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The artist is a member of the leisured classes who cannot pay for his leisure.

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
Class
Artist
Art
Leisured
Cannot
Classes
Leisure
Member
Members
Pay

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Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.
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There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another.
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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.
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There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say.
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Longevity is the revenge of talent upon genius.
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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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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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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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Miserable Orpheus who, turning to lose his Eurydice, beholds her for the first time as well as the last.
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Today the function of the artist is to bring imagination to science and science to imagination, where they meet, in the myth.
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Purity engenders Wisdom, Passion avarice, and Ignorance folly, infatuation and darkness.
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Civilization is an active deposit which is formed by the combustion of the Present with the Past. Neither in countries without a Present nor in those without a Past is it to be discovered.
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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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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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No city should be too large for a man to walk out of in a morning.
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The artist secretes nostalgia around life.
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Peace ... is a morbid condition, due to a surplus of civilians, which war seeks to remedy.
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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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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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When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.
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