Malcolm Lowry Quotes.
In the war to come correspondents would assume unheard of importance, plunging through flame to feed the public its little gobbets of dehydrated excrement.
Perhaps his tragedy is that he is the one normal writer left on earth and it is this that adds to his isolation and so to his sense of guilt.
The howling pariah dogs, the cocks that herald dawn all night, the drumming, the moaning that will be found later white plumage huddled on telegraph wires in back gardens or fowl roosting in apple trees, the eternal sorrow that never sleeps of great Mexico.
What I have absolutely no sympathy with is the legislator, the man who seeks, for his own profit, to exploit the weaknesses of those who are unable to help themselves and then to fasten some moral superscription upon it. This I loathe so much that I cannot conceivably explain how much it is.
AdiГіs,” she added in Spanish, “I have no house only a shadow. But whenever you are in need of a shadow, my shadow is yours.” “Thank you.” “Sank you.” “Not sank you, SeГ±ora Gregorio, thank you.” “Sank you.
Muzzle a dog and he will bark out of the other end.
Good God, if our civilization were to sober up for a couple of days it’d die of remorse on the third.
Only against death does man cry out in vain.
No, my secrets are of the grave and must be kept. And this is how I sometimes think of myself, as a great explorer who has discovered some extraordinary land from which he can never return to give his knowledge to the world: but the name of this land is hell.
The movements of some more little red birds in the garden, like animated rosebuds, appeared unbearably jittery and thievish. It was as though the creatures were attached by sensitive wires to his nerves.
The Consul felt a pang. Ah, to have a horse, and gallop away, singing, to someone you loved perhaps, into the heart of all the simplicity and peace in the world; was that not like the opportunity afforded man by life itself? Of course not. Still, just for a moment, it had seemed that it was.
Long for me as I for you, forgetting, what will be inevitable, the long black aftermath of pain.
What is man but a little soul holding up a corpse?
There was no mistaking, even in the uncertain light, the hand, half crabbed, half generous, and wholly drunken, of the Consul himself, the Greek e’s, the flying buttresses of d’s, the t’s like lonely wayside crosses save where they crucified an entire word.
Never think that by releasing me you will be free. You would only condemn us to an ultimate hell on earth. You would only free something else to destroy us both.
How shall the murdered man convince his assassin he will not haunt him.
How alike are the groans of love to those of the dying.
How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?
Fear ringed by doubt is my eternal moon.
