I Criticise By Creation, Not By Finding

Art Lives On Constraint And Dies Of Freedom.

As When, O Lady Mine, With Chiselled Touch, The Stone Unhewn And Cold, Becomes A Living Mould, The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

The Greatest Risk To Man Is Not That He Aims To High And Misses, But That He Aims To Low And Hits.

Art Is A Shadow Of Divine Perfection.

There Is No Greater Harm Than That Of Time Wasted.