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There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.

Cyril Connolly

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Cyril Connolly
Age: 71 †
Born: 1903
Born: September 10
Died: 1974
Died: November 26
Critic
Literary Critic
Novelist
Writer
Coventry
England
UK
Cyril Vernon Connolly
Good
Sombre
Somber
Hall
Halls
Atheism
Enemy
Literature
Pram
Art
Prams

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The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.
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Sheep with a nasty side.
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We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
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Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
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Idleness is only a coarse name for my infinite capacity for living in the present.
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From now on - specialize never again make any concession to the ninety-nine percent of you which is like everyon else at the expense of the one percent which is unique.
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Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.
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Purity engenders Wisdom, Passion avarice, and Ignorance folly, infatuation and darkness.
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The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.
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How many books did Renoir write on how to paint?
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We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.
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Civilization is an active deposit which is formed by the combustion of the Present with the Past. Neither in countries without a Present nor in those without a Past is it to be discovered.
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Peace ... is a morbid condition, due to a surplus of civilians, which war seeks to remedy.
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Beautiful women must think about their beauty as capitalists think about their investments or politicians about their majorities it is all they have to insure their places in the world.
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Miserable Orpheus who, turning to lose his Eurydice, beholds her for the first time as well as the last.
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Like the bee its sting, the promiscuous leave behind them in each encounter something of themselves by which they are made to suffer.
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Carelessness is not fatal to journalism, nor are cliches, for the eye rests lightly on them. But what is intended to be read once can seldom be read more than once a journalist has to accept the fact that his work, by its very todayness, is excluded from any share in tomorrow.
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There is immunity in reading, immunity in formal society, in office routine, in the company of old friends and in the giving of officious help to strangers, but there is no sanctuary in one bed from the memory of another. The past with its anguish will break through every defense-line of custom and habit we must sleep and therefore we must dream.
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Hemingway is great in that alone of living writers he has saturated his work with the memory of physical pleasure, with sunshine and salt water, with food, wine and making love and the remorse which is the shadow of that sun.
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Hate is crystallized fear, fear's dividend, fear objectivized. We hate what we fear and so where hate is, fear will be lurking.
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