Lawrence Durrell
Lawrence Durrell
Lawrence George Durrellwas an expatriate British novelist, poet, dramatist, and travel writer...
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth27 February 1912
heart soul desire
Whatever the heart desires, it purchases at the cost of soul
heart order might
Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might purprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough, or patient enough.
heart affection intellect
Science is the poetry of the intellect and poetry the science of the heart's affections.
heart wonder show-me
Who invented the human heart, I wonder? Tell me, and then show me the place where he was hanged.
behavior children dictates measure responsive
We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behavior and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it
cute-love love nervous philip severe
It's unthinkable not to love --you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.
believe reality confirmation
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.
women charity fool
The appalling thing is the degree of charity women are capable of. You see it all the time... love lavished on absolute fools. Love's a charity ward, you know.
best demands flower inward lead outward
They flower spontaneously out of the demands of our natures-and the best of them lead us not only outward in space, but inward as well.
travel artist journey
Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will-whatever we may think.
opposites matter pleasure
You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.
sorrow mass gravitation
Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.
adults realisation
The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
fall snow bird
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.