Compton Mackenzie Quotes

Love makes the world go round? Not at all. Whiskey makes it go round twice as fast.

Oh, my dear, how too marvelous! I've longed all my life to eat a flamingo.

He’s such an extraordinarily brilliant person that it would be terrible if he let himself do nothing in the end.

In the summer of 1914, he had headed to France in the company of his only son, Alistair. They were driving at high speed through woodland in Northern France when Alistair lost control of the wheel. The car spun into a roadside tree and flipped upside down. Alistair was flung from the vehicle and landed on his head. Cumming was trapped by his leg in a tangle of smouldering metal. ‘The boy was fatally injured,’ wrote Compton Mackenzie in his account of the incident, ‘and his father, hearing him moan something about the cold, tried to extricate himself from the wreck of the car in order to put a coat over him; but struggle as he might, he could not free his smashed leg.’ If he was to have any hope of reaching his son, there was only one thing to do. He reached for his pocket knife and hacked away at his mangled limb ‘until he had cut it off, after which he had crawled over to the son and spread a coat over him.’ Nine hours later, Cumming was found lying unconscious next to his son’s dead body. His recovery was as remarkable as his survival. He was back at his desk within a month, brushing aside any outer shows of mourning for his son. Cumming had the ramrod emotional backbone that so typified the gentlemen of his social class and era. Just a few months after his accident, one of his operatives visited him at his offices on the top floor of Whitehall Court. Cumming, who had not yet received his artificial leg, was inching his substantial frame down six flights of stairs: ‘two sticks, and backside, edging its way down one step at a time.’ Little wonder that his friends described him as ‘obstinate as a mule.

One is so apt nowadays to regard even one’s own motives and actions during the War with a contemptuous cynicism that it is as well to remind oneself of emotions which were profoundly and sincerely felt.

Some time ago N went over to Paris disguised as an opera singer, and he looked the part so well that the agent whom he was to meet thought he really was an opera singer and never went near him for a week. In fact, it turned out a little awkwardly, because one evening this agent saw a member of the French Cabinet dining at the Ritz and he looked so much like somebody disguised as an opera singer that this dam' fool of an agent went up and spoke to him. He was at once arrested by the French secret police, and there was nearly a most unpleasant scandal.

Never could stand very clever people. Oh, I like them very much, but I always feel like a piece of furniture they want to move out of their way.

It is only to the sentimentalist over some tame midland prospect that man appears vile. In Sirene he holds his own with the sublime eccentricity of the natural scene. In Sirene he lives.

Alors, ma passion n'a pas d'échos en lui. Pour lui mon tragique amour n'est rien qu'un blasphème anormal. Oh, mon Carlo, mon Carlo, et toi, tu étais mon sang, ma chair! Comme je souffre! Grand dieu, comme je souffre!

As the tissues of the body fester and rot under X rays, so under the sun fester and rot Anglo-Saxonism and Teutonism and Scandinavianism if left too long beneath its influence.

I like the thought of a Scots Republic with Scots Border Guards in saffron kilts - the thought of those kilts can awake me to joy in the middle of the night. I like the thought of Miss Wendy Wood leading a Scots Expeditionary Force down to Westminster the reclaim the Scone Stone: I would certainly march with that expedition myself in spite of the risk of dying of laughter by the way. I like the thought of a Scots Catholic kingdom with Mr. Compton Mackenzie Prime Minister to some disinterred Jacobite royalty, and all the Scots intellectuals settled out on the land on thirty-acre crofts, or sent to St Kilda for the good of their souls and the nation (except the hundreds streaming over the border in panic flight at sight of the Scotland of their dreams).

Compton Mackenzie, who is getting quite Scotch (probably from now living so near Glenlivet), gave [Sunset Song] a column in the Daily Mail. The Mail! Oh Goddelpus! I as a good anarcho-communist shrivel up internally.