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The streets of a modern city are depressing. They are so aimless and so weak in their lines and their masses, that the mind and senses jog on their way like passengers in a train with blinds down in an overcrowded carriage.

Wyndham Lewis

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Wyndham Lewis
Age: 72 †
Born: 1884
Born: November 18
Died: 1957
Died: January 1
Critic
Drawer
Editor
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Painter
Poet
Writer
Amherst
Nova Scotia
Percy Wyndham Lewis
Percy William Lewis
Percy Lewis
Wyndham Percy Lewis
Mind
Train
Aimless
Way
Weak
Blinds
Like
Mass
Carriage
City
Carriages
Streets
Passengers
Cities
Masses
Modern
Depressing
Lines
Senses
Overcrowded

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Revolutionary politics, revolutionary art, and oh, the revolutionary mind, is the dullest thing on earth... What a stupid word! What a stale fuss!
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The male has been persuaded to assume a certain onerous and disagreeable role with the promise of rewards -- material and psychological. Women may in the first place even have put it into his head. BE A MAN! may have been, metaphorically, what Eve uttered at the critical moment in the garden of Eden.
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Prostration is our natural position. A worm-like movement from a spot of sunlight to a spot of shade, and back, is the type of movement that is natural to men.
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People are so overwhelmed with the prestige of their instruments that they consider their personal judgement of hardly any account.
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To give up another person's love is a mild suicide like a very bad inoculation as compared to the full disease.
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Feminism was recognized by the average man as a conflict in which it was impossible for a man, as a chivalrous gentleman, as a respecter of the rights of little nations (like little Belgium), as a highly evolved citizen of a highly civilized community, to refuse the claim of this better half to self-determination.
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A sort of war of revenge on the intellect is what, for some reason, thrives in the contemporary social atmosphereThe ideas of a time are like the clothes of a season: they are as arbitrary, as much imposed by some superior will which is seldom explicit. They are utilitarian and political, the instruments of smooth-running government.
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All orthodox opinion - that is, today, revolutionary opinion either of the pure or the impure variety - is anti-man.
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A sort of war of revenge on the intellect is what, for some reason, thrives in the contemporary social atmosphere.
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I am an artist, and, through my eye, must confess to a tremendous bias. In my purely literary voyages my eye is always my compass.
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It is more comfortable for me, in the long run, to be rude than polite.
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Laughter is the Wild Body's song of triumph.
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Life is art's rival and vice versa.
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Gertrude Stein's prose-song is a cold, black suet-pudding.... Cut it at any point, it is the same thing ... all fat, without nerve.
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What every artist should try to prevent is the car, in which is our civilized life, plunging over the side of the precipice -- the exhibitionist extremist promoter driving the whole bag of tricks into a nihilistic nothingness or zero.
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Artists put as much vitality and delight into their saintliness and escape out as most men do their escapes into similar places from respectable existence.
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Laughter is an independent, tremendously important, and lurid emotion.
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The earth has become one big village, with telephones laid on from one end to the other, and air transport, both speedy and safe.
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What is the good of being an island, if you are not a volcanic island?
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An artist should be as impartial as God.
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