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Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?
“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”
“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal.
I never talk during music—at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it in conversation.”
Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”
The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.
“I don’t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty.”
passion makes one think in a circle.
Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination.
“Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life.
The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
