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Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there's no room for the present at all.

Evelyn Waugh

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Evelyn Waugh
Age: 62 †
Born: 1903
Born: October 28
Died: 1966
Died: April 10
Autobiographer
Diarist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
War Correspondent
Writer
Evelyn Arthur St John Waugh
Arthur Evelyn St. John Waugh
Sides
Future
Past
Pressing
Hard
Room
Feel
Rooms
Sometimes
Side
Feels
Present
Either

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Money is only useful when you get rid of it. It is like the odd card in 'Old Maid' the player who is finally left with it has lost.
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An artist must be a reactionary. He has to stand out against the tenor [group think] of the age and not go flopping along. By doing this he helps us to question and reassess our past, present and future situations, our assumptions and our options.
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Free as air that's what they say- free as air. Now they bring me my air in an iron barrel.
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To understand all is to forgive all.
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Its theme-- the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters-- was perhaps presumptuously large, but I make no apology for it.
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I never can understand how two men can write a book together to me that's like three people getting together to have a baby.
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Instead of this absurd division into sexes they ought to class people as static and dynamic.
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We are American at puberty. We die French.
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Once you start changing a name, you see, there's no reason ever to stop. One always hears one that sounds better.
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The human mind is inspired enough when it comes to inventing horrors it is when it tries to invent a Heaven that it shows itself cloddish.
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Words should be an intense pleasure just as leather should be to a shoemaker.
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Only when one has lost all curiosity about the future has one reached the age to write an autobiography.
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My children weary me. I can only see them as defective adults: feckless, destructive, frivolous, sensual, humorless.
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Of children as of procreation -- the pleasure momentary, the posture ridiculous, the expense damnable
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But I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.
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I've always been bad. Probably I shall be bad again, punished again. But the worse I am, the more I need God. I can't shut myself out from His mercy. ... Or it may be a private bargain between me and God, that if I give up this one thing I want so much, however bad I am, He won't quite despair of me in the end.
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Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?
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Enclosing every thin man, there's a fat man demanding elbow-room.
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Limbo is the place. In Limbo one has natural happiness without the beatific vision no harps no communal order but wine and conversation and imperfect, various humanity. Limbo for the unbaptized, for the pious heathen, the sincere sceptic.
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Pray always for all the learned, the oblique, the delicate. Let them not be quite forgotten at the throne of God when the simple come into their kingdom.
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