Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has borrowed from history more than ever.

What it values most of all is the sum total of events and the advance of civilization, which carries individuals along with it; but, indifferent to details, it cares less to have them real than noble or, rather, grand and complete.

History is a novel for which the people is the author.

Of what use were the arts if they were only the reproduction and the imitation of life?

Perform your long and heavy task with energy, treading the path to which Fate has been pleased to call you.

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?

Invisible is real. Souls have their own world.