Evelyn Waugh, fully Evelyn Arthur St. John Waugh

Waugh, fully Evelyn Arthur St. John Waugh

English Novelist, Biographer and Journalist

Author Quotes

Old boy, said Grimes, you're in love. Nonsense! Smitten? said Grimes. No, no. The tender passion? No. Cupid's jolly little darts? No. Spring fancies, love's young dream? Nonsense! Not even a quickening of the pulse? No. A sweet despair? Certainly not. A trembling hope? No. A frisson? a Je ne sais quoi? Nothing of the sort. Liar! said Grimes.

She had regained what I thought she had lost forever, the magical sadness which had drawn me to her, the thwarted look that had seemed to say, Surely I was made for some other purpose than this?

The anguished suspense of watching the lips you hunger for, framing the words, the death sentence, of sheer triteness!

Then there was the concert where the boys refused to sing 'God Save the King' because of the pudding they had had for luncheon. One way and another, I have been consistently unfortunate in my efforts at festivity. And yet I look forward to each new fiasco with the utmost relish.

Tomorrow and on every anniversary as long as the Happier Hunting Ground existed a postcard would go to Mr. Joyboy: Your little Aimée is wagging her tail in heaven tonight, thinking of you.

What is youth except a man or woman before it is ready or fit to be seen?

Never get mixed up in a Welsh wrangle. It doesn't end in blows like an Irish one, but goes on forever.

Once you start changing a name, you see, there's no reason ever to stop. One always hears one that sounds better.

She seemed to say "Look at me. I have done my share. I am beautiful. It is something quite out of the ordinary, this beauty of mine. I am made for delight. But what do I get out of it? Where is my reward?" That was the change in her from ten years ago; that, indeed, was her reward, this haunting, this magical sadness which spoke straight to the heart and struck silence; it was the completion of her beauty."

The audiences certainly have [declined]. If I go to the theatre now I find people come there to eat and smoke and talk to one another. And look like scarecrows.

There are no poetic ideas; only poetic utterances.

Two wives despaired of him,’ he said. ‘When he got engaged to Sylvia, she made it a condition that he should take the cure at Zurich. And it worked. He came back in three months a different man. And he hasn't touched a drop since, even though Sylvia walked out on him.’

News is what a chap who doesn't care much about anything wants to read. And it's only news until he's read it. After that it's dead.

One can write, think and pray exclusively of others; dreams are all egocentric.

She told me later that she had made a kind of note of me in her mind, as, scanning the shelf for a particular book, one will sometimes have one's attention caught by another, take it down, glance at the title page and saying I must read that, too, when I've the time, replace it and continue the search.

The avalanche was down, the hillside swept bare behind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mount glittered and lay still in the silent valley.

There could be no eldest son for her, and younger sons were indelicate things, necessary, but not to be much spoken of. Younger sons had none of the privileges of obscurity; it was their plain duty to remain hidden until some disaster perchance promoted them to their brother's places, and, since this was their function, it was desirable that they should keep themselves wholly suitable for succession.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can't really hate God either. When they want to Hate Him and His saints they have to find something like themselves and pretends it's God and hate that.

One forgets words as one forgets names. One's vocabulary needs constant fertilizing or it will die.

She was daily surprised by the things he knew and the things he did not know; both, at the time, added to his attraction.

The Beast stands for strong mutually antagonistic governments everywhere, he said. Self-sufficiency at home, self-assertion abroad.

There is a species of person called a 'Modern Churchman' who draws the full salary of a beneficed clergyman and need not commit himself to any religious belief.

Was anyone hurt? No one I am thankful to say, said Mrs. Beaver, except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court.

No one is ever holy without suffering.

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Waugh, fully Evelyn Arthur St. John Waugh
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English Novelist, Biographer and Journalist