The 69+ Christopher Isherwood Quotes

At One Campus Where I Was Lecturing, I Asked A Friend, "how Many Of My Colleagues Know I'm Gay?" He Answered, "all Of Them." I Wasn't Surprised. But, Just The Same, It Was Kind Of Spooky, Because Not One Of Them Had Ever Given Me The Faintest Sign That He Or She Knew. If I Had Spoken About It Myself, Most Of Them Would Have Felt It Was In Bad Taste.

For A Few Minutes, Maybe, Life Lingers In The Tissues Of Some Outlying Regions Of The Body. Then, One By One, The Lights Go Out And There Is Total Blackness. And Ifsome Part Of The Non—entity We Called George Has Indeed Been Absent At This Moment Of Terminal Shock, Away Out There On The Deep Water, Then It Will Return To Find Itself Homeless.

I Certainly Should Have,' He Agrees, Smiling And Thinking What An Absurd And Universally-accepted Bit Of Nonsense It Is, That Your Best Friends Must Necessarily Be The Ones Who Best Understand You. As If There Weren't Far Too Much Understanding In The World Already; Above All, That Understanding Between Lovers, Celebrated In Song And Story, Which Is Actually Such Torture That No Two Of Them Can Bear It Without Frequent Separations Or Fights.

You See, Kenny, There Are Some Things You Don't Even Know You Know, Until You're Asked.

Lois And Alexander Are By Far The Most Beautiful Creatures In The Class; Their Beauty Is Like The Beauty Of Plants, Seemingly Untroubled By Vanity, Anxiety Or Effort.

I Seldom Try To Probe The Mystery Of My Sloth. I Have Squandered A Gigantic Fortune Of Work Hours... Seems Likely That I'll Go On Squandering Till The Very End.

But Your Book Is Wrong, Mrs. Strunk, Says George, When It Tells You That Jim Is The Substitute I Found For A Real Son, A Real Kid Brother, A Real Husband, A Real Wife. Jim Wasn't A Substitute For Anything. And There Is No Substitute For Jim, If You'll Forgive My Saying So, Anywhere.

The Nazis Were Not Right To Hate The Jews. But Their Hating Of Jews Was Not Without A Cause. No One Ever Hates Without A Cause.

Hollywood's Two Polar Types Are The Cynically Drunken Writer Aggressively Nursing A Ten-year-old Reputation And The Theatrically Self-conscious Hermit Who Strides The Boulevard In Sandals, Home-made Shorts And A Prophetic Beard, Muttering Against The Age Of The Machines.

These Books Have Not Made George Nobler Or Better Or More Truly Wise. It Is Just That He Likes Listening To Their Voices, The One Or The Other, Acording To His Mood. He Misuses Them Quite Ruthlessly - Despite The Respectful Way He Has To Talk About Them In Public - To Put Him To Bed, To Take His Mind Off The Hands Of The Clock, To Relax The Nagging Of His Pyloric Spasm, To Gossip Him Out Of His Melancholy, To Trigger The Conditioned Reflexes Of His Colon.

The Quito Telephone Service Is About As Reliable As Roulette.

What It Sees There Isn't So Much A Face As The Expression Of A Predicament.