Sebastian Faulks Quotes
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The best thing is the combined effect of nicotine with alcohol, greater than the sum of the two parts.
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The past was suddenly rushing in on me in a way I found hard to fight.
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I am driven by a greater force than I can resist. I believe that force has its own reason and its own morality even if they may never be clear to me while I am alive
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I don't find life unbearably grave. I find it almost intolerably frivolous.
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Some crime against nature is about to be committed. I feel it in my veins. These men and boys are grocers and clerks, gardeners and fathers - fathers of small children. A country cannot bear to lose them.
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I never for a moment considered killing myself, because it wouldn't have achieved anything.
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We all operate on different levels of awareness. Half the time I don't know what I'm doing.
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The nicest characters in A Week in December research are, in fact, Muslims - and their religious devotion is one of the things that defines them.
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We're deaf men working as musicians; we play the music but we can't hear it.
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Have you ever been lonely? No, neither have I. Solitary, yes. Alone, certainly. But lonely means minding about being on your own. I've never minded about it.
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Busy is good, isn't it? Busy means we're hard at it, achieving our ends or "goals." Haven't had time to stop, or look around or think. That's considered the sign of a life well lived ... Suppose, though, you're not sure that what you're doing is at all worthwhile. Suppose you blundered into it over a spoonful of lime pickle. It's easy, it pays quite well. But really it's a distraction. It stops you thinking about what you ought to be doing.
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But I think if any song can touch the heart, then one should value it.
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Knowing one was comprised of recycled matter only and that selfhood was a delusion did not take away the aching of the heart.
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There you are, sir. There's nothing more than to love and be loved.
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And sometimes in life, I imagine, good things do happen. Most of the time, it's the opposite, obviously. But I don't think you should rule out the possibility that just occasionally chance might deal you a good card.
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All my life I had lived on the presumption that there was no existence beyond... flesh, the moment of being alive... then nothing. I had searched in superstition... But there was nothing. Then I heard the sound of my own life leaving me. It was so... tender. I regretted that I had paid it no attention. Then I believed in the wisdom of what other men had found before me... I saw that those simple things might be true... I never wanted to believe in them because it was better to fight my own battle. You can believe in something without compromising the burden of your own existence.
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Depression - that limp word for the storm of black panic and half-demented malfunction - had over the years worked itself out in Charlotte's life in a curious pattern. Its onset was often imperceptible: like an assiduous housekeeper locking up a rambling mansion, it noiselessly went about and turned off, one by one, the mind's thousand small accesses to pleasure.
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A bit of the vagueness of music stops you going completely mad, I imagine.
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I don't like being rumbled, I like to be invisible.
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I suppose that each of us may have a great moment in our life, a month, a week a year, when we are most fully what we are meant to be
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People never explain to you exactly what they think and feel and how their thoughts and feelings work, do they? They don't have time. Or the right words. But that's what books do. It's as though your daily life is a film in the cinema. It can be fun, looking at those pictures. But if you want to know what lies behind the flat screen you have to read a book. That explains it all.
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In the 1970s, British food was beginning to get good, whereas in France it was just starting its long, sad decline. My most memorable meals, however, have been in Italy.
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I don't think you ever understand your life - not till it's finished and probably not then either. The more I live the less I seem to understand.
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There arent many great passages written about food, but I love one by George Millar, who worked for the SOE in the second world war and wrote a book called Horned Pigeon. He had been on the run and hadnt eaten for a week, and his description of the cheese fondue he smells in the peasant kitchen of a house in eastern France is unbelievable.