“
I don't need you to remind me of my age. I have a bladder to do that for me.
— Stephen Fry
actor, comedian, television presenter, screenwriter, autobiographer, writer, director, television actor, novelist, stage actor, science fiction writer, film actor, journalist, film director, improviser, performing artist, narrator
🔗 Read on Wikipedia1957
I don't need you to remind me of my age. I have a bladder to do that for me.
Christmas to a child is the first terrible proof that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive.
Choking with dry tears and raging, raging, raging at the absolute indifference of nature and the world to the death of love, the death of hope and the death of beauty, I remember sitting on the end of my bed, collecting these pills and capsules together and wondering why, why when I felt I had so much to offer, so much love, such outpourings of love and energy to spend on the world, I was incapable of being offered love, giving it or summoning the energy with which I knew I could transform myself and everything around me.
There are times when I'm doing QI and I'm going, 'Ha ha, yeah, yeah,' and inside I'm going 'I want to fucking die. I … want … to … fucking … die.'
I don't need you to remind me of my age. I have a bladder to do that for me.
I am a lover of truth, a worshiper of freedom, a celebrant at the altar of language and purity and tolerance.
Christmas to a child is the first terrible proof that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive.
It is the useless things that make life worth living and that make life dangerous too: wine, love, art, beauty. Without them life is safe, but not worth bothering with.
An original idea. That can't be too hard. The library must be full of them.
If I had a large amount of money I should certainly found a hospital for those whose grip upon the world is so tenuous that they can be severely offended by words and phrases and yet remain all unoffended by the injustice, violence and oppression that howls daily about our ears.
I don't need you to remind me of my age, I have a bladder to do that for me.
I have always disbelieved that Sicilian saying about revenge being a dish best served cold. I feel that--don't you?--when I see blinking, quivering octogenarian Nazi war criminals being led away in chains. Why not then? It's too late now. I want to see them taken back in time and punished then...Blame, certainly, is a dish only edible when served fresh and warm. Old blames, grudges and scores congeal and curdle and cause the most terrible indigestion.
I have to mime at parties when everyone sings Happy Birthday . . . mime or mumble and rumble and growl and grunt so deep that only moles, manta rays and mushrooms can hear me.
It is a cliché that most clichés are true, but then like most clichés, that cliché is untrue.
My mother has an absolute passion for sour fruit and can strip a gooseberry bush quicker than a priest can strip a choirboy.
It is, I know, for I have experienced it perhaps twice in my life, an awful privilege to be too much loved and perhaps the kindest thing I ever did in my life was never to let Matthew know to what degree he had destroyed my peace and my happiness.
I remember nothing of this, no ambulance rides, nothing. Nothing between switching out the bedside lamp and the sudden indignity of rebirth: the slaps, the brightness, the tubing, the speed, the urgent insistence that I be choked back into breathing life. I have felt so sorry for babies ever since.
Life, that can shower you with so much splendour, is unremittingly cruel to those who have given up.
My vocal cords are made of tweed. I give off an air of Oxford donnishness and old BBC wirelesses.
My first words, as I was being born... I looked up at my mother and said, "that's the last time I'm coming out one of those."
I don't need you to remind me of my age. I have a bladder to do that for me.
I used many times to touch my own chest and feel, under its asthmatic quiver, the engine of the heart and lungs and blood and feel amazed at what I sensed was the enormity of the power I possessed. Not magical power, but real power. The power simply to go on, the power to endure, that is power enough, but I felt I had also the power to create, to add, to delight, to amaze and to transform.
… but love, like all art, as Oscar said, it's quite useless. It is the useless things that make life worth living and that make life dangerous too: wine, love, art, beauty. Without them life is safe but not worth bothering with.
God once had Bach and Michelangelo on his side, he had Mozart, and now who does he have? People with ginger whiskers and tinted spectacles who reduce the glories of theology to a kind of sharing.
But an Adrian also knew that an Adrian's lies were real: they were lived and felt and acted out as thoroughly as another man's truths - if other men had truths - and he believed it possible that this last lie might see him through to the grave.
There’s nothing worse than the British in one of their fits of morality.
Greasy, miserable, British and pathetic
He takes coke and has slept with a prostitute - but he's a TV presenter for God's sake!
Stop feeling sorry for yourself and you will be happy.
Pathetic, naive, like small noisy tantrums.
What decent person would want to spend a life picking and cavilling? Picture this scene. A critic arrives at the gates of heaven. 'And what did you do?' asks Saint Peter. 'Well', says the dead soul. 'I criticised things'. 'I beg your pardon?' 'You know, other people wrote things, performed things, painted things and I said stuff like, "thin and unconvincing", "turgid and uninspired", "competent and serviceable,"...you know'.
It's now very common to hear people say, "I'm rather offended by that", as if that gives them certain rights. It's no more than a whine. It has no meaning, it has no purpose, it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. "I'm offended by that." Well, so fucking what?
I genuinely believe that the Catholic church is not, to put it at its mildest, a force for good in the world... We certainly don’t need the stigmatisation, the victimisation that leads to the playground bullying when people say: “You’re a disordered, morally evil individual.” That’s not nice, it isn’t nice.
Weak watery sun, but sun nonetheless. Why does it take me nearly 2 hours just to get through the morning emails? Pah, poo and pants.
I gather a repulsive nobody writing in a paper no one of any decency would be seen dead with has written something loathesome and inhumane.
A cut glass English accent can fool unsuspecting Americans into detecting a brilliance that isn't there.
Wit can be beautiful, because it expresses and distils an idea.
I was called by my agent, who said "Would you like to record a track with Kate Bush?" To which there is only F-ing one possible answer. Unless its me singing. I said, "She does know I can't sing?" "No-no-no, it would be voicing, saying words for snow. … I still can't believe it says "Kate Bush-Stephen Fry."
She has a very intense poetic mind. That's what makes it — that voice that comes in.
Christmas to a child is the first terrible proof that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive.
But happiness is no respecter of persons.
Taste every fruit of every tree in the garden at least once. It is an insult to creation not to experience it fully. Temperance is wickedness.
