The more I considered the matter, the more clearly I saw, or thought I saw, that the only chance of salvation for Oscar was to get him to work, to give him some purpose in life, and the reader should remember here that at this time I had not read "De Profundis" and did not know that Oscar in prison had himself recognised this necessity.

After all, I said to myself, nothing is lost if he will only begin to write.

A man should be able to whistle happiness and hope down the wind and take despair to his bed and heart, and win courage from his harsh companion.

Happiness is not essential to the artist: happiness never creates anything but memories.

If Oscar would work and not brood over the past and study himself like an Indian Fakir, he might yet come to soul-health and achievement.