Tyrants are seldom free; the cares and the instruments of their tyranny enslave them.

The Fates, like an absent-minded printer, seldom allow a single line to stand perfect and unmarred.

I like to walk about amidst the beautiful things that adorn the world.

Art is the response to the demand for entertainment, for the stimulation of our senses and imagination, and truth enters into it only as it subserves these ends.

Popular poets are the parish priests of the Muse, retailing her ancient divinations to a long since converted public.

Civilization is perhaps approaching one of those long winters that overtake it from time to time. Romantic Christendom - picturesque, passionate, unhappy episode - may be coming to an end. Such a catastrophe would be no reason for despair.

Time is like an enterprising manager always bent on staging some new and surprising production, without knowing very well what it will be.