My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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

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

Night, a more perfect day.

But we have been taught to see before our eyes have found out a way of seeing for themselves.

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.

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