Woe to falsehood! it affords no relief to the breast, like truth; it gives us no comfort, pains him who forges it, and like an arrow directed by a god flies back and wounds the archer.

What sort of faults may we retain, nay, even cherish in ourselves? Those faults which are rather pleasant than offensive to others.

Personality is everything in art and poetry.

Sing it not in mournful numbers.

First and last, what is demanded of genius is love of truth.

Beautiful is greater than Good, for it includes the Good.

Few people have the imagination for reality.