|Born||Lawrence George Durrell
27 February 1912
Jalandhar, Punjab, British India
|Died||7 November 1990
|Occupation||Biographer; poet; playwright; novelist|
|Notable works||The Alexandria Quartet|
|Spouses||Nancy Isobel Myers
Eve “Yvette” Cohen
(1961â€“1967, her death)
Ghislaine de Boysson
|Relatives||Lawrence Samuel Durrell (Father), Louisa Dixie Durrell (Mother), Gerald (brother), Margaret (sister), Leslie (brother)|
A woman's best love letters are always written to the man she is betraying.
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.
Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.
There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.
Everyone loathes his own country and countrymen if he is any sort of artist.
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.
Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.
It takes a lot of energy and a lot of neurosis to write a novel. If you were really sensible, you'd do something else.
We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behavior and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it.
Guilt always hurries towards its complement, punishment; only there does its satisfaction lie.
I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time – those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.
For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential – the imagination.