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I'm quite deaf now such a comfort.

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
Deaf
Comfort
Quite

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Anyone could write a novel given six weeks, pen paper, and no telephone or wife.
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If politicians and scientists were lazier, how much happier we should all be
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You never find an Englishman among the under-dogs except in England, of course.
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He wasn't a complete human being at all. He was a tiny bit of one, unnaturally developed something in a bottle, an organ kept alive in a laboratory. I thought he was a sort of primitive savage, but he was something absolutely modern and up-to-date that only this ghastly age could produce. A tiny bit of a man pretending to be whole.
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The only thing that it is advisable to know in any language is the numerals and even there, you can do a lot with the fingers.
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You don't remove the evil in a person by killing the person.
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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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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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I know very few young people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost fatal hunger for permanence.
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The anguished suspense of watching the lips you hunger for, framing the words, the death sentence, of sheer triteness!
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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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His heart some long word at the heart. He is dying of a long word.
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My unhealthy affection for my second daughter has waned. Now I despise all my seven children equally.
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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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Instead of this absurd division into sexes they ought to class people as static and dynamic.
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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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I am suing Lord Beaverbrook for libel and hope for some lovely tax-free money in damages. He has very conveniently told some lies about me.
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We are American at puberty. We die French.
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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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Remember that, however patient your study, you will never in adult life learn any language perfectly the best you can hope for is to be a bore.
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