When I was young, we thought that Oscar Wilde was a great nobleman who had thrown his life away for love. Nothing could be less true. He slept with East Enders who were procured for him by Lord Alfred Douglas. He knew them only 'in Braille' - the curtains were never drawn back in the rooms in Oxford where he met those boys. It was the most sordid life you can imagine. And he was bleating about love and dragging the fair name of Mr. Plato into the trial - after a life like that?

I don't really act. I say the words the way I would say them if I meant them.

I'm happy. I don't ever have to pay anything, and I don't ever have to wash the dishes, and I don't ever have to behave nicely.

An autobiography is an obituary in serial form with the last installment missing.

I like living in one room and have never known what people do with the room they are not in.

Vice is its own reward.

Fashion is what you adopt when you don't know who you are.