No woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say but they say it charmingly.
Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the cave men had known how to laugh history would have been different.
I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
To get into the best society nowadays one has either to feed people, amuse people, or shock people—that is all.
You should never try to understand women. Women are pictures, men are problems. If you want to know what a woman really means—which, by the way, is always a dangerous thing to do—look at her, don't listen to her.
Ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and chatter at tea parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile and their fashionable mauve.
Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them—sometimes.
To have been well brought up is a great drawback nowadays. It shuts one out from so much.
The people who have adored me—there have not been very many, but there have been some—have always insisted on living on long after I had ceased to care for them or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I meet them they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of women! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals!