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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
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
Well
Jackals
Dried
Poets
Arguing
Poet
Poetry
Modern
Wells
Snarling
More quotes by Cyril Connolly
Happiness lies in the fulfillment of the spirit through the body.
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Imprisoned in every fat man a thin one is wildly signalling to be let out.
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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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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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The man who is master of his passions is Reason's slave.
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No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.
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Industrial society seems likely to be entering a period of severe stress, due in part to problems of human behavior and in part to economic and environmental problems
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We may assume that we keep people waiting symbolically because we do not wish to see them and that our anxiety is due not to being late, but to having to see them at all.
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Believing in Hell must distort every judgement on this life.
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There cannot be a personal God without a pessimistic religion. As soon as there is a personal God he is a disappointing God.
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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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Longevity is the revenge of talent upon genius.
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Sheep with a nasty side.
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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 dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.
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The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.
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The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.
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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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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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Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.
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