Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted.

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'

I have great faith in fools,— self-confidence my friends will call it.

And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh — but smile no more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.