Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me quite nervous.

Like dear St. Francis of Assisi I am wedded to Poverty: but in my case the marriage is not a success.

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

I am sorry my life is so marred and maimed by extravagance. But I cannot live otherwise. I, at any rate, pay the penalty of suffering.

Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices, there are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even.

A man who marries his mistress leaves a vacancy in that position.

Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.