Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one center of pain.

Time is a waste of money.

All bad art is the result of good intentions.

A woman's life revolves in curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man's life progresses.

It is only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of art.

The one duty we owe to history is to rewrite it.

If you meet at dinner a man who has spent his life in educating himself - a rare type in our time ... you rise from table richer, and conscious that a high ideal has for a moment touched and sanctified your days. But Oh! my dear Ernest, to sit next to a man who has spent his life in trying to educate others! What a dreadful experience that is!