Now and then it is a joy to have one's table red with wine and roses.

All thought is immoral. Its very essence is destruction. If you think of anything, you kill it. Nothing survives being thought of.

I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.

It is not wise to find symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too full of terrors.

Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one center of pain.

Reported as Oscar Wilde's last words on his death bed... This wallpaper is killing me. One of us has to go.

I did not think I should be ever loved: do you indeed Love me so much as now you say you do? Ask of the sea-bird if it loves the sea, Ask of the roses if they love the rain, Ask of the little lark, that will not sing Till day break, if it loves to see the day: And yet, these are but empty images, Mere shadows of my love, which is a fire So great that all the waters of the main Can not avail to quench it.