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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
More quotes by Cyril Connolly
The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.
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We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
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Today the function of the artist is to bring imagination to science and science to imagination, where they meet, in the myth.
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Idleness is only a coarse name for my infinite capacity for living in the present.
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When we have ceased to love the stench of the human animal, either in others or in ourselves, then are we condemned to misery, and clear thinking can begin.
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In youth the life of reason is not in itself sufficient afterwards the life of emotion, except for short periods, becomes unbearable.
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The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.
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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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In a perfect union the man and woman are like a strung bow. Who is to say whether the string bends the bow, or the bow tightens the string?
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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
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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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Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice journalism what will be grasped at once.
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The civilization of one epoch becomes the manure of the next.
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Like those crabs which dress themselves with seaweed, we wear belief and custom.
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There cannot be a personal God without a pessimistic religion. As soon as there is a personal God he is a disappointing God.
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Longevity is the revenge of talent upon genius.
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When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.
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Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.
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Imagination is nostalgia for the past, the absent it is the liquid solution in which art develops the snapshot of reality.
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Slums may well be breeding grounds of crime, but middle class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.
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