A human being sheds its leaves like a tree. Sickness prunes it down; and it no longer offers the same silhouette to the eyes which loved it, to the people to whom it afforded shade and comfort.

When incredulity becomes a faith, it is less rational than a religion.

Only a woman of the world is a woman; the rest are females.

The real connoisseurs in art are those who make people accept as beautiful something everybody used to consider ugly, by revealing and resuscitating the beauty in it.

That which, perhaps, hears more nonsense than anything in the world, is a picture in a museum.

Time cures one of everything-even of living.

History is a novel which did take place; a novel is history that could take place.