A writer is a maker, not a man of action: his private life is of no concern to anybody but himself, his family and his friends.

Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered.

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.

The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers

Soft as the earth is mankind and both need to be altered.

It's impossible to represent a saint [in Art]. It becomes boring. Perhaps because he is, like the Saturday Evening Post people, inthe position of having almost infinitely free will.

The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.