Whores' lives don't make pretty tales.

Whores are the most honest girls. They present the bill right away. The others hang on and never let go.

Living with a whore — even the best whore in the world — isn't a bed of roses.

We're nothing but common whores.

All actors are whores.
They want only one thing: to seduce you.

There is a little bit of the whore in all of us, gentlemen. What is your price?

Yes, even I am dishonest. Not in many ways, but in some. Forty-one, I think.

Hypocrisy is wretched because the hypocrite says with his tongue what is not in his heart. He wrongs his tongue and oppresses his heart. But if the heart is sound, the condition of the tongue follows suit. We are commanded to be upright in speech, which is a gauge of the heart's state.

Needless to deny that the normal London plumber is a dishonest man. We do not even allow ourselves to think so. That question, as to the dishonesty of mankind generally, is one that disturbs us greatly; — whether a man in all grades of life will by degrees train his honesty to suit his own book, so that the course of life which he shall bring himself to regard as soundly honest shall, if known to his neighbours, subject him to their reproof. We own to a doubt whether the honesty of a bishop would shine bright as the morning star to the submissive ladies who now worship him, if the theory of life upon which he lives were understood by them in all its bearings.

So,” he said. “What’s the difference between me and a whore?” He swallowed. “Am I a whore?”
“No more than every married woman.

I don’t have many strong dislikes. I admit that as a teacher—I have no racial prejudices in general—but there were certain types, and conspicuous among them the Near Eastern populations, which I still dislike because they are fundamentally dishonest. And I must say dishonesty is a thing I intensely dislike. It was a type which, in my childhood in Austria, was described as Levantine, typical of the people of the eastern Mediterranean. But I encountered it later, and I have a profound dislike for the typical Indian students at the London School of Economics, which I admit are all one type—Bengali moneylender sons. They are to me a detestable type, I admit, but not with any racial feeling. I have found a little of the same amongst the Egyptians —basically a lack of honesty in them. If I advise speaking about honesty, I think honesty is really the best expression of what I call the morals of a civilized society. Primitive man lacks a conception of honesty.

The best of women (I have heard my grandmother say) are hypocrites. We don't know how much they hide from us: how watchful they are when they seem most artless and confidential: how often those frank smiles, which they wear so easily, are traps to cajole or elude or disarm-I don't mean in your mere coquettes, but your domestic models, and paragons of female virtue. Who has not seem a woman hide the dulness of a stupid husband or coax the fury of a savage one? We accept this amiable slavishness, and praise a woman for it; we call this pretty treachery truth. A good housewife is of necessity a humbug.

A whore, in my estimation, has more credibility than a wife, and I'll tell you why. A wife is supposed to marry you for love. A whore is not there for love, she's there to service you. Now, the difference between them is a whore, before she does her work, will tell you exactly what it is. She'll tell you, "Blow job? This'll cost you seventy-five dollars. This is not love, and after I'm done I never want to see you again." Full disclosure is what they call it in court. A wife will tell you shit. A wife will tell you nothing. She's about to marry you. If you get divorced, she's going to take 50 percent of your gross pretax dollars and try to get more. Now, before you get married, if you dare bring up the notion, "By the way, let's just be completely honest with each other, what happens if we break up?" she will cry and tell you, "That's so unromantic." You know who's more credible? The whore.

Women have tongues of craft, and hearts of guile,
They will, they will not, fools that on them trust,
For in their speech is death, hell in their smile.