ccupation 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