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hurl all

(First technique of being a shrink’s wife is knowing how to hurl all their jargon back at them, at carefully chosen moments.)
Erica Jong, Fear of Flying
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left bollock

Now, you may well be asking yourselves where I fit in all this; you may equally well be scratching your left bollock, but that’s your affair.
Timothy Lea, Confessions of a Window Cleaner
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bad woman

After all, she’s not such a bad woman; really, she has quite a sense of the comic. I don’t suppose for a moment that she has mastered the Critique of Pure Reason; still, she is not unattractive.
Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove
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strife of tongues

The news was imparted with a circumspection recalling the ceremonial usage of the Sublime Porte by the second female infirmarian to the junior medical officer in residence, who in his turn announced to the delegation that an heir had been born, When he had betaken himself to the women’s apartment to assist at the prescribed ceremony of the afterbirth in the presence of the secretary of state for domestic affairs and the members of the privy council, silent in unanimous exhaustion and approbation the delegates, chafing under the length and solemnity of their vigil and hoping that the joyful occurrence would palliate a licence which the simultaneous absence of abigail and obstetrician rendered the easier, broke out at once into a strife of tongues.
James Joyce, Ulysses
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young fool

Why didn’t you go with her, you young fool? she’ll never love you unless you are always at her heels; women like to be bothered.
Oscar Wilde, Vera
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directly suggestive

But on a sensual level, she so bluntly craved any upheaval that the faintest call from the senses gave her a look directly suggestive of all things linked to deep sexuality, such as blood, suffocation, sudden terror, crime; things indefinitely destroying human bliss and honesty.
Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye
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like a hype

I surrendered to the world of Times Square, and like a hype who needs more and more junk to keep going, I haunted that world not only at night now but in the mornings, the afternoons… .
John Rechy, City of Night