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I often take exercise. Why only yesterday I had breakfast in bed.
Oscar Wilde
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Oscar Wilde
Age: 46 †
Born: 1854
Born: October 16
Died: 1900
Died: November 30
Author
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Opinion Journalist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Short Story Writer
Writer
Dublin city
Oscar O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
Often
Take
Breakfast
Yesterday
Bed
Exercise
More quotes by Oscar Wilde
Always! That is the dreadful word ... it is a meaningless word, too.
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Every impulse we strangle will only poison us.
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In fact, I am never wrong.
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Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.
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It is better to repent a sin than regret the loss of a pleasure.
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I have a business appointment that I am anxious... to miss.
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To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
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The only beautiful things are the things that do not concern us.
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What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul.
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The only possible form of exercise is to talk, not to walk.
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The nicest feeling in the world is to do a good deed anonymously-and have somebody find out.
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Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning and Shame sits with us at night.
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America had often been discovered before Columbus, but it had always been hushed up.
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Political life at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry.
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The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
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His style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered everything except language.
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I have the kiss of Walt Whitman still on my lips
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You shut out from your society the gentle and the good. You laugh at the simple and the pure. living, as you all do, on other and by them, you need at self-sacrifice, and if you throw bread to the poor, it is merely to keep them quiet for a season.
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Ambition is the last refuge of the failure.
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And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine Burned like the ruby fire set In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.
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