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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.

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
Small
Findings
Twentieth
Year
Finding
Retreat
Place
Travel
Lets
Past
Danger
Bedroom
Without
Writer
Composition
Years
Talent
Hotel
Single
Allowing
Century
Dull
Rightful

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Like those crabs which dress themselves with seaweed, we wear belief and custom.
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Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.
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The friendships which last are those wherein each friend respects the other's dignity to the point of not really wanting anything from him.
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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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Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.
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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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There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.
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When in doubt, choose greatness.
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No-one was ever made wretched in a brothel.
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The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.
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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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There is immunity in reading, immunity in formal society, in office routine, in the company of old friends and in the giving of officious help to strangers, but there is no sanctuary in one bed from the memory of another. The past with its anguish will break through every defense-line of custom and habit we must sleep and therefore we must dream.
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Peace ... is a morbid condition, due to a surplus of civilians, which war seeks to remedy.
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Marriage is the permanent conversation between two people who talk over everything and everyone until death breaks the record.
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The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.
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Melancholy and remorse forms the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality.
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Longevity is the revenge of talent upon genius.
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Idleness is only a coarse name for my infinite capacity for living in the present.
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Failure on the other hand is infectious. The world is full of charming failures (for all charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others) and unless the writer is quite ruthless with these amiable footlers, they will drag him down with them.
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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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