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
There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.
Now and then it is a joy to have one's table red with wine and roses.
The well bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves.
I like men who have a future and women who have a past.
Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.
We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful.
As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.
To look wise is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.
It is not wise to find symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too full of terrors.
The world has been made by fools that wise men may live in it.
The birds did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.
My sweet rose, my delicate flower, my lily of lilies, it is perhaps in prison that I am going to test the power of love. I am going to see if I cannot make the bitter warders sweet by the intensity of the love I bear you. I have had moments when I thought it would be wise to separate. Ah! Moments of weakness and madness! Now I see that would have mutilated my life, ruined my art, broken the musical chords which make a perfect soul. Even covered with mud I shall praise you, from the deepest abysses I shall cry to you. In my solitude you will be with me.
Be happy, be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty.
When a love comes to an end, weaklings cry, efficient ones instantly find another love, and the wise already have one in reserve.