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Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.
Lawrence Durrell
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Lawrence Durrell
Age: 78 †
Born: 1912
Born: January 1
Died: 1990
Died: November 8
Autobiographer
Biographer
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Visual Artist
Writer
Jullundur
Desire
Sickness
Cannot
Content
Truth
Bear
Bears
Perhaps
Fiction
Rest
Fictions
Rather
Manufacture
More quotes by Lawrence Durrell
No one can go on being a rebel too long without turning into an autocrat.
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It takes a lot of energy and a lot of neurosis to write a novel. If you were really sensible, you'd do something else.
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It only takes one match to ignite a haystack, or one remark to fire a mind.
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No history much? Perhaps. Only this ominous Dark beauty flowering under veils, Trapped in the spectrum of a dying style: A village like an instinct left to rust, Composed around the echo of a pistol-shot.
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A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.
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The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
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Old age is an insult. It's like being smacked.
Lawrence Durrell
Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.
Lawrence Durrell
Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.
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A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.
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The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.
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Shyness has laws you can only give yourself tragically to those who least understand.
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All culture corrupts, but French culture corrupts absolutely.
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Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.
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Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.
Lawrence Durrell
The effective in art is what rapes the emotions of your audience without nourishing its values.
Lawrence Durrell
Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.
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We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.
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An idea is like a rare bird which cannot be seen. What one sees is the trembling of the branch it has just left.
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Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.
Lawrence Durrell