It is closing time in the gardens of the West and from now on an artist will be judged only by the resonance of his solitude or the quality of his despair.

Art is an absolute mistress; she will not be coquetted with or slighted; she requires the most entire self-devotion, and she repays with grand triumphs.

For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?

All charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.

Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice; journalism what will be grasped at once.

The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.