There is plenty about Cyril Connolly that I dislike, particularly his crushing Waugh-like snobbery, but he could turn a phrase, not half as exquisitely as he would have wished, but his writing has elegance and soul.
Today, in Paris, Connolly has captured my mood:
…I have a room for 400 francs a month and at last I will be living within my own and other people’s income. I am tired of acquaintances and tired of friends unless they’re intelligent, tired also of extrovert unbookish life. Me for good talk, wet evenings, intimacy, vins rouges en carafe, reading, relative solitude, street worship, exploration of the least known arrondissements, shopgazing, alley sloping, cafe crawling, Seine loafing, and plenty of writing from the table by this my window where I can watch the streets light up… I am for the intricacy of Europe, the discrete and many folded strata of the old world, the past, the North, the world of ideas. I am for the Hôtel de la Louisiane.
The London Journal