When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.

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Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.

If one plays good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk.

I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity.

When is she Sibyl Vane? Never.

Conscience makes egotists of us all.

My Salome is a mystic the sister of Salammbô a Saint Thérèse who worships the moon.

I don't write this letter to put bitterness into your heart, but to pluck it out of mine. For my own sake I must forgive you.

I really don't see what is so romantic about proposing. One may be accepted - one usually is, I believe - and then the excitement is ended. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

It was always once springtime in my heart.

There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.

She doesn't care much for eloquence in others. She thinks it a little loud.

I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.

You had leant over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be, unconscious, ideal, and remote.

But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect.