Fine art, poetry, that kind of thing, elevates a nation.

Memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile.

You know nothing about Hope, that immortal, delicious maiden forever courted forever propitious, whom fools have called deceitful, as if it were Hope that carried the cup of disappointment, whereas it is her deadly enemy, Certainty, whom she only es

It is very hard to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings – much harder than to say something fine about them which is not the exact truth.

There is nothing I should care more to do, if it were possible, than to rouse the imagination of men and women to a vision of human claims in those races of their fellow-men who most differ from them in customs and beliefs.

If Art does not enlarge men's sympathies, it does nothing morally.

Joy is the best of wine.