Sins of the flesh are nothing. They are deseases that a physician can cure, if he really must. Sins of the soul are shameful.
from the book "" by Oscar Wilde
Soul
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I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex.
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In the soul of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great idea.
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The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. And the body is born young and grows old. That is life's tragedy.
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I forget who it was that recommended men for their soul's good to do each day two things they disliked... it is a precept that I have followed scrupulously; for every day I have got up and I have gone to bed.
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