In the ardor of pursuit men soon forget the goal from which they start.

Grace is the beauty of form under the influence of freedom.

The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.

Nothing, it is true, is more common than for both Science and Art to pay homage to the spirit of the age, and for creative taste to accept the law of critical taste.

Rigor pushed too far is sure to miss its aim, however good, as the bow snaps that is bent too stiffly.

I speak with the Eternal through the instrument of nature, through the world's history: I read the soul of the artist in his Apollo.

Man is made of ordinary things, and habit is his nurse.