The sick do not ask if the hand that smoothes their pillow is pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the kiss of sin.

The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius.

It's the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us.

We are the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken.

And now, dear Mr. Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.

My experience is that as soon as people are old enough to know better, they don't know anything at all.