Every woman becomes their mother. That's their tragedy. And no man becomes his. That's his tragedy.

Aestheticism is a search after the signs of the beautiful. It is the science of the beautiful through which men seek the correlation of the arts. It is, to speak more exactly, the search after the secret of life.

For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more.

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

Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones.

You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.

Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things.