Who am I to tamper with a masterpiece?
Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices.
Artists reproduce themselves or each other, with wearisome iteration. But criticism is always moving on, and the critic is always developing.
Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow.
Reported as Oscar Wilde's last words on his death bed... This wallpaper is killing me. One of us has to go.
You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.