Everything perfect in its kind has to transcend its own kind, it must become something different and incomparable. In some notes the nightingale is still a bird; then it rises above its class and seems to suggest to every winged creature what singing is truly like.

Our foibles are really what make us lovable.

In every artist there is a touch of audacity without which no talent is conceivable.

Hatred is active, and envy passive dislike; there is but one step from envy to hate.

I do not now begin, - I still adore Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast; Then once again with prudence dispossess'd, And to whose heart I'm driven back once more. The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love, Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad.

Nature has neither core nor skin: she’s both at once outside and in.

Giving is the business of the rich.