Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about.

As a rule, it was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.

From beginning to end Wilde performed his life and continued to do so even after fame had taken the plot out of his own hands.

All I have is a voice to undo the folded lie, the romantic lie in the brain of the sensual man-in-the-street and the lie of Authority whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State and no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice to the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.

Oh, how I wish that Orwell were still alive, so that I could read his comments on contemporary events!

Rhymes, meters, stanza forms, etc., are like servants. If the master is fair enough to win their affection and firm enough to command their respect, the result is an orderly happy household. If he is too tyrannical, they give notice; if he lacks authority, they become slovenly, impertinent, drunk and dishonest.

Art is born of humiliation.