I am writing a book about the Crusades so dull that I can scarcely write it.

When I am dead, I hope it may be said: His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.

Of all fatiguing, futile, empty trades, the worst, I suppose, is writing about writing.

I can, therefore I am.

Child! Do not throw this book about; refrain from the unholy pleasure of cutting all the pictures out.

I write what I see; I paint what I am.