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
Just to let you know that the buffet car will be closing for stocktaking in five minutes. The next station stop is Chesterfield.
The only way to get rid of tempation is to yeild to it.
Cleverness becomes a public nuisance.
California is an Italy without its art.
I have put my talent into writing, my genius I have saved for living.
All women are rebels.
A man whose desire is to be something separate from himself, to be a member of Parliament, or a successful grocer, or a prominent solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious, invariably succeeds in being what he wants to be. That is his punishment. Those who want a mask have to wear it.
Every single work of art is the fulfillment of a prophecy; for every work of art is the conversion of an idea into an image.
Society takes upon itself the right to inflict appalling punishment on the individual, but it also has the supreme vice of shallowness, and fails to realize what it has done. When the man's punishment is over, it leaves him to himself; that is to say, it abandons him at the very moment when its highest duty towards him begins.
That very concentration of vision and intensity of purpose which is the characteristic of the artistic temperament is in itself a mode of limitation. To those who are preoccupied with the beauty of form nothing else seems of much importance.
The best way to appreciate your job is to, is here to stay.
If you cannot prove a man wrong, don't panic. You can always call him names.
Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes.
At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill.