Edward St. Aubyn (b. 1960)