the development of the race depends on the development of the individual, and where self-culture has ceased to be the ideal the intellectual standard is instantly lowered and often ultimately lost.

an idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.

to elope is cowardly; it is running away from danger, and danger has become so rare in modern life.

when a man is old enough to do wrong he should be old enough to do right also.

the book of life begins with a man and a woman in a garden. it ends with revelations.

in married life three is company and two is none.

out of ourselves we can never pass, nor can there be in creation what in the creator was not.

don't tell me that you have exhausted life. when a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him.

when a woman marries again it is because she detested her first husband. when a man marries again it is because he adored his first wife. women try their luck; men risk theirs.

the highest criticism really is the record of one's own soul. it is more fascinating than history, as it is concerned simply with oneself. it is more delightful than philosophy, as its subject is concrete and not abstract, real and not vague. it is the only civilised form of autobiography, as it deals, not with the events, but with the thoughts of one's life, not with life's physical accidents of deed or circumstance, but with the spiritual moods and imaginative passions of the mind.

to know anything about oneself one must know all about others.

duty is what one expects from others, it is not what one does oneself.

after a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations.

talk to every woman as if you loved her and to every man as if he bored you, and at the end of your first season you will have the reputation of possessing the most perfect social tact.

man—poor, awkward, reliable, necessary man—belongs to a sex that has been rational for millions and millions of years. he can't help himself; it is in his race. the history of women is very different. they have always been picturesque protests against the mere existence of common-sense; they saw its dangers from the first.

more marriages are ruined nowadays by the common-sense of the husband than by anything else. how can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly rational being.

it is very vulgar to talk about one's business. only people like stock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner-parties.

it is awfully hard work doing nothing. however, i don't mind hard work when there is no definite object of any kind.

to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual. to plato, with his passion for wisdom, this was the noblest form of energy.

to aristotle, with his passion for knowledge, this was the noblest form of energy also. it was to this that the passion for holiness led the saint and the mystic of medi?val days.

youth! there is nothing like it. it is absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. the only people to whose opinions i listen now with any respect are persons much younger than myself. they seem in front of me. life has revealed to them her latest wonder.

romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.

i adore simple pleasures. they are the last refuge of the complex.

there is nothing like youth. the middle-aged are mortgaged to life. the old are in life's lumber-room. but youth is the lord of life. youth has a kingdom waiting for it. everyone is born a king, and most people die in exile—like most kings.

all crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.

society, civilised society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating. it instinctively feels that manners are of more importance than morals, and in its opinion the highest respectability is of much less value than the possession of a good chef. and, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner or poor wine is irreproachable in his private life. even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entrees.

while, in the opinion of society, contemplation is the gravest thing of which any citizen can be guilty, in the opinion of the highest culture it is the proper occupation of man.

life is terribly deficient in form. its catastrophes happen in the wrong way and to the wrong people. there is a grotesque horror about its comedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce. one is always wounded when one approaches it. things last either too long or not long enough.

if a woman wants to hold a man she has merely to appeal to what is worst in him.

we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

beauty has as many meanings as man has moods. it is the symbol of symbols. it reveals everything, because it expresses nothing. when it shows us itself it shows us the whole fiery-coloured world.

men always want to be a woman's first love. that is their clumsy vanity. women have a more subtle instinct about things. what they like is to be a man's last romance.

anything approaching to the free play of the mind is practically unknown amongst us. people cry out against the sinner, yet it is not the sinful but the stupid who are our shame. there is no sin except stupidity.

one regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. perhaps one regrets them the most. they are such an essential part of one's personality.

it is through art, and through art only, that we can realise our perfection; through art and through art only, that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence.

a man who can dominate a london dinner-table can dominate the world. the future belongs to the dandy. it is the exquisites who are going to rule.

it often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. they affect us just as vulgarity affects us. they give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. if these elements of beauty are real the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors but the spectators of the play. or rather we are both. we watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthrals us.

when a woman finds out that her husband is absolutely indifferent to her, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman's husband has to pay for.

it is immoral to use private property in order to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution of private property.

it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. art is always more abstract than we fancy. form and colour tell us of form and colour-that is all.

it is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist's life is that he cannot realise his ideal. but the true tragedy that dogs the steps of most artists is that they realise their ideal too absolutely. for when the ideal is realised it is robbed of its wonder and its mystery, and becomes simply a new starting-point for an ideal that is other than itself.

people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others have. the only difference is that their moods are rather meaningless.

it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. a man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.

good women have such a limited view of life, their horizon is so small, their interests so petty. the fact is they are not modern, and to be modern is the only thing worth being nowadays.

discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation.

men marry because they are tired, women because they are curious. both are disappointed.

all men are married women's property. that is the only true definition of what married women's property really is.

i am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people at a moment's notice. as a man sows so let him reap.

nothing refines but the intellect.

it is very painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. it is the first time in my life that i have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and i am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind.

the man who regards his past is a man who deserves to have no future to look forward to.

just as it is only by contact with the art of foreign nations that the art of a country gains that individual and separate life that we call nationality, so, by curious inversion, it is only by intensifying his own personality that the critic can interpret the personality of others; and the more strongly this personality enters into the interpretation the more real the interpretation becomes, the more satisfying, the more convincing, and the more true.

man is least himself when he talks in his own person. give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

all women become like their mothers: that is their tragedy. no man does: that is his.

women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. every woman is a rebel, and usually in wild revolt against herself.

one should always be in love. that is the reason one should never marry.

no man came across two ideal things. few come across one.

to become the spectator of one's own life is to escape the suffering of life.

the state is to make what is useful. the individual is to make what is beautiful.

a community is infinitely more brutalised by the habitual employment of punishment than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime.

the systems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human nature and not on its growth and development.

jealousy, which is an extraordinary source of crime in modern life, is an emotion closely bound up with our conceptions of property, and under socialism and individualism will die out. it is remarkable that in communistic tribes jealousy is entirely unknown.

all art is immoral.

he to whom the present is the only thing that is present knows nothing of the age in which he lives. to realise the nineteenth century one must realise every century that has preceded it and that has contributed to its making.

few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. the old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.

the history of woman is the history of the worst form of tyranny the world has ever known; the tyranny of the weak over the strong. it is the only tyranny that lasts.

the happiness of a married man depends on the people he has not married.

there is no one type for man. there are as many perfections as there are imperfect men. and while to the claims of charity a man may yield and yet be free, to the claims of conformity no man may yield and remain free at all.

a practical scheme is either a scheme that is already in existence or a scheme that could be carried out under existing conditions.

all imitation in morals and in life is wrong.

the world has been made by fools that wise men may live in it.

women love us for our defects. if we have enough of them they will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.

society is a necessary thing. no man has any real success in this world unless he has got women to back him—and women rule society. if you have not got women on your side you are quite over. you might just as well be a barrister or a stockbroker or a journalist at once.

the worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried; men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highly organised forms of existence. but it is probable the true nature of the senses has never been understood, and that they have remained savage and animal merely because the world has sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty will be the dominant characteristic.

women appreciate cruelty more than anything else. they have wonderfully primitive instincts. we have emancipated them, but they remain slaves, looking for their master all the same. they love being dominated.

those who try to lead the people can only do so by following the mob. it is through the voice of one crying in the wilderness that the way of the gods must be prepared.

circumstances are the lashes laid on to us by life. some of us have to receive them with bared ivory backs, and others are permitted to keep on a coat—that is the only difference.

criticism is itself an art.... it is no more to be judged by any low standard of imitation or resemblance than is the work of poet or sculptor. the critic occupies the same relation to the work of art that he criticises as the artist does to the visible world of form and colour or the unseen world of passion and thought. he does not even require for the perfection of his art the finest materials. anything will serve his purpose.

it is very much more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. in the sphere of actual life that is, of course, obvious. anybody can make history, only a great man can write it.

if we lived long enough to see the results of our actions it may be that those who call themselves good would be filled with a wild remorse and those whom the world calls evil stirred with a noble joy. each little thing that we do passes into the great machine of life, which may grind our virtues to powder and make them worthless or transform our sins into elements of a new civilisation more marvellous and more splendid than any that has gone before.

children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them, sometimes they forgive them.

we live in an age that reads too much to be wise and that thinks too much to be beautiful.

one should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. details are always vulgar.

it will be a marvellous thing—the true personality of man—when we see it. it will grow naturally and simply flowerlike, or as a tree grows. it will not be at discord. it will never argue or dispute. it will not prove things. it will know everything, and yet it will not busy itself about knowledge. it will have wisdom. its value will not be measured by material things. it will have nothing, and yet it will have everything, and whatever one takes from it it will still have, so rich it will be. it will not be always meddling with others or asking them to be like itself. it will love them because they will be different. and yet, while it will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing helps us, by being what it is. the personality of man will be very wonderful. it will be as wonderful as the personality of a child.

cynicism is merely the art of seeing things as they are instead of as they ought to be.

three addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen.

if one doesn't talk about a thing it has never happened. it is simply expression that gives reality to things.

no man is able who is unable to get on, just as no woman is clever who can't succeed in obtaining that worst and most necessary of evils, a husband.

the one charm of the past is that it is the past. but women never know when the curtain has fallen. they always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it. if they were allowed their way every comedy would have a tragic ending and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. they are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art.

each time that one loves is the only time that one has ever loved. difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. it merely intensifies it.

the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial. beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich.

human life is the one thing worth investigating. compared to it there is nothing else of any value. it is true that as one watches life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure one cannot wear over one's face a mask of glass nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. there are poisons so subtle that to know their properties one has to sicken of them. there are maladies so strange that one has to pass through them if one seeks to understand their nature. and yet what a great reward one receives! how wonderful the whole world becomes to one! to note the curious, hard logic of passion and the emotional, coloured life of the intellect—to observe where they meet, and where they separate, at what point they are in unison and at what point they are in discord—there is a delight in that! what matter what the cost is? one can never pay too high a price for any sensation.

there is only one class in the community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the poor. the poor can think of nothing else. that is the misery of being poor.

to live is the rarest thing in the world. most people exist—that is all.

personality is a very mysterious thing. a man cannot always be estimated by what he does. he may keep the law, and yet be worthless. he may break the law, and yet be fine. he may be bad without ever doing anything bad. he may commit a sin against society, and yet realise through that sin his true perfection.

medi?val art is charming, but medi?val emotions are out of date. one can use them in fiction, of course; but then the only things that one can use in fiction are the only things that one has ceased to use in fact.

man is complete in himself.