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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.

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
Becomes
Afterwards
Feelings
Sufficient
Reason
Periods
Life
Except
Short
Youth
Emotional
Emotion
Unbearable

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Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
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There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another.
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Longevity is the revenge of talent upon genius.
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Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.
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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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When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
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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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The friendships which last are those wherein each friend respects the other's dignity to the point of not really wanting anything from him.
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The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.
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That sinister Stonehenge of economic man, Rockefeller Center.
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Sheep with a nasty side.
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The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.
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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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The lesson one can learn from Firbank is that of inconsequence. There is the vein which he tapped and which has not yet been fully exploited.
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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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Life is a maze in which we take the wrong turning before we have learned to walk.
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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
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Idleness is only a coarse name for my infinite capacity for living in the present.
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The true function of a writer is to produce a masterpiece and no other task is of any consequence.
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How many books did Renoir write on how to paint?
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