Six words: it's not very long. But for the new book Not Quite What I Was Planning, the editors of Smith magazine asked hundred of writers, both famous and obscure, to boil down their lives to this paltry standard (Nora Ephron offered, “Secret to life: marry an Italian!” and A.J. Jacobs gave them, “Born bald. Grew hair. Bald again.”). Here are more one-liners that should have been submitted, but weren't.
I make heterosexual men wear tights.
Rich people: Bad. Poor people: good.
Horrid, unpleasant-making chick-lit—begone, noxious legacy!
LEONARD AND VIRGINIA WOOLF
Reduced middle management: owned own press.
Life is full of lesbians, unrest.
Irish poor Catholic alcoholic no commas
Women. I can't even draw them.
(Pause.) (Pause.) (Pause.) (Ties shoe.) (Pause.)
All my sentences: about this length.
Brought literary distinction to anal jihad.
Sniffly neurasthenia: not exclusive to pugs.
Posthumous nightmares re Carol Burnett, drapes.
Magisterial juxtaposition: Helen Lawson's wig, toilet.
Bestsellers pay for constant dry cleaning.
Backwards seem my sentences to run.
Horrible things happen to children nowadays.
Masterwork eclipsed by Barbra's dazzling nails?
L. RON HUBBARD
I publish even though I'm dead.
Orchid Thief, then Meryl played me.
Formerly gothic, but, suddenly, Keira Knightley.
Perspicacious analysis. Interdisciplinary worldview. Important hair.
Pellucid essayistic meditations, you fuckin' fuck.
Much to say about our vaginas.
My vagina, too: not without incident.
Nonbeliever here. Kneeling bags my nylons.
BRET EASTON ELLIS
Cracky oblivion, Patrick Bateman: I'm fun.
That cheeseburger is actually a radish.
JOYCE CAROL OATES
Them's twisted sister bags Pulitzer, Princeton.
Constant publishing of books requires pseudonym.
Books spring from me like dew.
Wrote book while writing last sentence.
This sentence, too, methinks: somewhat dewy.
Stopping now. Awaiting call from Stockholm.
|Henry Alford has published humor in the New Yorker and Vanity Fair for a decade.|