The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more de...
Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer I like being missed.
Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day.
There was purification in punishment. Not 'Forgive us our sins,' but 'Smite us for our iniquities' should be the prayer of a man to a most just God.
They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about.
This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I suppose?Algernon. Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most wonderful Bunbury I have ever had in my life.Jack. Well, you've no...
To be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up.
We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothi...
What the artist isalways looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body areone and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: inwhich form reveals.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by...
Yes,’ he cried, ‘you have killed my love! You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvelous, because you had g...
One should always be in love. That's the reason one should never marry.
Bad artists always admire each others work.
Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.
To become the spectator of one's own life is to escape the suffering of life.
A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.
A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and,...
And all the woe that moved him soThat he gave that bitter crythe wild regrets, and the bloody sweatsNone knew so well as I:
But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becom...
He is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.
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