A Confederacy of Dunces

“consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

You must have therapy soon or you will become a screaming queen.

I considered the possibilities. An accident of gas could, I reasoned, produce a sound—boiling pots bubbled merrily—but it would be plosive. It would go pop, poof, or plop. Possibly boof or bloop. Maybe—maybe—ffft or frap; a farting sound could be explained. I let my tongue and vocal cords go slack, forced air out of my lungs, and simulated these ai

I am an anachronism. People realize this and resent it.”