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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
Lying
Daffodil
Happiness
November
Autumn
Fallen
Grass
Leaves
Sun
Bring
Daffodils

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The shock, for an intelligent writer, of discovering for the first time that there are people younger than himself who think him stupid is severe.
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Sheep with a nasty side.
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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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The only way for writers to meet is to share a quick peek over a common lamp-post.
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The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.
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How many books did Renoir write on how to paint?
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Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
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The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.
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The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.
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We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
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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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Peace ... is a morbid condition, due to a surplus of civilians, which war seeks to remedy.
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No one over thirty-five is worth meeting who has not something to teach us, something more than we could learn for ourselves, from a book.
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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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I review novels to make money, because it is easier for a sluggard to write an article a fortnight than a book a year, because the writer is soothed by the opiate of action, the crank by posing as a good journalist, and having an air hole. I dislike it. I do it and I am always resolving to give it up.
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Failure on the other hand is infectious. The world is full of charming failures (for all charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others) and unless the writer is quite ruthless with these amiable footlers, they will drag him down with them.
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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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Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.
Cyril Connolly
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What grape to keep its place in the sun, taught our ancestors to make wine?
Cyril Connolly
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Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.
Cyril Connolly