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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.
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
Ideas
Branches
Like
Rare
Sees
Bird
Seen
Idea
Left
Trembling
Cannot
Branch
More quotes by Lawrence Durrell
I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.
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Poverty is a great cutter-off and riches a great shutter-off.
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A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.
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Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.
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A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.
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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.
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Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?
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Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.
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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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Religion is simply art bastardized out of all recognition.
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No one can go on being a rebel too long without turning into an autocrat.
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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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Guilt always hurries towards its complement, punishment: only there does its satisfaction lie.
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I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.
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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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Truth disappears with the telling of it.
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Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.
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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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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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The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
Lawrence Durrell