British writer, journalist, literary critic, and feminist (1892-1983)
Dame Cicily Isabel Fairfield DBE (21 December 1892 – 15 March 1983), known as Rebecca West, or Dame Rebecca West, was a British author, journalist, literary critic and travel writer.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Pen Names:
Lynx
Birth Name:
Cecily Isabel Fairfield
Alternative Names:
West, Dame Rebecca
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Dame Rebecca West
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Cicely Fairchild
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Cicily Isabel Andrews
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Cicily Andrews
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Cicely Isabel Fairfield
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Cicily Isobel Fairfield
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Cicily Isabel Fairfield
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Cicily Fairfield Andrews
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Mrs H. M. Andrews
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Cicily Fairfield
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Dame Cicely Isabel Fairfield
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Cicily Farifield
From Wikidata (CC0)
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It’s extraordinary the really tragic and dreadful things there are in marriage which are funny. I’ve never known anybody to write about this. My husband would insist on going and driving a car, and he’d never been a good driver. Like all bad drivers, he thought he was the best driver in the world and he couldn’t drive at all at the end and it was terrible.
Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one’s own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book.
I am for the legal government of Republican Spain against Franco, since Spain herself, at a properly conducted election, chose that Government and rejected the party which now supports Franco. I am also against Fascism; the reforms of Diocletian were a work of genius and made many people temporarily happy, but failed in the end and added greatly to human misery. I see no reason why this inferior modern copy of them should succeed.
But just as it sometimes happens that the most temperate people, who have never acquired the habit of drinking alcohol, or even a taste for it, are tormented by the fear that somehow or other they will one day find themselves drunk, so Isabelle perpetually feared that she might be betrayed into an impulsive act that was destructive to such order as reason had imposed on life. Therefore she was forever running her faculty of analysis over in her mind with the preposterous zeal of an adolescent running a razor over his beardless chin.
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