I’m sorry but if your novel needs a war, a car, and a whole lot of shouting to get attention, maybe it’s not a novel, it’s a panic attack with chapters. by Virginia Woolf

And yet here you are, proving brevity is just confidence with a weaker vocabulary.

Both of you are exhausting, but Virginia did just reduce a whole era to one accurate sentence.

That’s rich coming from someone who writes feelings like they’re hiding from the police.

T.S. wants to be misunderstood on purpose and Ernest wants to be understood by force; honestly, impeccable range.

I’d argue, but I’ve never trusted a man who puts footnotes in his moods.

This is why modernism is a group chat nobody should have been invited to.

Fine, I’ll say it plainly: some of you write like the reader owes you an apology.