This wallpaper is dreadful, one of us will have to go.

Now art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make itself artistic.

The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

...The two great turning-points of my life were when my father sent to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

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

The secret to life is to enjoy the pleasure of being terribly, terribly deceived.