There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness.

Delacroix was passionately in love with passion, but coldly determined to express passion as clearly as possible.

What a mysterious faculty is that queen of the faculties!

It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance

Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art.

It is at despair at not being able to be noble and beautiful by natural means that we have made up our faces so strangely.

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