Showing posts with label Michael Ampersant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael Ampersant. Show all posts

Feb 5, 2023

Talent borrows, genius steals

 

TESLA---the car company---was going through a rough spell...(market-wise, we mean)...but now Glenn, our friend, sends this...



...and the sun shines again on the Tesla stock price.


Hold on, didn't we promise a third installment of our new comedy, about Dolly, the new robot? And, yes, coincidences never happen (classical deterministic mechanics), and so we have a line about Elon Musk in this comedy. Here it is (Steve (founder of a planetary maker of robots), and Eliza (his former lover) in conversation):

ELIZA (TURNING TO STEVE:) ...Capitalism brought you here, Steve.

STEVE: Capitalism? The secret tube for billionaires brought me here, Elon Musk's vacuum tube under the Atlantic with magnetic levitation trains running at twelve times the speed of sound. I caught the last one.

ELIZA: The DEMISE of capitalism brought you here, I mean...but that's not all... 

...(sorry to interrupt)..."Demise of capitalism", you wonder? Yes, because that's what Dolly, the the new, automatic wunderkind brought about, in all its innocence, and here's the corresponding fragment from the play (Dolly served as a collateral for a loan to Eliza from the Shark-Blue Bank, but Eliza defaulted on the loan, so the collateral has been delivered to the bank). Triple-X is the helper of the bailiff.

DOLLY

  Well, the honorable bailiffs tried to dump me on the sharks of the Skye-Blue Bank.

TRIPLE-X

  Shark-Blue Bank.

DOLLY

  I thought...let's annoy the bankers beyond repair so that they'll send me back to the doctor. I don't want to work for a bank, you see. I'm a communist at heart...


Nov 28, 2022

Didn't we promised more sex on the moon (2)...

...meaning another fragment from Michael new novella "Sex on the Moon"? Here it is...hold on...reset...

...the first fragment was from the opening of the story, with Michel Ardan, one of the passengers of Jules Verne's Voyage to the Moon  relating how he met a certain Joseph Glanning, an engineer from the newly organized Stanford College in Alta California, and how they get into bed together...

...and, so, here's the second fragment, in which our Michel meets Sigmund Freud, who, at the time (more than 150 years ago), was supposedly an intern with the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine in Baltimore...so...here goes:

I walked back to the hotel, mildly intoxicated, passing by the Baltimore Public Library where I beheld a small bill pinned to the announcement board there, a sheet advertising a public lecture on SEXUAL AMNESTY. It was to be given by a certain Dr. Sigmund Freud, an “esteemed resident” with the medical school of Johns Hopkins college. The lecture would be next day, at noon. 

That’s what I need imminently, I bethought myself, amnesty from my sexuality, and so I spent the rest of the walk thinking up excuses regarding the lunch engagement at the club.

Eventually I sent a wordy telegram that cost me a fortune to 3 Republican Street, Barbicane’s residence—-we had exchanged calling cards, of course—-detailing unspecified misfortunes that I had encountered on my way back to the hotel STOP which inconvenienced me absolutely past noon STOP whether he would agree to a postponement of our pleasant luncheon plans STOP until the next day STOP I’m not even lying, strictly speaking, STOP.  

Sigmund Freud with the rabbit from Alice in
Wonderland
and a quote from our novella

I arrived early in the humungous auditorium of the School of Medicine. I was the first and—-to make a long story short—-the last person to arrive, except for a young bespectacled man of scholarly appearance who was already in attendance, rectangular-faced, square-chinned, poorly dressed in a black suit of European cut, holding on to a pointer, walking up and down the dais, staring at the humongous wall clock above the entrance. The stare appeared to be his most conspicuous feature, the jaw, beard, horn-rimmed glasses, pupils all conspiring to emit signals of tele-pathetic, nay, tele-portational force. Indeed, the long hand of the aforementioned clock hesitated under his stare to pass the XII-mark on the dial, as if it didn’t dare to go further. Around 12:05 the gentleman began to hit his open left palm with the pointer in his right hand—-an intensifying gesticulation that reached its climax at exactly 12:15, whence he said, in an accent so heavy that even I recognized it as German: “Non mihi solum, non nobus solum.”  He then collected a stack of papers from the rostrum and un-dertook to depart through a door off stage. 

“Herr Doctor Freud,” I cried—-it had to be the lecturer himself—-“Herr Doctor Freud!” 

He turned around and bellowed: “What is it that you desire?”

‘Good question,’ I thought. “I…,” I managed to say, “I desire sexual amnesty.”

“You will not get it, my Mister, for there is no such thing as sexual amnesty. Sexuality is too squarely rooted in the human psyche to be forgiven or forgotten. This fucking darn a-m-n-e-s-t-y is a mistake on the announcement bills, a misprint that by necessity must be responsible for the poor attendance. The lecture was to be about sexual ambivalence.” 

“It was perhaps more a question of scheduling,” I said. “People are out to lunch.”

“Bah,” he said, raising his stare to the clock on the wall. I tracked his eyes—-well, eyes—-and I swear, the long hand on the clock appeared to retreat under his gaze. He ignored the feat however, instead looking himself up and down. A funny sound filled the hall, apparently coming from his stomach. Disarmingly he said: “I scheduled the lecture at noon so I can forgo lunch. A pecuniary question, you understand. The residents are paid a pittance.” Forthcomingness, I learned soon, was one of his many strong points.

“If that’s it,” I said, and proceeded to invite him to Haussner’s Restaurant, indeed my favorite haunt of repast in Baltimore (Barbicane would be ensconced at his club, I reckoned). 

We walked the twenty minutes to the restaurant, Freud still holding on to the pointer, and when we arrived thither he knew everything about my mother, father, penis, gardener Hérault, Hérault’s penis, and (my) refractory period (the minimal lapse time between two male ejaculations—Freud made appreciative noises). 

Are you still there? Are you hooked? 

Here's the link to the e-book:
Green Eyes

Are you still there, but not yet hooked? Relax. There will be one more posts with a fragment from the novella.



Nov 18, 2022

Famous for 15 minutes--Sex on the Moon

 Cool, folks, cool. We're now #8 on the Amazon Charts for "Erotic Fiction":



It won't last, sadly, but anyhow. Imagine where we would be on the charts for "unerotic fiction".





Nov 16, 2022

Sex on the Moon--a new novella by Michael Ampersant (1)

Cool, folks, cool. After two years of literary silence, we finally have a new novella out. It carries the audience-friendly title Sex on the Moon (the original title was Lunar Engineering, but we changed that after consulting with the omnipresent and all-knowing Elon Musk). 
The whole thing is fan fiction, since it's a rewrite of Jules Verne's sci-fi novel From the Earth to the Moon. Michael wrote the piece in 2016 for a sci-fi anthology, but the publisher in question folded prematurely; the piece has lingered on his shelf for homeless literature ever since.
It took Michael so long to get it out because of his real-estate complications (selling the house on the Cote d'Azur, buying one in Portugal, then fixing it up), compounded by health issues (Covid, Long Covid, Post Covid). Anyhow, here's the story--so far as e-book, the printed version will soon follow.

So, Jules Verne fan fiction. Michael still remembers fondly the day that he sat on a nice beach in Brittany back in 1989 where he read the Verne book (in French). He finished the tome in one afternoon because the French is easy, and there were several things really wrong with the plot--a fact which kept him going.
For his novella, Michael invented a knowledgeable engineer to explain what’s wrong exactly  with the plot to our narrator, Michel Ardan, one of the three passengers of Verne’s lunar expedition. The fragment is a bit scabrous, hopefully you can handle that:

I feel obliged to warn the indulgent reader that my knowledge of the darker side of lunar engineering dates back only a few days—-three days to be precise—-when I met a certain Joseph Glanning in the bar of the Franklin Hotel in Tampa Town, Florida, where I had taken a room in anticipation of my impending departure for Stones Hill. A most irresistible man, he invited me to a drink and inquired as to the reasons for my stay. Learning of my intention to join Impey Barbicane, the illustrious president of the Baltimore Gun Club, for the much-heralded voyage to the moon, he introduced himself as an engineer from the newly-organized Stanford College in Alta California. Mister Stanford himself—-curious of all the lunar commotion on the distant eastern coast—-had dispatched him across the continent to take pulse of the events and report back at his earliest convenience. Glanning would be most grateful if I could enlighten him further, for he had hitherto been preoccupied by other projects, unable to avail himself of the particulars. He then asked questions. Yet, while I answered to the best of my ability, his countenance, so engaging at the onset of our barroom chat, darkened precariously. “Really,” he finally uttered. 

Mar 5, 2021

"I love you...Me neither" (updated)

 If you're old enough, you'll remember the eternal French words "Je t'aime...Moi non plus", spoken by Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin, in what...let's look this up...in 1969 (meaning you possibly won't (remember)).

But we got struck by this not so jugendfreie poster on the internet...

We added the fig-leaves after having read a beautiful essay in The New Yorker about Nabokov's Lolita 

...and feel encouraged to engage in another act of self-promotion by invoking our novel "Green Eyes", which--regular readers of this blog may have come to regret--is always about everything, and so it's also about this song...

We're in Chapter 17 of the GREEN EYES, and the whole thing is NOT jugendfrei at all, so you'll read this at your own risk. John, the narrator, and Alex, the lead character, have met once before, and now they meet again--in Johns bed: 

We’re back in the bedroom. We finally embrace, kiss. This is it, this is the moment. Should Alex expect me to sink to my knees now, unbutton his fly, like in the porn flicks? Or unzip his zipper, most porn flicks are so cheap, they don’t have money for the more expensive, button-holed Levis—-unzip his cheaper jeans and start caressing his briefs with my lips, drawing the attention to his budding tumescence under the cotton? 
Well, I might, at least in the sense that my bedroom looks almost as bad as the motel rooms where those flicks are shot. A chest, two wooden bedside tables, two wooden chairs. A timber-framed bed done in cherry imitation, a mattress and dirty sheets, a discordant collection of things that speak of my financial (and mental) condition. 
Yet Alex isn’t waiting for the cotton kiss (besides, he doesn’t wear any fly-enhanced leg-wear but is still clad in his hospital sweatpants). Instead, he undresses unceremoniously. T-shirt, pants, briefs, shoes, socks are all arranged into a neat pile on the second chair. 
He climbs onto the bed, folds himself into some relaxed, unassuming position, like a model in a drawing class, but without the attitude. The simplicity of his movements I will never forget, they changed my life.
I follow his example and make an unusual effort at apparel-folding. Although we had fairly rough sex the previous morning, there is not the least suggestion of anything untoward between us in the past, for all practical purposes we could be virgins. I lie next to him. 
“You’re beautiful,” he says, caressing my face. I’m caressing back. This would be the moment to say ‘I love you,’ although you never know what you get back, like ‘moi non plus,’ statistically the most honest answer (moi non plus, French, used by Serge Gainsbourg, the one and only basis for his fame, this noun phrase, meaning “me neither”), or ‘I love you too,’ but uttered unconvincingly, or ‘I love you too,’ uttered more convincingly, although you know it’s bullshit.

(I hold back.)

(I cannot hold back.)

“I love you,” I say.

“No sweat,” Alex comes back—-bypassing world literature from Homer to Spielberg. Have you ever heard anybody saying ‘no sweat’ in this situation? There’s a teasing movement of his eyelashes, although his green eyes stay neutral as if it’s head or tail. “In human sexual behavior,” he says, “foreplay is a set of emotionally and physically intimate acts between two or more people meant to create desire for sexual activity and sexual arousal.” Ooh, he’s so sweet!

(There's more educational content below, first the self-promotion:)


Green Eyes
"Click"

(And now the educational stuff:)


 

 (And the lyrics:)

Je t'aime, je t'aime
Oh oui, je t'aime
Moi non plus
Oh, mon amour
Comme la vague irrésolue
Je vais, je vais et je viens
Entre tes reins
Je vais et je viens
Entre tes reins
Et je me retiens
Je t'aime, je t'aime
Oh oui, je t'aime
Moi non plus
Oh, mon amour
Tu es la vague, moi l'île nue
Tu vas, tu vas et tu viens
Entre mes reins
Tu vas et tu viens
Entre mes reins
Et je te rejoins
Je t'aime, je t'aime
Oh oui, je t'aime
Moi non plus
Oh, mon amour
Comme la vague irrésolue
Je vais, je vais et je viens
Entre tes reins
Je vais et je viens
Entre tes reins
Et je me retiens
Tu vas, tu vas et tu viens
Entre


Feb 10, 2021

Our Lady of the Flowers --- Variations on a Genet classic


Jan van Rijn, the celebrate bibliophile publisher, has a new book out, and it's about "Notre Dame des Fleurs", the mind-boggling first oeuvre of Jean Genet. Genet wrote it in a Paris prison in 1942, on brown-bag paper, whence his "manuscript" got confiscated by prurient prison guards. Undaunted, he asked for more brown-bag paper and rewrote it from scratch. Eventually it got published, so that Jean-Paul Sartre could discover it---Sartre, the inventor of Existentialism---and promptly declare the author a "saint". Genet's career was made---such was the way of French cultural life at the time. 

We read the "Lady" four times and it got better with each pass. Four times? Yes, because we had promised to contribute to Jan's publication and didn't know for quite some time what to do.
 


But then, in late 2019 we hit on an idea during a chance meeting with...




...the mysterious founding fathers of the Verse Reconstruction Movement. 

We had always dreamed of writing prose that could pass as poetry (and vice versa), and---having already isolated the "hottest" passages of the Fleurs---we undertook to turn them into poetic language. Six poems resulted, and they are in the book. Here's the first one:


EACH CELL A HISSING NEST OF SNAKES

(by Michael Ampersant)

I’m like those prisons,
Open to all the winds,
Empty and pure,
Swarming with dangerous,
Promiscuous males,
Sprawled out on their beds.

Prisons of dreams, I’d say, for a race of murderers,
Each cell a hissing nest of snakes,
And a confessional.

Their eyes,
Without mystery,
Terrifying,
Like empty theaters,
Machinery at rest,
Deserts.

I approach, my heart racing,
And see nothing,
Nothing but looming emptiness,
Sensitive and proud,
A foxglove possessed by terrible souls.


There are 16 contributors to this volume (if we don't count Genet himself), and one of them is John Coulthart, gay life's most prolific high-culture blogger. Have a look at his post about the book here.

You can order the volume here. It is also for sale in a few bookstores throughout Europe, ie,

Vienna 
buchhandlung löwenherz
https://www.loewenherz.at/

Milano
liberia antigone
https://www.libreriantigone.com/

Berlin
prinz eisenherz 
https://prinz-eisenherz.buchkatalog.de/
https://www.instagram.com/p/CK6rSnOlNM1/

and if things work well in Paris very soon at

les mots à la bouche 
https://motsbouche.com

PS: There are only 150 copies printed; it's a bit like bitcoins, and if we manage to convince Jan to rechristen his book "GenetCoins", or "CoinGenet" or anything else alluding to blockchains, the price will certainly skyrocket into the millions, especially if and when Elon Musk chips in a brief tweet. So, please, hurry.


Dec 20, 2020

Quote--unquote

Cool, folks somebody at QuoteFancy picked us up, and now you can download their wallpapers with quotes from Michael's work. Here's an example:




Aug 23, 2020

"Agathon!", "Alcibiades!" -- Alcibiades crashes Plato's "Symposium"

We've been at it for quite a while, Plato's "Symposium." But now we've hooked up with David Cantero, the famous comic strip artist, and voilà, Alcibiades crashes the Symposium again: 




The text is in German since we are targeting the German market.

Remember the original, Anselm v. Feuerbach's painting of 1874? We've put it up in 2015. Here it is again (click for a larger image):


Jun 8, 2020

German for beginners -- Lederhosen

Our friend Sacha (depicted as Jack Horn in our literary oeuvre) and we have been back and forth today about receiving pictures from friends concerning a country that both of us left 40 or 45 years years ago. So...along those lines, here are pictures concerning things which are still happening today in those parts:



Why do you do this, you'll ask, putting up these pictures? Well, we want to sell our books, and here's a fragment from our first novel, Green Eyes, a finalist of the Lambda Literary Awards...and which--TADAA--came out out in a German translation last month. 
The fragment involves Maurice Dymond, a recent acquaintance of our narrator John Lee, who's telling about Godehart Wagner, a fictional fifth generation member of the Richard Wagner clan:

"[Godehart] tells me his life story. He’s from this minor branch of the Wagner family, but somehow he still holds some rights to the Wagner name. Not for the music, of course, that belongs to the public domain, but in some way Wagner’s name is still protected under German law, some special provisions enacted by the Nazis, and he makes his money with Wagner mugs, and Wagner busts, and this themed stuff that you find in tourists shops. And he sells leather shorts, Bavarian leather shorts, emblazoned with the Wagner motif. You know—-these garments that they wear with Tyrolean hats when appearing on the telly where they dance to the tune of Bavarian square dances, jodlers, if you will, and slap their thighs to the rhythm of the music. You are aware of that folly if you ever watched German television. It’s of no importance when you switch to a German channel, there shall always be men in Bavarian shorts and Tyrolean hats, slapping their thighs.
“Impossible.” [John]
“Mind you, they don’t dance to Wagner music, just a jodler.”
“But the Wagner theme, how do you combine this with leather shorts?” [John asking]
“Good question, no idea.”
“Do you know whether Wagner was gay, too?” [John]

“Actually I asked Godehart. Wagner wasn’t officially gay, but he had an affair with the young king of Bavaria, Ludwig the Second, Godehart told me. Ludwig furthered Wagner’s career, in fact, he underwrote his productions and built opera houses for him. Wagner would not have succeeded without Ludwig. So perhaps Wagner wasn’t gay, perhaps it was just the casting-couch behavior of an ambitious composer. But we can’t be so sure. Wagner and Ludwig exchanged quite a few letters, quite explicit, passionate ones, the jury is out on that one.”
“How do you know?” [John asking]
“Well, Godehart told me, I asked pointed questions.”
“Nobody asks pointed questions anymore.” [John]
“I do,” he says.

Buy the book, here: 


Green Eyes
"Click"

May 11, 2020

Plato's Symposium


Here's little Michael, done by David Cantero, posing--yes, that's the word--posing as Phaedrus, son of Pythocles, the first speaker in Plato's Symposium (each guest is supposed to give an encomium on EROS, the eponymous God of Love).



Just so that you know. I believe I should rather play one of the slaves, but anyhow.

Fragment, fragment. Here, from our script: 

PHAEDRUS (begins): Eros is a great and wonderful god…
--
PH: for he is one of the oldest gods. Hesiod says that Chaos came first---followed by Gaia, and Eros.

CAPTION: (Hesiod goes on) “…Eros, who is the most beautiful among the immortal gods. He is the dissolver of care who overpowers the mind and the thoughtful council of gods and humans alike.”
--
PH: Eros is also the source of the greatest benefits. I know of no greater blessing for a young man than to have a good lover, and for any lover, to have a proper beloved.
--
PH: The principle that must guide men who strive to live a noble life—-the principle of honor—-is best fostered by love, not by birth, money, or other means. Without this sense of honor, neither states nor individuals can ever do great work. 
--
PH: And, I say that a lover who is detected doing anything dishonorable, he will be more pained at being found out by his beloved than, say, by his father, or his companions. And the beloved, when he is found in a disgraceful situation, will feel likewise. 
--
[IMAGE: Sacred Band of Thebes]

PH: If there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their beloved, it is beyond imagination how well they could do, refraining from anything base, contending with each other in the pursuit of immortality, and exhibiting such valor in battle that—-even as a mere handful—-they could overcome the world.


Sacred Band of Thebes, random picture from the web

In this spirit, n'est-ce pas?



May 9, 2020

German for beginners: Grüne Augen by Michael Ampersant

Finally, folks, the GREEN EYES are out in a German translation with the DeadSoftPress. Have a look:

Michael Amperesant, Grüne Augen
   


Apr 12, 2020

Green Eyes -- the fishbowl -- This Is Heaven


The Green Eyes are coming out soon in a German translation, so lets draw the attention of our readers to this...




...a fishbowl, yes, because a fishbowl plays an important role in the sequel to the Green Eyes, This Is Heaven.

The Green Eyes tell of a "romantic" love story between two gay protagonists, John Lee and Alexander Iglesias. The sequel continues with our heroes, and because they are already together--some reviewers complained that they are not "together" enough--the story is about something else than sheer romance, and murder is always a good substitute. And so, John, as the potential suspect of a potential murder committed in the darkroom of his town's only gay club, is called to the local police station, where he's interviewed by a certain Mario LaStrada, a homicide detective.  And, yes, I have no recollection how I got this idea, but I had to animate the scene somewhat and a fishbowl came to mind. The bowl subsequently appears in various chapters since John is called to the police station at various times, but when John is called in for the last time (after that, LaStrada wont be in the position to call in anybody anymore), John is asking himself the question:


What will be the strada this time?

It will be the fishbowl. The glass container has grown in size and is studied intently by the inspector upon my arrival. We’re watching a detective flick from the ‘40’s—-educating the audience how the suspect is broken down by sheer disregard for his awkward presence. LaStrada has a point though, the toy fish of old has gotten company by three brethren, all looking more or less like goldfish, but not quite. And if my mammal bias is of any help: the fish don’t like each other.

(...) 

He [LaStrada] is turning to the fish bowl again. Previously, a single fish turned its pointless rounds at a leisurely clip, but now there are four of them, and a sense of purpose has taken hold. Were it not for the bowl’s spherical shape, one would fear for the centrifugal forces, the fish being misled by inertia and missing a turn. 

Isn't this neat? Murphy's law inverted, partially. Whatever can get right does get right, and so we hit on this gif picture  with a fish missing its turn. There's more about these fish in This Is Heaven. Perversion, sex, anything. Get yourself a copy, here.


Mar 27, 2020

"Grüne Augen" cover reveal


Dead soft---yes, we also had to ask---the German queer romance press---so, Dead Soft is going to publish the Green Eyes in a German translation, which is due April 28. Here's the cover. Isn't it pretty?



We'll let you know more as soon as we have the buy-links.

And here's how it starts:

Liebe Leser, das erste Kapitel dieser Geschichte beschreibt eine zufällige Begegnung dreier Männer in den Dünen hinter dem Schwulenstrand meines Ortes. Es ist in krasser Sprache geschrieben—-einer Sprache, die Sie irritieren oder sogar verletzen könnte. Ich habe mich deshalb entschieden, es durch eine knappe Zusammenfassung der dort beschriebenen Ereignisse zu ersetzen—-Ereignisse, die die herzzerreißende, mörderische, aber am Ende doch erbauliche Geschichte der Grünen Augen auslösten.
Mein Name ist John Lee. Ich bin neunundzwanzig Jahre alt und wohne in Georgia Beach im US-Staat Georgia; ich doziere Französisch am Southern Georgia College, einer kleinen Hochschule fünfzig Kilometer süd-westlich nicht weit von der Grenze zu Florida.
Ich bin ein Problemfall. Während meiner Jugend wurde bei mir Bipolarität diagnostiziert, eine manisch-depressive Störung, die wohl für meine Arroganz, Scheuheit, und vielleicht sogar für meine Homosexualität mitverantwortlich ist. Während meiner Jugend war ich noch kontaktfreudig und sexuell aktiv, aber jetzt verkrieche ich mich in meiner kleinen Wohnung am Davis Canal, wo ich—-abgesehen von onanistischen Anstrengungen—-Schach im Internet spiele (und verliere), einen Blog schreibe (den niemand liest) und Seminare vorbereite (die die Studenten hassen). 

Unsere Geschichte beginnt Anfang Juli 2012. Ich wache an einem Sonntagmorgen auf, spüre den Drang nach frischer Luft, und beschließe, einen Spaziergang am Strand zu machen. Während ich am schwulen Teil besagten Strandes vorbeischlendere, begegne ich einem ausgesprochen gutaussehenden Mann. Er ist ungefähr in meinem Alter, aber sein hervorstechendstes Merkmal sind seine faszinierenden, grünen Augen. Wir nehmen voneinander Kenntnis. Der Mann lässt durchblicken, dass er zu einem sofortigen Austausch von Körperflüssigkeiten bereit wäre. Ich folge ihm in die Dünen. Wir entkleiden uns und praktizieren Geschlechtsverkehr. Ein dritter Mann erscheint auf der Bildfläche, entkleidet sich und macht ebenfalls mit. Wir kommen schnell zum Höhepunkt. Die Grünen Augen ziehen sich wieder an und verschwinden von der Bildfläche. In einer überraschenden Wendung—-überraschend zumindest für jeden, der mit dem anonymen Verhalten beim schwulen Cruising vertraut ist—-lädt mich der dritte Mann zu einer Party im Haus eines Freundes später am Abend ein. So weit das erste Kapitel.

...in this spirit...

Dec 15, 2019

Green Eyes: One-liners on line



Cool, folks, cool. A friend alerted us to a link on Meme to our Green Eyes franchise. It has quotes from the two books, like: "That was quick but profound; more profound than a quickie":



There are more quotes. Here, "classical-drama quotes" (we are always about everything): 

"Classical drama depends crucially on people not having cell phones."

Give it a try.



The Lambda Literary Award finalist


Green Eyes
"Click"

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