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Quote by Oscar Wilde

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Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde, born on October 16, 1854, in Ireland, and died on November 30, 1900, was a renowned Irish writer, playwright, and poet. His works are known for their wit, satire, and unique style, with notable works including 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and 'Lady Windermere's Fan'. more

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“Every afternoon, when the day is almost over, and the night is about to arrive, you can look back at your day, knowing that it’s almost over, finished, gone, it will never come back, and your lifetime is now a day shorter, you can look back at your day, and realize that everything, relationships, Politics, Art, everything is related to religion… Because everything, is a matter of life and death “He Who created Death and Life, that He may try which of you is best in deed: and He is the Exalted in Might, Oft-Forgiving” (QURAN, chapter “The Sovereignty”, translated by Yusufali)”

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“But, as I know that strength arising from obedience has a way of simplifying things which seem impossible, my will very gladly resolves to attempt this task although the prospect seems to cause my physical nature great distress; for the Lord has not given me strength enough to enable me to wrestle continually both with sickness and with occupations of many kinds without feeling a great physical strain. May He Who has helped me by doing other and more difficult things for me help also in this: in His mercy I put my trust.”

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“Maya Angelou spoke of why the caged bird sings and of the courage it takes for literature to crush racism and face trauma. Angelou said the caged bird sings when his wing is bruised and he beats his bars to be free, here’s hoping that every cage be broken through and every bruised wing be healed by the joy of freedom so that it could soar. There are no gardens in prison for the poet to see yet his words make the cage bloom.”

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“Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.”

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