Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wildewas an Irish playwright, novelist, essayist, and poet. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of London's most popular playwrights in the early 1890s. He is remembered for his epigrams, his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, his plays, as well as the circumstances of his imprisonment and early death...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth16 October 1854
CityDublin, Ireland
CountryIreland
The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
It is because Humanity has never known where it was going that it has been able to find its way.
Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.
When bankers get together they talk about art. When artists get together, they talk about money.
The more one analyses people, the more all reasons for analysis disappear. Sooner or later one comes to that dreadful universal thing called human nature.
You have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvelous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid
Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known.
Conversation should touch everything, but should concentrate itself on nothing.
When you really want love you will find it waiting for you.
The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius.
Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.
Know thyself' was written over the portal of the antique world. Over the portal of the new world, 'Be thyself' shall be written.
The gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes bring you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.
Thinking is wonderful, but the experience is even more wonderful.