Best 38 quotes of Christopher Fry on MyQuotes

An artist's sensitivity to criticism is, at least in part, an effort to keep unimpaired the zest, or confidence, or arrogance, which he needs to make creation possible; or an instinct to climb through his problems in his own way as he should, and must.

Between our birth and death we may touch understanding, As a moth brushes a window with its wing

Coffee in England is just toasted milk.

Comedy is an escape, not from truth but from despair; a narrow escape into faith.

Day's work is still to do, Whatever the day's doom.

Equality is a mortuary word.

How can a man learn navigation Where there's no rudder?

How can we be scrupulous In a life which, from birth onwards, is so determined To wring us dry of any serenity at all?

How nature loves the incomplete. She knows If she drew a conclusion it would finish her.

If we could wake each morning with no memory of living before we went to sleep, we might arrive at a faultless day.

I know your cause is lost, but in the heart / Of all right causes is a cause that cannot lose.

Imagination is the wide-open eye which leads us always to see truth more vividly.

Indulgences, not fulfillment, is what the world Permits us.

In my plays I want to look at life at the commonplace of existence as if we had just turned a corner and run into it for the first time.

In tragedy every moment is eternity; in comedy, eternity is a moment.

It is the individual man in his individual freedom who can mature with his warm spirit the unripe world.

I travel light; as light, that is, as a man can travel who will still carry his body around because of its sentimental value.

Life is a hypocrite if I can't live the way it moves me.

Life itself is the real and most miraculous miracle of all. If one had never before seen a human hand and were suddenly presented for the first time with this strange and wonderful thing, what a miracle, what a magnificently shocking and inexplicable and mysterious thing it would be.

One day I shall burst my bud of calm and blossom into hysteria.

Poetry has the virtue of being able to say twice as much as prose in half the time, and the drawback, if you do not give it your full attention, of seeming to say half as much in twice the time.

Poetry is a language in which man explores his own amazement.

Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement... says heaven and earth in one word... speaks of himself and his predicament as though for the first time.

Religion Has made an honest woman of the supernatural, And we won't have it kicking over the traces again.

Thank God our time is now when wrong comes up to meet us everywhere never to leave us till we take, the greatest stride of the soul man ever took. affairs are now soul size the enterprise is exploration unto God. Where are you making for? It takes so many thousand years to wake. But will you wake for pity's sake?

The best Thing we can do is to make wherever we're lost in Look as much like home as we can.

The dark is light enough.

The difference between tragedy and comedy is the difference between experience and intuition. In the experience we strive against every condition of our animal life: against death, against the frustration of ambition, against the instability of human love. In the intuition we trust the arduous eccentricities we're born to, and see the oddness of a creature who has never got acclimatized to being created.

The first of our senses which we should take care never to let rust through disuse is that sixth sense, the imagination. I mean the wide-open eye which leads us to see truth more vividly, to apprehend more broadly, to concern ourselves more deeply, to be, all our life long, sensitive and awake to the powers and responsibilities given to us as human beings.

The lines marking a penalty area are a disgrace to the playing fields of a public school.

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

There may always be another reality to make fiction of the truth we think we've arrived at.

The skirts of the gods Drag in our mud. We feel the touch And take it to be a kiss.

We must each find our separate meaning in the persuasion of our days until we meet in the meaning of the world.

What, after all,is a halo? It's only one more thing to keep clean.

Where in this small-talking world can I find A longitude with no platitude?

Who apart from ourselves, can see any difference between our victories and our defeats?

THOMAS Guilty Of mankind. I have perpetrated human nature. My father and mother were accessories before the fact, But there’ll be no accessories after the fact, By my virility there won’t! Just see me As I am, like a perambulating Vegetable, patched with inconsequential Hair, looking out of two small jellies for the means Of life, balanced on folding bones, my sex No Beauty but a blemish to be hidden Behind judicious rags, driven and scorched By boomerang rages and lunacies which never Touch the accommodating artichoke Or the seraphic strawberry beaming in its bed: I defend myself against pain and death by pain And death, and make the world go round, they tell me By one of my less lethal appetites: Half this grotesque life I spend in a state Of slow decomposition, using The name of unconsidered God as a pedestal On which I stand and bray that I’m best Of beasts, until under some patient Moon or other I fall to pieces, Like a cake of dung. Is there a slut would Hold this in her arms and put her lips against it? JENNET Sluts are only human. By a quirk Of unastonished nature, your obscene Decaying figure of vegetable fun Can drag upon a woman’s heart, as though Heaven were dragging up the roots of hell. What is to be done? Something compels us into The terrible fallacy that man is desirable and there’s no escaping into truth. The crimes And cruelties leave us longing, and campaigning Love still pitches his tent of light among The suns and moons. You may be decay and a platitude Of flesh, but I have no other such memory of life. You may be corrupt as ancient applies, well then Corruption is what I most willingly harvest. You are Evil, Hell, the Father of Lies; if so Hell is my home and my days of good were a holiday: Hell is my hill and the world slopes away from it Into insignificance. I have come suddenly Upon my heart and where it is I see no help for.