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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.
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
Shall
Frozen
Ripened
Fall
Branches
Stain
Death
Birds
Minus
Ends
Snow
Stains
Firsts
Fruit
Frost
First
Bird
January
Like
Dead
Ripe
Week
Branch
Thaw
More quotes by Lawrence Durrell
People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.
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Comedians are the nearest to suicide.
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A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love.
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He thought and suffered a good deal but he lacked the resolution to dare--the first requisite of a practitioner.
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How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.
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To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off.
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They flower spontaneously out of the demands of our natures - and the best of them lead us not only outward in space, but inward as well.
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I'm trying to die correctly, but it's very difficult, you know.
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Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.
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Old age is an insult. It's like being smacked.
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It is not peace we seek but meaning.
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History is an endless repetition of the wrong way of living.
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Odd, isn't it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called 'right' person always comes to soon or too late.
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The steward, according to custom, had stopped all the clocks. This, in the language of Narouz, said Your stay with us is so brief, let us not be reminded of the flight of the hours.
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Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds
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I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time - those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.
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Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.
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The cocktail party - as the name itself indicates - was originally invented by dogs. They are simply bottom-sniffings raised to the rank of formal ceremonies.
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Art like life is an open secret.
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Life is more complicated than we think, yet far simpler than anyone dares to imagine
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