I live in sin, to kill myself I live; no longer my life my own, but sin's; my good is given to me by heaven, my evil by myself, by my free will, of which I am deprived.

As when, O lady mine, With chiselled touch, The stone unhewn and cold, Becomes a living mould, The more the marble wastes, The more the statue grows.

Genius is infinite painstaking.

I cannot live under pressures from patrons, let alone paint.

There is an angel imprisoned in it and I must set it free.

Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.

Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.