Edward St. Aubyn Quotes
born 1960 England
Edward St Aubyn (born 14 January 1960 in London) is an English author and journalist. He is the author of eight novels.
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Random Edward St. Aubyn quote
33 quotes
Of course it was wrong to want to change people, but what else could you possibly want to do with them?
What is a strain is being forced into the lobster pot of good behaviour while being forced to sing its praises.
It must be hard to be exclusively social and entirely friendless at the same time.
No man is an island — although one’s known a surprising number who own one.
The tragedy of old age, when a man’s too weak to hit his own child.
Never use a conditional tense when it comes to money.
Above all, he wanted to stop being a child without using the cheap disguise of becoming a parent.
‘Look at her,’ said Patrick, ‘pacing around the cage of her Valentino dress, longing to be released into her natural habitat.’
She glimpsed the pink flowers of a magnolia protesting against the black-and-white half-timbered facade of a mock-Tudor side street.
Men used to tell me how they used butter for sex, now they tell me how they’ve eliminated it from their diet.
Without speech, thoughts plough on like a train without tracks, buckling, crashing, ripping everything apart.
Gothic script seemed to warp every letter that passed through the door of the funeral parlour, as if death were a German village.
Mind you, I don’t know why people get so fixated on happiness, which always eludes them, when there are so many other invigorating experiences available, like rage, jealousy, disgust, and so forth.
‘Aren’t people funny? I don’t find where one sits at dinner fascinating at all,’ lied the Princess.
But do you know what struck me, apart from Nancy’s vibrant self-pity, which she had the nerve to pretend was grief?
His decision to study the law had got him as far as hiring Twelve Angry Men from a video shop.
The claim that every man kills the thing he loves seemed to him a wild guess compared with the near certainty of a man turning into the thing he hates.
More./What for? was a rhyme that deserved to be made more often.
The tragedy was that five or perhaps ten years of decent five-day-a-week analysis could have mitigated the problem significantly.
Thank goodness there were people who were happy with nothing, thought Julia, so that people like her (and everyone else she had ever met), could have more.