A place has almost the shyness of a person, with strangers; and its secret is not to be surprised by a too direct interrogation.

A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.

Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders.

And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend!

The making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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.