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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
Fallen
Grass
Leaves
Sun
Bring
Daffodils
Lying
Daffodil
Happiness
November
Autumn

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There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.
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Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.
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Whom the gods wish to destroy they first call promising.
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Hate is the consequence of fear we fear something before we hate a child who fears noises becomes the man who hates them.
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A woman's desire for revenge outlasts all her other emotions.
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English Law: where there are two alternatives: one intelligent, one stupid one attractive, one vulgar one noble, one ape-like one serious and sincere, one undignified and false one far-sighted, one short EVERYBODY will INVARIABLY choose the latter.
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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 create the world in which we live if that world becomes unfit for human life, it is because we tire of our responsibility.
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The disasters of the world are due to its inhabitants not being able to grow old simultaneously. There is always a raw and intolerant nation eager to destroy the tolerant and mellow.
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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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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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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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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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If Montaigne is a man in the prime of life sitting in his study on a warm morning and putting down the sum of his experience in his rich, sinewy prose, then Pascal is that same man lying awake in the small hours of the night when death seems very close and every thought is heightened by the apprehension that it may be his last.
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Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.
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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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Melancholy and remorse forms the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality.
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Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
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