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Melancholy and remorse forms the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality.

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
Sadness
Forms
Misery
Leaden
Deep
Keel
Wind
Remorse
Reality
Enables
Form
Sail
Melancholy

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How many books did Renoir write on how to paint?
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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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We fear something before we hate.
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Always be nice to those younger than you, because they are the ones who will be writing about you.
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The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.
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No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.
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No city should be too large for a man to walk out of in a morning.
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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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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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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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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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The artist is a member of the leisured classes who cannot pay for his leisure.
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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
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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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A writer is in danger of allowing his talent to dull who lets more than a year go past without finding himself in his rightful place of composition, the small single unluxurious retreat of the twentieth century, the hotel bedroom.
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Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
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Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.
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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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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 only way for writers to meet is to share a quick peek over a common lamp-post.
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