Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?

His style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered everything except language.

Find expression for a sorrow, and it will become dear to you. Find expression for a joy, and you will intensify its ecstasy.

The intellect is not a serious thing, and never has been. It is an instrument on which one plays, that is all.

Come, dear, [Gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform.

How else but through a broken heart may Lord Christ enter in?

Alas, I am dying beyond my means.