Malcolm Lowry Quotes
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Muzzle a dog and he will bark out of the other end.
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Long for me as I for you, forgetting, what will be inevitable, the long black aftermath of pain.
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War is being declared tomorrow here so perhaps you can understand that I have been working under difficulties, but difficulties negligible compared with what others have to go through.
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No se puede vivir sin amar.
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Good God, if our civilization were to sober up for a couple of days it'd die of remorse on the third.
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How alike are the groans of love, to those of the dying.
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And yet, in these old women it was as if, through the various tragedies of Mexican history, pity, the impulse to approach, and terror, the impulse to escape (as one had learned at college), having replaced it, had finally been reconciled by prudence, the conviction it is better to stay where you are.
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I want your life filling and stirring me. I want your happiness beneath my heart and your sorrows in my eyes and your peace in the fingers of my hand.
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For a time they confronted each other like two mute unspeaking forts.
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There was no mistaking, even in the uncertain light, the hand, half crabbed, half generous, and wholly drunken, of the Consul himself, the Greek e’s, the flying buttresses of d’s, the t’s like lonely wayside crosses save where they crucified an entire word.
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The howling pariah dogs, the cocks that herald dawn all night, the drumming, the moaning that will be found later white plumage huddled on telegraph wires in back gardens or fowl roosting in apple trees, the eternal sorrow that never sleeps of great Mexico.
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God, how pointless and empty the world is! Days filled with cheap and tarnished moments succeed each other, restless and haunted nights follow in bitter routine: the sun shines without brightness, and the moon rises without light.
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Nothing in the world was more terrible than an empty bottle! Unless it was an empty glass.
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I wake to a darkness in which I must follow myself endlessly, hating the I who so eternally pursues and confronts me. If we could rise from our misery, seek each other once more, and find again the solace of each other’s lips and eyes.
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But my lord, Yvonne, surely you know by this time I can’t get drunk however much I drink.
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'Christ,' he remarked, puzzled, 'this is a dingy way to die.'
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And this is how I sometimes think of myself, as a great explorer who has discovered some extraordinary land from which he can never return to give his knowledge to the world: but the name of this land is hell.
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What beauty can compare to that of a cantina in the early morning?
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What is man but a little soul holding up a corpse?
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How shall the murdered man convince his assassin he will not haunt him.