Quote

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.

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
Vision
Heathen
Humanity
Pious
Happiness
Afterlife
Natural
Imperfect
Beatific
Order
Sincere
Sceptic
Place
Various
Limbo
Without
Wine
Harps
Conversation
Communal

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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 have lived carefully, sheltered myself from the cold winds, eaten moderately of what was in season, drunk fine claret, slept in my own sheets I shall live long.
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The trouble with modern education is you never know how ignorant people are. With anyone over fifty you can be fairly confident what's been taught and what's been left out. But these young people have such an intelligent, knowledgeable surface, and then the crust suddenly breaks and you look down into depths of confusion you didn't know existed.
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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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The better sort of Ishmaelites have been Christian for many centuries and will not publicly eat human flesh uncooked in Lent, without special and costly dispensation from their bishop.
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Medical science has oppressed us with a new huge burden of longevity. It is in that last undesired decade, when passion is cold, appetites feeble, curiosity dulled and experience has begotten cynicism, that accidia lies in wait as the final temptation to destruction.
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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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My children weary me. I can only see them as defective adults: feckless, destructive, frivolous, sensual, humorless.
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Almost all crime is due to the repressed desire for aesthetic expression.
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We cherish our friends not for their ability to amuse us, but for ours to amuse them...
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There is something incomparably thrilling in first opening a brand new book.
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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 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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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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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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From the earliest times the Welsh have been looked upon as an unclean people. It is thus that they have preserved their racial integrity. Their sons and daughters rarely mate with humankind except their own blood relations.
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Instead of this absurd division into sexes they ought to class people as static and dynamic.
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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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