Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.

I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.

The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.

Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, passion, art.

Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the veil of his preconception, he criticizes before he has apprehended, he condemns without allowing his instinct the chance of asserting itself.

Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.