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

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

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.

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.

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.

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!

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