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Imprisoned in every fat man a thin one is wildly signalling to be let out.

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
Thin
Fats
Literature
Every
Men
Lisp
Wildly
Imprisoned

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In my religion all believers would stop work at sundown and have a drink together.
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The American language is in a state of flux based upon survival of the unfittest.
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The man who is master of his passions is Reason's slave.
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Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
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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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Believing in Hell must distort every judgement on this life.
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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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Happiness lies in the fulfillment of the spirit through the body.
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Youth is a period of missed opportunities.
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The artist secretes nostalgia around life.
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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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The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.
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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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What grape to keep its place in the sun, taught our ancestors to make wine?
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The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.
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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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Beneath a mask of selfish tranquility nothing exists except bitterness and boredom. I am one of those whom suffering has made empty and frivolous: each night in my dreams I pull the scab off a wound each day, vacuous and habit-ridden, I help it re-form.
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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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We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
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When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.
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