Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art.

Romantic literature is in effect imaginative lying.

Bored by the tedious and improving conversation of those who have neither the wit to exaggerate nor the genius to romance. Tired of the intelligent person whose reminiscences are always based upon memory, whose statements are invariably limited by probability, and who is at any time liable to be corroborated by the merest Philistine who happens to be present.Society sooner or later must return to its lost leader — the cultured and fascinating liar.

To invent anything at all is an act of sheer genius, and, in a commercial age like ours, shows considerable physical courage. Few of our modern novelists dare to invent a single thing. It is an open secret that they don't know how to do it. Upon the other hand, to corroborate a falsehood is a distinctly cowardly action. I know it is a thing that the newspapers do one for the other, every day, but it is not the act of a gentleman. No Gentleman ever corroborates anything.

The security of Society lies in custom and unconscious instinct, and the basis of the stability of Society, as a healthy organism, is the complete absence of any intelligence amongst its members.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

Palermo was lovely. The most beautifully situated town in the world - it dreams away its life in the Conca d'Oro, the exquisite valley that lies between two seas. The lemon groves and the orange gardens were entirely perfect.

Don't imagine that your perfection lies in accumulating or possessing external things. Your affection is inside of you.

I have said to you to speak the truth is a painful thing. To be forced to tell lies is much worse.