The morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

There were opium-dens, where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.

It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.

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

The gods are strange. It is not our vices only they make instruments to scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is good, gentle, humane, loving.

As yet, Bernard Shaw hasn't become prominent enough to have any enemies, but none of his friends like him.

It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one.