Excertos da obra

Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you - well, of course, you have an intellectual expression, and all of that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intelectual expression begins. Intelect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of he learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the church. But then in the church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.