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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.

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
Taxes
Lies
Told
Conveniently
Lord
Suing
Lying
Damages
Free
Libel
Hope
Damage
Money
Lovely

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I think to be oversensitive about cliches is like being oversensitive about table manners.
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I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I'm old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.
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Professional reviewers read so many bad books in the course of duty that they get an unhealthy craving for arresting phrases.
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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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My unhealthy affection for my second daughter has waned. Now I despise all my seven children equally.
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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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Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them.
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Port is not for the very young, the vain and the active. It is the comfort of age and the companion of the scholar and the philosopher
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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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Saints are simply men & women who have fulfilled their natural obligation which is to approach God.
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Of children as of procreation -- the pleasure momentary, the posture ridiculous, the expense damnable
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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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For in that city [New York] there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.
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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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that is not the last word it is not even an apt word it is a dead word from ten years back.
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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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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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Words should be an intense pleasure just as leather should be to a shoemaker.
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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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To understand all is to forgive all.
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