When a love comes to an end, weaklings cry, efficient ones instantly find another love, and the wise already have one in reserve.

If a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. but if a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me, I would move back again and again and beg to be admitted so that I might share in what I was entitled to share. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation.

There are moments when art attains almost to the dignity of manual labor.

It is he who has broken the bond of marriage - not I. I only break its bondage.

I dislike modern memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering.

There is no man who is not, at each moment, what he has been and what he will be.

A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.