Had a fun idea: in 3-5 sentences we write a distilled version of an authors general schtick. It should mimic language, milieu, and theme, though of course of bit of parody will go a way toward making this more entertaining.
I'll go first - Raymond Carver
He smoked a cigarette.
She climbed into bed.
"Can we get a new bed".
The cigarette set fire to the bed.
She couldn't sleep or free herself from her dull existence (because the bed was on fire); she worked in a bed shop.
He was just a good o'l yankee machinist with a little of that which his grand mother had taken to calling "that kinda' seein you do with your soul". He could of shit his britches when the psychic pedoe millipede opened a macdonalds franchise. Still, his favourite machine was deus ex machina, so he did something gay like really love somebody and the pedo vampire exploded, and he inherited the macdonalds franchise.
"Let us diccuss how the metaphysics of the magical arcana and debt slavery is represented in these unbreakable evil chains of darkness" stated the marine, for he was the top sniper in the Empire's armed forces.
"Nay," proclaimed the infant babe with the power. "such brash action would bring for the storm, and with it, the fury that would wipe out all of us."
"Enough!" shouted the god, his voice shattering two mountains in the distance and creating chasms from which evil beings poured forth. "You are both stupid!"
The man walked. He walked and he put one put in front of the other as he stepped and he continued to walk like a fallen angel, eyes bleak and tired in the afternoon darkness.
I caint see what with all this darkness, he said.
A man appeared behind him. He spun and shot the man and the man's brains came out the back of his head like brains, coming out the back of a man's head.
her cheeks like the wine that summer drinks when it plays idly with winters balls in the sheltering bosom of infinite gentleness made him realise that high society is but the feathery unfurling of a dream dreamt by some faggy autists
Proust (pleasures and days)
Her daddy did two things to her: raping her and teaching her about dental hygiene. It was hard to determine which of those obsessions was his favorite, as they manifested as if sporadically. Sometimes he would go a month without mentioning floss. Sometimes he would rape her all weekend long. The lesson she learned was: you really DO need to brush your teeth, especially when in the whoring business.
For all the sorrow in the land
The vers that's libre the most shall longest stand.
As future, past, and present come to form
The new components of the modern poetical norm,
I'll write of snow (but will it blow?) to help and keep us warm.
I hugged myself, rested my head on the pillow--now ripped and bleeding down--I carried from lodging to lodging, through sleet and snow and rain and the occasional sunshine, with mother. Shouts, sirens. I sniffed for a fire's shadow, looked around the room, listened for any alarms from the other lodgers. But there was no fire, no smoke. There never was.
I realized that I didn't make a mistake. I was made of mistakes. People are made of mistakes. This is what people are made of. Remember that people are made up of stars, our own celestial bodies, what comprises others incredibly out of reach yet twinkling in the distance, preconceived and premature, and yet we ourselves are made of the same cosmic dust-to-dust. Always remember, also, the universe was made by accident.
And it all makes sense, because she is my sunbeam.
Hannalore Annelise wore makeup like wood glue. I was the qawky, gangly teenager, with limbs like freshly washed baby carrots, starting at square tile one of the high school entrance. I had a stack of books the size of two Infinite Jests and a paperback The Girl With Curious Hair. I was looking her, dead, in the eyes.
"Why are you speaking to me, Jonathan?"
When she spoke, she made it a breeze. When others spoke, I only heard wind.
K. found himself in the oppressive confines of a dingy corridor, filled with doors. Outside each door there was a squat man in grey, feebly twisting the doorknobs, apparently in the hopes it would open.
"What are you doing?" asked K.
"We're waiting for the doors to be unlocked," said the nearest thickly.
"What's on the other side?"
"Another locked door."
And then he found that the little man was in fact, a giant bug, which irritated K. This was not the place he was told it was.
Could be accurate for a translation, sounds off though, for so someone who has only read him in German. It's obvious who's meant, can't really say what's missing, probably it's the inevitable changes in his sentence structure due to the translation, which I think is pretty unique.
It was at that moment when the scatophage touched the medalion at my neck that I knew in some ways I was part of him, too - that every scat on every path had fallen there as if planned, and i knew then that the fricatrice who had whipped me so soundly last night was purer than I imagined. I pulled out the man bone comb forged by the teeth of a thalasodon and ran it through my thick mustache, wishing my hair had lingered just a few decades more. But what is a decade to the All Powerful, the Increate, for whom time is just a chain of sputtering seed and limp dinguses. As I snapped the scatophage's neck, performing the excruciation known as sodomizing the banana, I noticed a cylinder on the ground - but in the dark I knew it had once somehow been a potato. I took it with me that i might never walk alone.
David Wallace put his hand through his hair and sudsed his scalp. His complexion was the big reveal, the wind worn assless chaps strip down of a sack of jaw and saran wrap on M&M's. He pulled on the top of his cheeks to check the inside of his eyes, now encircled by little gaping pink lips. He sighed without recognizing, as you might not realize you do most of the the day, that you have to return the exhaled breath.
The noose was spun like a tennis racquet, the urge to go through was akin to that of the cartoon gag of busting your head through the strung run. Climbing onto the chair was akin to jumping on a lay-down lawn chair, a piece of furniture that, in its own, very comforting way held you and tossed you like a tennis ball, coaxed into it's strung, sprung, catch me on my rebound extend me, stretch me, let the next one deal with me reclinatory confines. David's eyes had the dead look, like when you watch television for two long. He looked back behind his eyes.
My friend Jake, he dropped from med school. Instead of showering he washed his body with an iodine solution. Gave him a jaundiced look that scared people away, but he was always squeaky clean.
As clean as medical instruments before surgery.
Jake never became a surgeon but he did like his drugs. He would drop acid and tell me "When life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade. Shove those lemons up your ass and show life who's boss."
According to classified WHO reports, up to 37 percent of all surgeries in developed countries are performed by doctors in a state of intoxication. Most of them were successful.
I imagined the doctors high as kites, imagining they're connecting their own cocks instead of reattaching veins, tendons, nerves.
Makes them patient.
Makes them careful.
When life makes you lemons, think of your cock. And shove a lemon up your ass.
Never asked Jake if he'd done that.
But looking at him, I had the feeling he probably did.
He was smoking when she climbed into bed.
"Hey, can we get a new bed?".
"I said can we get a new bed."
"I heard you."
as i exhausted the old bibliographies from the index librarium exhibitorioum i came across an old account by snurri sturlursonn (reijkavik, iceland 1457) that spoke about the eerie fascimile between two superimposed mirrors and a labyrinth, though the comparission may be banal to today standards i think it would be apt to indulge in it so we can understand the nuance by which the old Icelandic historian dreamed of the history of man as a metaphor to be drawn rather than a mere collection of events described in chronological fashion
Jorge Luis Borges