No More Learning

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.