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Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.

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
Sun
Bring
Daffodils
Lying
Daffodil
Happiness
November
Autumn
Fallen
Grass
Leaves

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Civilization is maintained by a very few people in a small number of places and we need only some bombs and a few prisons to blot it out altogether.
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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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The civilization of one epoch becomes the manure of the next.
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The American language is in a state of flux based upon survival of the unfittest.
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As repressed sadists are supposed to become policemen or butchers so those with an irrational fear of life become publishers.
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It is after creation, in the elation of success, or the gloom of failure, that love becomes essential.
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We cannot be happy until we can love ourselves without egotism and our friends without tyranny.
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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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No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.
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Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.
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The goal of every culture is to decay through over-civilization the factors of decadence, -- luxury, skepticism, weariness and superstition, -- are constant. The civilization of one epoch becomes the manure of the next.
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Purity engenders Wisdom, Passion avarice, and Ignorance folly, infatuation and darkness.
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When young we are faithful to individuals, when older we grow loyal to situations and to types.
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The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.
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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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Like those crabs which dress themselves with seaweed, we wear belief and custom.
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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
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An author arrives at a good style when his language performs what is required of it without shyness.
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The secret of success is to be in harmony with existence, to be always calm to let each wave of life wash us a little farther up the shore.
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We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
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