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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.

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
Someone
Present
Thanking
Writing
Answers
Thanked
Lasts
Beware
Years
Last
Exchange
Always
Father
Wedding
Life
Inspirational
Letters
Death
Spent
Ends
Answer

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Words should be an intense pleasure just as leather should be to a shoemaker.
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It is no longer possible to accept the benefits of civilization and at the same time deny the supernatural basis upon which it is based.
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I read the newspapers with lively interest. It is seldom that they are absolutely, point-blank wrong. That is the popular belief, but those who are in the know can usually discern an embryo of truth, a little grit of fact, like the core of a pearl, round which have been deposited the delicate layers of ornament.
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If politicians and scientists were lazier, how much happier we should all be
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He was gifted with the sly, sharp instinct for self-preservation that passes for wisdom among the rich.
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He did not fail in love, but he lost the joy of it [...]
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The truth is that Oxford is simply a very beautiful city in which it is convenient to segregate a certain number of the young of the nation while they are growing up.
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We schoolmasters must temper discretion with deceit.
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The sky over London was glorious, ochre and madder, as though a dozen tropic suns were simultaneously setting round the horizon . . . Everywhere the shells sparkled like Christmas baubles.
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News is what a chap who doesn't care much about anything wants to read.
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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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Charm is the great English blight. It does not exist outside these damp islands. It spots and kills anything it touches. It kills love it kills art I greatly fear, my dear Charles, it has killed you.
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Enclosing every thin man, there's a fat man demanding elbow-room.
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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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Her heart was broken perhaps, but it was a small inexpensive organ of local manufacture. In a wider and grander way she felt things had been simplified.
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An artist must be a reactionary
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I prefer all but the very worst travel books, to all but the very best novels.
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Of children as of procreation -- the pleasure momentary, the posture ridiculous, the expense damnable
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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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There is something incomparably thrilling in first opening a brand new book.
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