There was an enormous gentleman called Joseph Knight, who cried out: "The humour is mechanical, unreal." Seeing that I did not respond he challenged me: "What do you think of it ?" "That is for you critics to answer," I replied.
"I might say," he laughed, "in Oscar's own peculiar way, 'Little promise and less performance.' Ha! ha! ha!" "That's the exact opposite to Oscar's way," I retorted.

"It is the listeners who laugh at his humour." "Come now, really," cried Knight, "you cannot think much of the play ?" For the first time in my life I began to realise that nine critics out of ten are incapable of judging original work.

They seem to live in a sort of fog, waiting for someone to give them the lead, and accordingly they love to discuss every new play right and left.
"I have not seen the whole play," I answered.

"I was not at any of the rehearsals; but so far it is surely the best comedy in English, the most brilliant: isn't it ?" The big man started back and stared at me; then burst out laughing.
"That's good," he cried with a loud unmirthful guffaw.

"'Lady Windermere's Fan' better than any comedy of Shakespeare! Ha! ha! ha! 'more brilliant!' ho! ho!" "Yes," I persisted, angered by his disdain, "wittier, and more humorous than 'As You Like It,' or 'Much Ado.' Strange to say, too, it is on a higher intellectual level.