Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living.
Oscar WildeRead
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart
Interpretation
The quote reflects the beauty and transformation of a rose, symbolizing the depth of emotions and experiences.
Oscar Wilde's quote captures the enchanting transformation of a rose into a vibrant crimson, paralleling the emotional richness and beauty found in life's experiences. The imagery of the rose and its colors symbolizes deep feelings, suggesting that beauty often emerges from profound emotional journeys, much like how a rose blooms and reveals its heart.
In practice
Using this quote in a speech about resilience and the beauty of overcoming struggles.
Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living.
London is too full of fogs and serious people. Whether the fogs produce the serious people, or whether the serious people produce the fogs, I don't know.
When one has never heard a man's name in the course of one's life, it speaks volumes for him; he must be quite respectable.
Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be a man's last romance.
A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes in it.
His morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be
The dignity of the artist lies in his duty of keeping awake the sense of wonder in the world.
Nothing bad can happen to a writer. Everything is material.
Because every book of art, be it a poem or a cupola, is understandably a self-portrait of its author, we won't strain ourselves too hard trying to distinguish between the author's persona and the poem's lyrical hero. As a rule, such distinctions are quite meaningless, if only because a lyrical hero is invariably an author's self-projection.
I adore the theater and I am a painter. I think the two are made for a marriage of love. I will give all my soul to prove this once more.
Everything that I saw became something to be made, and it had to be exactly as it was, with nothing added. It was a new freedom: there was no longer the need to compose. The subject was there already made, and I could take from everything. It all belonged to me: a glass roof of a factory, with its broken and patched panels, lines on a road map, a corner of a Braque painting, paper fragments in the street. It was all the same: anything goes.
The secret of it all, is to write in the gush, the throb, the flood, of the moment β to put things down without deliberation β without worrying about their style β without waiting for a fit time or place. I always worked that way. I took the first scrap of paper, the first doorstep, the first desk, and wrote β wrote, wroteβ¦By writing at the instant the very heartbeat of life is caught.
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