Come, dear, [Gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform.

Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.

The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.

She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses but in all my garden there is no red rose.

It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words.

I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.

Only good questions deserve good answers.