Wit Can Be Beautiful, Because It Expresses

One Of The Traps Of Adolescence Is The Sort Of Paranoid Resentment That Somehow You're Never Going To Match Up And That Everybody Else's Life Is Going To Be Better And Finer And Fuller. That Everyone Else Attended Some Secret Lesson In Which How To Live Was Taught And You Had A Dental Appointment That Day, Or You Were Somehow Not Invited. And The Point Of Great Writers Like Wilde Is That They Make That Invitation To You.

Oh, It Takes A Lot For Me To Walk Out Of A Film.

Great Writers, I Discovered, Were Not To Be Bowed Down Before And Worshipped, But Embraced And Befriended. Their Names Resounded Through History Not Because They Had Massive Brows And Thought Deep Incomprehensible Thoughts, But Because They Opened Windows In The Mind, They Put Their Arms Round You And Showed You Things You Always Knew But Never Dared To Believe. Even If Their Names Were Terrifyingly Foreign And Intellectual Sounding, Dostoevsky, Baudelaire Or Cavafy, They Turned Out To Be Charming And Wonderful And Quite Unalarming After All.

You Think Homosexuality Is Disgusting? Then, It Follows As The Night The Day, That You Find Sex Disgusting, For There Is Nothing Done Between Two Men Or Two Women That Is, By Any Objective Standard, Different From That Which Is Done Between A Man And A Woman.

I Suppose The Thing I Most Would Have Liked To Have Known Or Been Reassured About Is That In The World, What Counts More Than Talent, What Counts More Than Energy Or Concentration Or Commitment, Or Anything Else - Is Kindness. And The More In The World That You Encounter Kindness And Cheerfulness - Which Is Its Kind Of Amiable Uncle Or Aunt - The Better The World Always Is. And All The Big Words: Virtue, Justice, Truth - Are Dwarfed By The Greatness Of Kindness.