Quotes from John Osborne

Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamp-post what it feels about dogs." [ Time Magazine , October 31, 1977]

You're hurt because everything is changed. Jimmy is hurt because everything is the same. And neither of you can face it. Something's gone wrong somewhere, hasn't it?

Jimmy: The injustice of it is almost perfect! The wrong people going hungry, the wrong people being loved, the wrong people dying!

You see I learnt at an early age what it was to be angry - angry and helpless. And I can never forget it. I knew more about - love... betrayal... and death, when I was ten years old than you will probably ever know in your life.

I suppose people of our generation aren't able to die for good causes any longer. We had all that done for us, in the thirties and the forties, when we were still kids. ...There aren't any good, brave causes left. (Jimmy Porter)

Jimmy: One day, when I'm no longer spending my days running a sweet-stall, I may write a book about us all. It's all here. (slapping his forehead) Written in flames a mile high. And it won't be recollected in tranquillity either, picking daffodils with Auntie Wordsworth. It'll be recollected in fire, and blood. My blood.

Jimmy: I hope you won't make the mistake of thinking for one moment that I am a gentleman.

If you've no world of your own, it's rather pleasant to regret the passing of someone else's.

It's no good fooling about with love you know. You can't fall into it like a soft job without dirtying up your hands. It takes muscle and guts. If you can't bear the thought of messing up your nice, tidy soul, you better give up the whole idea of life and become a saint, because you'll never make it as a human being. It's either this world... or the next.

How I long for a little ordinary human enthusiasm. Just enthusiasm- that's all. I want to hear a warm, thrilling voice cry out Hallelujah! I'm alive! I've an idea. Why don't we have a little game? Let's pretend that we're human beings, and that we're actually alive. Just for a while. What do you say? Let's pretend we're human." ? John Osborne, Look Back in Anger

Laughter's the nearest we ever get, or should get, to sainthood. It's the state of grace that saves most of us from contempt.

Alison: I don't think I want anything more to do with love. Any more. I can't take it on. Cliff: You're too young to start giving up. Too young, and too lovely.

Anyone who's never watched somebody die is suffering from a pretty bad case of virginity. For twelve months, I watched my father dying - when I was ten years old.

Jimmy: You'll end up like one of those chocolate merengues my wife is so fond of [Alison starts banging jars]...sweet and sticky on the outside, and sink your teeth in it [savouring every word]-inside, all white, messy and disgusting. [offering teapot sweetly to Helena] Milk?

I must say it's pretty dreary living in the American Age - unless you're an American of course. Perhaps all our children will be Americans.

Asking a working writer what he feels about critics is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs.

Am impresia c? toat? viaÅ£a mi-o petrec luându-mi r?mas bun.

I may be a lost cause, but I thought if you loved me, it needn't matter.

To be as vehement as he is is to be almost non-committal.

There is no real communication with those we love most

Nobody thinks, nobody cares. No beliefs, no convictions and no enthusiasm. Just another Sunday evening.

It is better to be a has-been than a never-was

Jimmy: They all want to escape from the pain of being alive. And, most of all,love. It's no good trying to fool yourself about love. You can't fall into it like a soft job, without dirtying up your hands.It takes muscle and guts. And if you can't bear the thought of messing up your nice, clean soul- you'd better give up the whok idea of life, and because you'll never make it as a human being. It's either this world or the next.

Charles) Laughton was one of the most pugnaciously morose men I had ever met. His huge talent seemed to endorse his implacable resentment. His Caliban self-portraiture must have been further agnozied by being incarcerated, like so many of his unhappy generation, in that closet which dared not speak its name. Even his large collection of Klees and Kokoshchkas was displayed as trophies of martyrdom rather than joyful plunder.