Photographers, you will never become artists. All you are is mere copiers.

An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.

There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.

The vices of man, as full of horror as one might suppose them to be, contain the proof (if in nothing else but their infinitely expandable nature) of his taste for the infinite; only, it is a taste that often takes a wrong turn.

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.