The Object Of Art Is To Give

Talent Is Like A Faucet, While It Is Open, One Must Write.

In Your Efforts To Dazzle Us Your Reasoning Has Gone Awry. You Know Very Well That Love Is, Above All, The Gift Of Oneself.

Believe Me; All Evil Comes From The Old. They Grow Fat On Ideas And Young Men Die Of Them.

Tragedy Is Restful: And The Reason Is That Hope, That Foul, Deceitful Thing, Has No Part In It.

Beauty, Real Beauty, Is Something Very Grave. If There Is A God, He Must Be Partly That.