Art Is Nothing Without Form.

A Memory Is A Beautiful Thing, It's Almost A Desire That You Miss.

And He Beholds The Moon; Like A Rounded Fragment Of Ice Filled With Motionless Light.

Talent Is A Long Patience.

She Loved The Sea For Its Storms Alone, Cared For Vegetation Only When It Grew Here And There Among Ruins. She Had To Extract A Kind Of Personal Advantage From Things And She Rejected As Useless Everything That Promised No Immediate Gratification — For Her Temperament Was More Sentimental Than Artistic, And What She Was Looking For Was Emotions, Not Scenery.

She Was The Amoureuse Of All The Novels, The Heroine Of All The Plays, The Vague “she” Of All The Poetry Books.