Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.

He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed

I used to experiment all the time with my hair color.

Every impulse we strangle will only poison us.

The mark of all good art is not that the thing done is done exactly or finely, for machinery may do as much, but that it is worked out with the head and the workman's heart.

You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.