Art is a delayed echo.

A man's memory may almost become the art of continually varying and misrepresenting his past, according to his interest in the present.

To understand oneself is the classic form of consolation; to elude oneself is the romantic.

It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous, that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to.

Sometimes we have to change the truth in order to remember it.

To keep beauty in its place is to make all things beautiful.

Old age is as forgetful as youth, and more incorrigible; it displays the same inattentiveness to conditions; its memory becomes self-repeating and degenerates into an instinctive reaction, like a bird's chirp.