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Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.
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
Minutes
Hand
Next
Hands
Life
Cucumber
Like
Cucumbers
Ass
Minute
More quotes by Lawrence Durrell
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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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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All culture corrupts, but French culture corrupts absolutely.
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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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For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.
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Truth is what most contradicts itself.
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No one can go on being a rebel too long without turning into an autocrat.
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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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A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.
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Life is more complicated than we think, yet far simpler than anyone dares to imagine
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The effective in art is what rapes the emotions of your audience without nourishing its values.
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It only takes one match to ignite a haystack, or one remark to fire a mind.
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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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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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Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.
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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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Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?
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It is not peace we seek but meaning.
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How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.
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