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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

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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
Like
Son
Forward
Move
Spurts
Grow
Clocks
Boys
Railway
Grows
Gradually
Moving
Stations
Hands
Clock

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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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As repressed sadists are supposed to become policemen or butchers so those with an irrational fear of life become publishers.
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Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.
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What grape to keep its place in the sun, taught our ancestors to make wine?
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We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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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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No city should be too large for a man to walk out of in a morning.
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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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When young we are faithful to individuals, when older we grow loyal to situations and to types.
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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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There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.
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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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For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?
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Peace ... is a morbid condition, due to a surplus of civilians, which war seeks to remedy.
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It is a mistake to expect good work from expatriates for it is not what they do that matters but what they are not doing.
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The artist is a member of the leisured classes who cannot pay for his leisure.
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There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say.
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When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
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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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