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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
Fall
Branches
Stain
Death
Birds
Minus
Ends
Snow
Stains
Firsts
Fruit
Frost
First
Bird
January
Like
Dead
Ripe
Week
Branch
Thaw
Shall
Frozen
Ripened
More quotes by Lawrence Durrell
To be the equal of reality you must learn how to ignore it without danger.
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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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Art like life is an open secret.
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Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.
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The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
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Truth disappears with the telling of it.
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The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.
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I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.
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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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Let us define 'man' as a poet perpetually conspiring against himself.
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All culture corrupts, but French culture corrupts absolutely.
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The heaviest impact of the work of art is in the guts. Art does not reason. It manhandles you and changes you.
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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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We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.
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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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I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.
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It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.
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To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off.
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I'm trying to die correctly, but it's very difficult, you know.
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Truth is what most contradicts itself.
Lawrence Durrell