What A Lurid Life Oscar Wilde Does

The Delicate Balance Between Modesty And Conceit Is Popularity.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.

I Was A Modest, Good-humoured Boy. It Is Oxford That Has Made Me Insufferable.

Has The Gift Of Laughter Been Withdrawn From Me? I Protest That I Do Still, At The Age Of Forty-seven, Laugh Often And Loud And Long. But Not, I Believe, So Long And Loud And Often As In My Less Smiling Youth. And I Am Proud, Nowadays, Of Laughing, And Grateful To Any One Who Makes Me Laugh. That Is A Bad Sign. I No Longer Take Laughter As A Matter Of Course.

Improvisation Is The Essence Of Good Talk. Heaven Defend Us From The Talker Who Doles Out Things Prepared For Us; But Let Heaven Not Less Defend Us From The Beautiful Spontaneous Writer Who Puts His Trust In The Inspiration Of The Moment.