Quotations About / On:
London is full of women who trust their husbands. One can always recognise them. They look so thoroughly unhappy.
(Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, author. Lady Windermere, in Lady Windermere's Fan, act 2.)
The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one's clean linen in public.
(Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, author. Algernon, in The Importance of Being Earnest, act 1.)
Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years.
(Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, author. Lady Bracknell, in The Importance of Being Earnest, act 4 (1895).)
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.
(Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, author. Lord Illingworth, in A Woman of No Importance, act 3.)
The American father ... is never seen in London. He passes his life entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by means of a telegram in cipher.
(Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, author. "The American Invasion," Court and Society Review (London, March 23, 1887).)
Fashion understands itself; good-breeding and personal superiority of whatever country readily fraternize with those of every other. The chiefs of savage tribes have distinguished themselves in London and Paris, by the purity of their tournure.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. "Manners," Essays, Second Series (1844).)
Cities give us collision. 'Tis said, London and New York take the nonsense out of a man.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. "Culture," The Conduct of Life (1860).)
This melancholy LondonI sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
(William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. Letter, August 25, 1888, to writer Katharine Tynan (later Hinkson). Collected Letters of W.B. Yeats, vol. 1, ed. John Kelly (1986).)