Whatever one writes, comes to pass.

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Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde

Profession: Dramatist
Nationality: Irish

Whatever one writes, comes to pass. Oscar Wilde

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I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.

Thinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they die of any other disease. Fortunately, in England at any rate, thought is not catching. Our splendid physique as a people is entirely due to our national stupidity.

The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world... They live as we all should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet... Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.

The things people say of a man do not alter a man. He is what he is. Public opinion is of no value whatsoever.

And I will sing how sad Proserpina Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed, And lure the silver-breasted Helena Back from the lotus meadows of the dead, So shalt thou see that awful loveliness For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war's abyss! And.

If you don't get everything you want, think of the things you don't get that you don't want.

Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.

He took them, and shaped them into a song. They become his, because he made them lovely. They were built out of music, and so not built at all, and therefore built for ever.

No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.

Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry. Except in America, rejoined Lord Henry, languidly.

But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.

With beat of systole and of diastole One grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart, And mighty waves of single Being roll From nerveless germ to man, for we are part Of every rock and bird and beast and hill, One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill.

Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entrées.

Sir John's temper since he has taken seriously to politics has become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying to become useful, it does a great deal of harm.