I will yield to popular demands only insofar as they do not betray my own convictions.
I wish to lead a life free from care, and I see that I shall be unhappy if I cannot always work at my art.
Why hurry over beautiful things? Why not linger and enjoy them?
The tea is ice-cold, the room grows colder and colder, but I grow warmer and warmer.
My imagination can picture no fairer happiness than to continue living for art.
My health may be better preserved if I exert myself less, but in the end doesn't each person give his life for his calling?