The manager is to be blamed who distributes parts to his players which they are unable to act.

Happy is the man who finds a true friend, and far happier is he who finds that true friend in his wife.

Why should the composer be more guilty than the poet who warms to fantasy by a strange flame, making an idea that inspires him the subject of his own very different treatment?

The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.

One bites into the brass mouthpiece of his wooden cudgel, and the other blows his cheeks out on a French horn. Do you call that Art?

You believe happiness to be derived from the place in which once you have been happy, but in truth it is centered in ourselves.