What could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.

Remembering is only a new form of suffering.

It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.

The beautiful is always bizarre.

Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?

No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. It becomes a nightmare.