Портрет Дориана Грея

There is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one of all.’
‘What is that, Harry?’ said Dorian Gray, listlessly.
‘Oh, the obvious one. Taking some one else’s admirer when one loses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman.

Religion con- soles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation

Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It al- ways means that they have a history.

Ordinary women always console themselves.

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.

I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity.

One should absorb the color of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are al- ways vulgar.

That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is!

t 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.

It has all the terrible beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in which I took part, but by which I have not been wounded.

she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay for.

His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all.

Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.

we live in an age when only unnecessary things are absolutely necessary to us

It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul?

Besides, women were better suit- ed to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes.

There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love.

How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!

You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even stir my curiosity.

I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire.