The highest form of vanity is love of fame.

A way foolishness has of revenging itself is to excommunicate the world.

Beauty as we feel it is something indescribable; what it is or what it means can never be said.

Nature drives with a loose rein and vitality of any sort can blunder through many a predicament in which reason would despair.

Nothing is really so poor and melancholy as art that is interested in itself and not in its subject.

For Shakespeare, in the matter of religion, the choice lay between Christianity and nothing. He chose nothing.

Our occasional madness is less wonderful than our occasional sanity.