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Peace ... is a morbid condition, due to a surplus of civilians, which war seeks to remedy.

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
Conditions
Peace
Morbid
War
Surplus
Civilians
Seeks
Remedy
Dues
Condition

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Always be nice to those younger than you, because they are the ones who will be writing about you.
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The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.
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Longevity is the revenge of talent upon genius.
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No city should be too large for a man to walk out of in a morning.
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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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When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.
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When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
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No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.
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Slums may well be breeding grounds of crime, but middle class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.
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The civilized are those who get more out of life than the uncivilized, and for this we are not likely to be forgiven.
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I review novels to make money, because it is easier for a sluggard to write an article a fortnight than a book a year, because the writer is soothed by the opiate of action, the crank by posing as a good journalist, and having an air hole. I dislike it. I do it and I am always resolving to give it up.
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Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice journalism what will be grasped at once.
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Purity engenders Wisdom, Passion avarice, and Ignorance folly, infatuation and darkness.
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The only way for writers to meet is to share a quick peek over a common lamp-post.
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Imprisoned in every fat man a thin one is wildly signalling to be let out.
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There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another.
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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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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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Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.
Cyril Connolly
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Miserable Orpheus who, turning to lose his Eurydice, beholds her for the first time as well as the last.
Cyril Connolly