Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory.

I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go

The way of even the most jusitifiable revolution is prepared by personal impulses disguised into creeds.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death

You can t, in sound morals, condemn a man for taking care of his own integrity. It is his clear duty. And least of all can you condemn an artist pursuing, however humbly and imperfectly, a creative aim. In that interior world where his thought and his emotions go seeking for the experience of imagined adventures, there are no policemen, no law, no pressure of circumstance or dread of opinion to keep him within bounds. Who then is going to say Nay to his temptations if not his conscience?

The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and ink, and I don't fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it.

Youth is insolent; it is its right - its necessity; it has got to assert itself, and all assertion in this world of doubts is a defiance, is an insolence.