Ada Esther Leverson (née Beddington; 10 October 1862 – 30 August 1933) was a British writer who is known for her friendship with Oscar Wilde and for her work as a witty novelist of the fin-de-siècle.
Modesty is a valuable merit. . . in people who have no other, and the appearance of it is extremely useful to those who have.
envy, as a rule, is of success rather than of merit. No one would have objected to his talent deserving recognition - only to his getting it.
Everything comes to the man who won't wait.
People were not charmed with Eglantine because she herself was charming, but because she was charmed.
The Futurists?. . . . Well, of course, they are already past.
When a passion is not realized. . . it fades away, or becomes ideal worship--Dante--Petrarch--that sort of thing!
You don’t know a woman until you have had a letter from her.
A morbid propensity that causes great suffering in domestic life is often curiously infectious to the very person for whom it creates most suffering.
an optimist is the man who looks after your eyes, and the pessimist the person who looks after your feet.
Thou canst not serve both cod and salmon.
Fog and hypocrisy - that is to say, shadow, convention, decency - these were the very things that lent to London its poetry and romance.
To a woman--I mean, a nice woman--there is no such thing as men. There is a man; and either she is so fond of him that she can talk of nothing else, however unfavourably, or so much in love with him that she never mentions his name.
Most people would far rather be seen through than not be seen at all.
There is, of course, no joy so great as the cessation of pain; in fact all joy, active or passive, is the cessation of some pain, since it must be the satisfaction of a longing, even perhaps an unconscious longing.
It is all very well to say that children are happier with mud pies and rag dolls than with these elaborate delights. There may be something in this theory, but when their amusements are carried to such a point of luxurious and imaginative perfection it certainly gives them great and even unlimited enjoyment at the time.
Women are so perverse. Look how they won't wear black when nothing suits them so well!
Some men are born husbands; they have a passion for domesticity, for a fireside, for a home. Yet, curiously, these men very rarely stay at home. Apparently what they want is to have a place to get away from.
Absurdly improbable things are quite as liable to happen in real life as in weak literature.
Many women I know think the ideal of happiness is to be in love with a great man, or to be the wife of a great public success; to share his triumph! They forget you share the man as well!
The marvellous instinct with which women are usually credited seems too often to desert them on the only occasions when it would be of any real use. One would say it was there for trivialities only, since in a crisis they are usually dense, fatally doing the wrong thing. It is hardly too much to say that most domestic tragedies are caused by the feminine intuition of men and the want of it in women.