Best 48 quotes of V. S. Pritchett on MyQuotes

Absolute Evil is not the kingdom of hell. The inhabitants of hell are ourselves, i.e., those who pay our painful, embarrassing, humanistic duties to society and who are compromised by our intellectually dubious commitment to virtue, which can be defined by the perpetual smear-word of French polemic: the bourgeois. (Bourgeois equals humanist.) This word has long been anathema in France where categories are part of the ruling notion of logique. The word cannot be readily matched in England or America.

Among the masked dandies of Edwardian comedy, Max Beerbohm is the most happily armored by a deep and almost innocent love of himself as a work of art.

A natural New Yorker is a native of the present tense.

A short story is. . .frequently the celebration of character at bursting point.

A touch of science, even bogus science, gives an edge to the superstitious tale.

Because of the influence of the cinema, most reports or stories of violence are so pictorial that they lack content or meaning. The camera brings them to our eyes, but does not settle them in our minds, nor in time.

Detective stories are the art-for-art's sake of yawning Philistinism.

I am under the spell of language, which has ruled me since I was 10.

I felt the beginning of a passion, hopeless in the long run, but very nourishing, for identifying myself with people who were not my own, and whose lives were governed by ideas alien to mine.

It is exciting and emancipating to believe we are one of nature's latest experiments, but what if the experiment is unsuccessful?

It is often said that in Ireland there is an excess of genius unsustained by talent; but there is talent in the tongues.

It is the role of the poet to look at what is happening in the world and to know that quite other things are happening.

It is well known that, when two authors meet, they at once start talking about money-like everyone else.

It's very important to feel foreign. I was born in England, but when I'm being a writer, everyone in England is foreign to me.

Life — how curious is that habit that makes us think it is not here, but elsewhere.

Like many popular best-sellers, he was a very sad and solemn man who took himself too seriously and his art not seriously enough.

[London is] like the sight of a heavy sea from a rowing boat in the middle of the Atlantic.... One lives in it, afloat but half submerged in a heavy flood of brick, stone, asphalt, slate, steel, glass, concrete, and tarmac, seeing nothing fixable beyond a few score white spires that splash up like spits of foam above the next glum wave of dirty buildings.

[London] is sentimental and tolerant. The attitude to foreigners is like the attitude to dogs: Dogs are neither human nor British, but so long as you keep them under control, give them their exercise, feed them, pat them, you will find their wild emotions are amusing, and their characters interesting.

Now, practically all reviewers have academic aspirations. The people from the universities are used to a captive audience, but the literary journalist has to please his audience.

One recalls how much the creative impulse of the best-sellers depends upon self-pity. It is an emotion of great dramatic potential.

On one plane, the very great writers and the popular romancers of the lower order always meet. They use all of themselves, helplessly, unselectively. They are above the primness and good taste of declining to give themselves away.

Prep school, public school, university: these now tedious influences standardize English autobiography, giving the educated Englishman the sad if fascinating appearance of a stuffed bird of sly and beady eye in some old seaside museum. The fixation on school has become a class trait. It manifests itself as a mixture of incurious piety and parlour game.

Short stories can be rather stark and bare unless you put in the right details. Details make stories human, and the more human a story can be, the better.

Some writers thrive on the contact with the commerce of success; others are corrupted by it. Perhaps, like losing one's virginity,it is not as bad (or as good) as one feared it was going to be.

Sooner or later, the great men turn out to be all alike. They never stop working. They never lose a minute. It is very depressing.

The businessman who is a novelist is able to drop in on literature and feel no suicidal loss of esteem if the lady is not at home, and he can spend his life preparing without fuss for the awful interview.

The Canadian spirit is cautious, observant and critical where the American is assertive.

The detective novel is the art-for-art's-sake of our yawning Philistinism, the classic example of a specialized form of art removed from contact with the life it pretends to build on.

The difference between farce and humour in literature is, I suppose, that farce strums louder and louder on one string, while humour varies its note, changes its key, grows and spreads and deepens until it may indeed reach tragic depths.

The makers of the short story have rarely been good novelists.

The mark of genius is an incessant activity of mind. Genius is a spiritual greed.

The novel...creates a bemusing effect. The short story, on the other hand wakes the reader up. Not only that, it answers the primitive craving for art, the wit, paradox and beauty of shape, the longing to see a dramatic pattern and significance in our experience.

The peculiar foreign superstition that the English do not like love, the evidence being that they do not talk about it.

The present has its élan because it is always on the edge of the unknown and one misunderstands the past unless one remembers that this unknown was once part of its nature.

The profoundly humorous writers are humorous because they are responsive to the hopeless, uncouth, concatenations of life.

There is more magic in sin if it is not committed.

The wrongs of childhood and upbringing have made a large and obsessional contribution to autobiography and the novel.

Those mausoleums of inactive masculinity are places for men who prefer armchairs to women.

We are used to the actions of human beings, not to their stillness.

Well, youth is the period of assumed personalities and disguises. It is the time of the sincerely insincere.

Writing enlarges the landscape of the mind.

As Londoners, we are – you see – drama itself and have no reason to whip ourselves up into states with sirens and altercations. We like the police to be quiet, the ambulances discreet, and the fire engines jolly.

He (Orwell) always made an impression of the passing traveler who meets one on the station, points out that one is waiting for the wrong train, and vanishes

In no other city can one so cheerfully enjoy the accidents of bad art.

The attitude to foreigners is like the attitude to dogs: dogs are neither human nor British, but so long as you keep them under control, give them their exercise, feed them, pat them, you will find their wild emotions are amusing, and their characters interesting.

The law is a tedious profession and is relieves the boredom by its own little comedies

Where one waits for that peremptory, half-melancholy, half-majestic sound of a ship blowing as she silently glides out black in the night, almost through the pub yard, from the docks basin on her voyage.

Your successes were never due to your brains. You achieved them because you have “character.