Who can ever be alone for a moment in Italy? Every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems instinct with spirit from the Past, every step recalls some line, some legend of long-neglected lore.

But the golden-rod is one of the fairy, magical flowers; it grows not up to seek human love amid the light of day, but to mark to the discerning what wealth lies hid in the secret caves of earth.

Not one man, in the million, shall I say? no, not in the hundred million, can rise above the belief that woman was made for man.

Preparations are good in life, prologues ruinous.

Artists are always young.

The especial genius of women I believe to be electrical in movement, intuitive in function, spiritual in tendency.

Truth is the nursing mother of genius. No man can be absolutely true to himself, eschewing cant, compromise, servile imitation, and complaisance without becoming original.