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Stephen Fry

Stephen Fry Quotes

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Famous Stephen Fry Quotes

“The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane. Each sentence we produce, whether we know it or not, is a mongrel mouthful of Chaucerian, Shakespearean, Miltonic, Johnsonian, Dickensian and American. Military, naval, legal, corporate, criminal, jazz, rap and ghetto discourses are mingled at every turn. The French language, like Paris, has attempted, through its Academy, to retain its purity, to fight the advancing tides of Franglais and international prefabrication. English, by comparison, is a shameless whore.”

“Well I don’t know about you, but when I recall childhood pain, I don’t recall the pains of toothache, a thrashed backside, broken bones, stubbed toes, gashed knees or twisted ankles – I recall the pains of loneliness, boredom, abandonment, humiliation, rejection and fear. Those are the pains on which I might and, still sometimes do, dwell, and those pains, almost without exception, were inflicted on me by other children and by myself.”

“For some reason the word “chronic” often has to be explained. It does not mean severe, though many chronic conditions can be exceptionally serious and indeed life-threatening. No, “chronic” means persistent over time, enduring, constant. Diabetes is a chronic condition, but measles is not. With measles, you contract it and then it is gone. It can sometimes be fatal, but is never chronic. Manic depression, in other words, is something you have to learn to live with. There are therapies which may help some people to function and function for the most part happily and well. Sometimes a talking therapy, sometimes pharmaceutical intervention helps.”

“I’ve found that it’s of some help to think of one’s moods and feelings about the world as being similar to weather. Here are some obvious things about the weather: It's real. You can't change it by wishing it away. If it's dark and rainy, it really is dark and rainy, and you can't alter it. It might be dark and rainy for two weeks in a row. BUT it will be sunny one day. It isn't under one's control when the sun comes out, but come out it will. One day. It really is the same with one's moods, I think. The wrong approach is to believe that they are illusions. Depression, anxiety, listlessness - these are all are real as the weather - AND EQUALLY NOT UNDER ONE'S CONTROL. Not one's fault. BUT They will pass: really they will. In the same way that one really has to accept the weather, one has to accept how one feels about life sometimes, "Today is a really crap day," is a perfectly realistic approach. It's all about finding a kind of mental umbrella. "Hey-ho, it's raining inside; it isn't my fault and there's nothing I can do about it, but sit it out. But the sun may well come out tomorrow, and when it does I shall take full advantage.”

“The uncomfortable, as well as the miraculous, fact about the human mind is how it varies from individual to individual. The process of treatment can therefore be long and complicated. Finding the right balance of drugs, whether lithium salts, anti-psychotics, SSRIs or other kinds of treatment can be a very hit or miss heuristic process requiring great patience and classy, caring doctoring. Some patients would rather reject the chemical path and look for ways of using diet, exercise and talk-therapy. For some the condition is so bad that ECT is indicated. One of my best friends regularly goes to a clinic for doses of electroconvulsive therapy, a treatment looked on by many as a kind of horrific torture that isn’t even understood by those who administer it. This friend of mine is just about one of the most intelligent people I have ever met and she says, “I know. It ought to be wrong. But it works. It makes me feel better. I sometimes forget my own name, but it makes me happier. It’s the only thing that works.” For her. Lord knows, I’m not a doctor, and I don’t understand the brain or the mind anything like enough to presume to judge or know better than any other semi-informed individual, but if it works for her…. well then, it works for her. Which is not to say that it will work for you, for me or for others.”

“MICHAEL (standing up and stretching) Gosh, Steve. I don't know how to thank you. STEVE (also standing) Hey, don't thank me. It means you haven't got any excuse now not to get back to work. They are facing each other. STEVE is looking into MICHAEL's eyes. MICHAEL (embarrassed) So... STEVE (also slightly awkward) Right. Well, I guess I'd better be... MICHAEL, surprising himself, silently pulls STEVE towards him. He puts a hand on his cheek. STEVE stares at MICHAEL, unable to move. The feeling of MICHAEL's hand on his cheek is like an electric shock. MICHAEL (whispering, hardly audible) I mean it, really... thanks. He leans forward and kisses STEVE on the lips. STEVE puts his arms round MICHAEL's neck and holds him tightly. MICHAEL suddenly ends the kiss and pulls away. He goes to the door, opens it and says, in a clear voice. MICHAEL Goodnight, then, Steve. STEVE (disappointed, hurt) Right... sure. G'night. MICHAEL immediately closes the door loudly, before STEVE has had a chance to leave. MICHAEL puts a finger to his lips. STEVE suddenly understands. He smiles in radiant relief, pure love and joy in his eyes. They embrace.”

“Самому себе: Не читать, пока мне не исполнится двадцать пять лет Я знаю, что ты почувствуешь, когда прочтешь это. Ты смутишься. Ты презрительно усмехнешься и станешь сыпать сарказмами. Что же, скажу тебе так: все, что я чувствую сейчас, все, чем я сейчас являюсь, правдивее и лучше того, чем я когда-либо стану. Когда бы то ни было. Сейчас я – это я, настоящий. Каждый день, который отделит меня от того, кто пишет это, будет предательством и поражением. Думаю, ты, изобразив умудренное отвращение или, в лучшем случае, позабавленную терпимость, сомнешь мое письмо в комок, но в глубине души ты будешь знать, будешь знать, что сминаешь то, чем ты действительно, действительно был. Сейчас я пребываю в возрасте, в котором воистину существую. Отныне моя жизнь будет разворачиваться у меня за спиной. И я говорю тебе сейчас, и ЭТО ПРАВДА – большая, чем все, что я когда-либо напишу, прочувствую или узнаю. ТО, ЧТО Я ЕСТЬ СЕЙЧАС, – ЭТО Я, ТО, ЧЕМ Я СТАНУ, – ЛОЖЬ.”

“Вы, наверное, уже заметили, что вся история моей жизни вращается вокруг проблем с телесным «я». И безрассудное удовлетворение мною физических аппетитов, и жалкая неприязнь к собственному телесному облику были предметом постоянного рассмотрения для моей личной патологической теологии, которая бóльшую часть жизни лишала меня каких ни на есть беззаботности и покоя. Я не хочу показаться вам нытиком, жалующимся на злую судьбу, или претендовать на уникальную чувствительность либо восприимчивость к подобного рода бедам, однако почти каждую минуту каждого моего дня я остро ощущаю себя повинным в бесчисленных прегрешениях. В том, что я пью слишком много кофе, уделяю слишком мало внимания работе, недостаточно быстро отвечаю на электронную почту. В том, что не звоню людям, которым обещал позвонить. Слишком редко бываю в спортивном зале. Слишком много ем. Слишком много пью. Отказываюсь выступать на благотворительных обедах. Медленно читаю и комментирую присылаемые мне — не по моей, впрочем, просьбе — сценарии. Все это проступки почти ничего не значащие, жалкие частички планктона в глубинах океана греховности — да, конечно, — однако во мне они порождают точно такие же панику, приниженность и потребность облегчить душу исповедью, какие терзают наиболее склонных к самоуничижению кальвинистов в наиболее смиренной их и жалкой горячке покаяния. Я не верю в существование Бога, Судного дня или искупающего грехи наши Спасителя, но испытываю стыд и трепет, предаюсь самобичеванию совершенно так же, как самый благочестивый и истеричный аскет, да еще и без дешевых обещаний насчет того, что наградой мне станут прощение и Божественные объятия, в кои примут меня на небесах.”

“Вот таким видят меня люди — вопреки истине. А может, на самом-то деле я еврейский полукровка с неотвязной склонностью к самоуничтожению, потративший годы на то, чтобы ее обуздать? Может, мой дух и характер поражены недугами, которые порой подталкивают меня к мыслям о самоубийстве, а затем оставляют на время — отчаявшимся, снедаемым нелюбовью, отвращением к себе? Может, я периодически начинаю казаться себе неудачником, человеком, ничего толком не добившимся, и мною овладевает страшное понимание того, что, какими бы дарованиями ни наделила меня природа, я изменил им, надругался над ними и ими пренебрег? Может, я сомневаюсь в моей способности стать, хотя бы когда-нибудь, счастливым? Может, меня одолевают опасения за мой рассудок, нравственную состоятельность, будущее?”

“Once, in his first term, Cartwright had been bold enough to ask him why he was clever, what exercises he did to keep his brain fit. Healey had laughed. "It's memory, Cartwright, old dear. Memory, the mother of the Muses... at least that's what thingummy said." "Who?" "You know, what's his name, Greek poet chap. Wrote the Theogony... what was he called? Begins with an 'H'." "Homer?" "No, dear. Not Homer, the other one. No, it's gone. Anyway. Memory, that's the key.”

“Lies, fictions and untrue suppositions can create new human truths which build technology, art, language, everything that is distinctly of Man. The word "stone" for instance is not a stone, it is an oral pattern of vocal, dental and labial sounds or a scriptive arrangement of ink on a white surface, but man pretends that it is actually the thing it refers to. Every time he wishes to tell another man about a stone he can use the word instead of the thing itself. The word bodies forth the object in the mind of the listener and both speaker and listener are able to imagine a stone without seeing one. All the qualities of stone can be metaphorically and metonymically expressed. "I was stoned, stony broke, stone blind, stone cold sober, stonily silent," oh, whatever occurs. More than that, a man can look at a stone and call it a weapon, a paperweight, a doorstep, a jewel, an idol. He can give it function, he can possess it.”

“Unlike musical notation, paint or clay, language is inside every one of us. For free. We are all proficient at it. We already have the palette, the paints and the instruments. We don’t have to go and buy any reserved materials. Poetry is made of the same stuff you are reading now, the same stuff you use to order pizza over the phone, the same stuff you yell at your parents and children, whisper in your lover’s ear and shove into an e-mail, text or birthday card. It is common to us all.”

“Desde la cuna a la tumba es perfectamente posible llevar una vida completamente deshonesta. Se puede no revelar nunca la verdadera identidad, las ansias y anhelos más recónditos, ni siquiera al círculo más íntimo de familiares y amigos; jamás decir la verdad a nadie. Sacerdotes y psicoterapeutas podrán creer que el confesionario o las sesiones de análisis revelan verdades, pero tú y yo sabemos, lo mismo que cualquiera, que se miente continuamente a todo el mundo. El mentir forma parte de nosotros lo mismo que la ropa.”

“It's now very common to hear people say, 'I'm rather offended by that.' As if that gives them certain rights. It's actually nothing more... than a whine. 'I find that offensive.' It has no meaning; it has no purpose; it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. 'I am offended by that.' Well, so fucking what." [I saw hate in a graveyard -- Stephen Fry, The Guardian, 5 June 2005]”

“There were people who believed their opportunities to live a fulfilled life were hampered by the number of Asians in England, by the existance of a royal family, by the volume of traffic that passed by their house, by the malice of trade unions, by the power of callous employers, by the refusal of the health service to take their condition seriously, by communism, by capitalism, by atheism, by anything, in fact, but their own futile, weak-minded failure to get a fucking grip.”