Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living.
Oscar WildeRead
And let me touch those curving claws of yellow ivory; and grasp the tail that like a monstrous asp coils round your heavy velvet paws.
Interpretation
This quote expresses a fascination with beauty and the allure of a creature's form.
In this quote, Oscar Wilde uses vivid imagery to convey the aesthetic appreciation of a creature, potentially symbolizing a deeper connection to art and the beauty found in nature. The description of 'curving claws of yellow ivory' and the coiling tail evokes a sense of wonder and elegance, hinting at themes of desire and admiration for the splendid and the exotic.
In practice
This quote could be used in a discussion about artistic inspiration from nature.
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
I cook more theoretically than I do practically. My job is creative, and in the kitchen, the biggest part of my creativity is theoretical.
What's missing in the musical theater is producers willing to nurture new work, raise the money and put it on.
A great emotion is too selfish ; it takes into itself all the blood of the spirit, and the congestion leaves the hands too cold to write. Three sorts of emotion produce great poetry - strong but quick emotions, seized upon for art as soon as they have passed, but not before they have passed ; strong and deep emotions in their remembrance along time after ; and false emotions, that is to say, emotions felt in the intellect. Not insincerity, but a translated sincerity, is the basis of all art.
Too many younger artists, critics, and curators are fetishizing the sixties, transforming the period into a deformed cult, a fantasy religion, a hip brand, and a crippling disease.
My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up.
Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
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