Oliver Parker

Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself.

I love talking about nothing, Father. It's the only thing I know anything about.

So do I, Father. Everyone one meets is a paradox nowadays. It makes society so - obvious.

Well, there's nothing I like more than to be congratulated, though invariably I find the pleasure immeasurably increased when I know what for.

My dear father, when one pays a visit, it is for the purpose of wasting other people's time and not one's own.

Gertrude, it is not the perfect, but rather the imperfect who have need of love.

Oh, I hope not. All I know, Gertrude, is that it takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it. And even more courage to see it in the one you love. Gertrude, you have more courage than any woman I have ever known. Do not be afraid now to use it.

Excuse me a moment. I'm in the middle of my performance of the attentive son.

It is a great nuisance. I can't find anyone else to talk to. I'm so full of interesting information, I feel like the latest edition of something or other. Well, after some consideration... so much to do, there's only one thing to be done. There comes a time in every son's life when he must, indeed, follow his father's advice: I shall go to bed at once.

Yes, but the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking seriously.

I mean that, during the season, father, I only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every month. Between noon and three.

Yes, but we're not out of danger yet. In fact, I believe there's a rather popular saying about frying pans and fires, except now it is you and I, dear Gertrude, who are to be roasted.

Shouldn't you be in bed, Miss Mabel?

My father always tells me to go to bed, so I don't see why I shouldn't give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice. It is the only sensible thing to do with it.

Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the crag, he has to climb the crag. If he has to walk in the mire...

Well, then, he has to walk, my dear Gertrude, in the mire.

My dear Robert, secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out.

I'm sorry, but, I don't seem to be able to stop myself. And I'm going to tell you that love - about which, I admit, I know so little - love cannot be bought, it can only be given. And I sense it is not in my power to give to you, nor is it in yours, I suspect, at all.

To give - and not expect return, that is what lies at the heart of love. I fear, though, the notion is a stranger to us both. And yet, if we are honest, it is something we both long for. Something that it takes great courage to do. Yes, that is our *dark* secret. Your coming here tonight is the first whisper of it. And for that, I admire you.

Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know't. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, And smote him, thus.

Arise black vengeance from thy hollow cell. Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne to tyrannous hate. Now by yond marble heaven, in the due reverence of a sacred vow, I here engage my words.

I kissed thee ere I killed thee: no way but this; Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

Well, I must say, Algy, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or die. This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd!

I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delecate, exotic fruit. Touch it, and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did it would prove a serious threat to the upper classes, and probably lead ot acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.

35 is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained 35 for years.

The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life.

Mr. Worthing. I must confess that I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred in a handbag, whether it have handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life which reminds one of the worst excesses of the French revolution, and I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to?

Come on, Gwendolyn, we have already missed five, if not six trains! To miss any more might expose us to comments on the platform.

I don't know whether there is anything particularly exciting about the air in this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seem to me to be considerably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance.

Sorry if we are a little late, Algy. I was obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury. I have not been there since her husband's death. I never saw a woman so altered. She looks quite twenty years younger.

To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.

I have always been of the opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?

I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a very delicate exotic fruit. Touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately, in England at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor's Square.