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Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?

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
Fair
Orphans
Orphan
Hide
Weather
Storm
Fairs

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One has to regard a man as a Master who can produce on average three uniquely brilliant and entirely original similes to every page.
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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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It is a curious thing... that every creed promises a paradise which will be absolutely uninhabitable for anyone of civilized taste.
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Now we shall both be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.' 'I don't want to make it easier for you,' I said 'I hope your heart may break but I do understand.
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I think there's almost nothing I can't excuse except perhaps worshiping graven images. That seems to be idiotic.
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That was the change in her from ten years ago that, indeed, was her reward, this haunting, magical sadness which spoke straight to the heart and struck silence it was the completion of her beauty.
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Conversation should be like juggling up go the balls and plates, up and over, in and out, good solid objects that glitter in the footlights and fall with a bang if you miss them.
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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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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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I [had] added another small piece to the pages of the atlas that were real to me.
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It doesn't matter what people call you unless they call you pigeon pie and eat you up.
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I have been in the scholastic profession long enough to know that nobody enters it unless he has some very good reason that he is anxious to conceal.
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There are no poetic ideas only poetic utterances.
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Anyone who has been to an English public school will always feel comparatively at home in prison. It is the people brought up in the gay intimacy of the slums who find prison so soul-destroying.
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Beware of writing to me. I always answer ... My father spent the last 20 years of his life writing letters. If someone thanked him for a wedding present, he thanked them for thanking him and there was no end to the exchange but death.
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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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The languor of Youth - how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrecoverably, lost!
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That's the public-school system all over. They may kick you out, but they never let you down.
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She told me later that she had made a kind of note of me in her mind, as, scanning the shelf for a particular book, one will sometimes have one's attention caught by another, take it down, glance at the title page and saying I must read that, too, when I've the time, replace it and continue the search.
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Have you at any time been detained in a mental home or similar institution? If so, give particulars.' 'I was at Scone College, Oxford, for two years,' said Paul.
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