W. Somerset Maugham

They ordered punch. They drank it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous term, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit, and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else; it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words.

They ordered punch. They drank it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous term, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit, and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else; it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words.

– W. Somerset Maugham –

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W. Somerset Maugham

They ordered punch. They drank it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous term, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit, and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else; it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words.

Oscar Wilde

Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.”You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?”Before either.”I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,’ said the lad.’Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”Well, then you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”I should like that awfully.’The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. ‘I shall stay with the real Dorian,’ he said, sadly.

Oscar Wilde

Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.”You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?”Before either.”I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,’ said the lad.’Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”Well, then you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”I should like that awfully.’The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. ‘I shall stay with the real Dorian,’ he said, sadly.

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