He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.

The world seemed to me fine because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived.

Indeed I have always been of the opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing to do.

Popularity is the one insult I have never suffered.

Any place you love is the world to you”, explained the pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once- But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.

There is no man who is not, at each moment, what he has been and what he will be.